you met me at a very strange time in my life

*･ﾟ* olivia 🍎 | she/her | 21 | ravenclaw *･ﾟ* certified cinephile rdr2, 80s metal & brad pitt enthusiast

[risingtripletaurus]

･ﾟ✧ ollie's masterlist  *:･ﾟ✧*:

welcome to f**** c***

here are all my fic rec masterlists that i've complied over the past couple years in one place! so much love to every single one of these writers and their works, especially my darling mutuals <3  

 *:･ﾟ✧ fic rec masterlists ･ﾟ✧

the marauders (2) (3)

harry potter (golden era)

henry cavill

brad pitt

80s rockstars

top gun

arthur morgan

grayson dolan

[dolliecowboys]

hi hi hi ^^ i come with a rec ☹️ i thought about it while listening to ‘I’m Not in Love’ by 10cc and i was wondering if you could write Arthur Morgan falling for reader so much so that it’s practically oozing out of his pores, but refusing to admit it himself (eventually he does ofc)

i love love looooveeee your writing and the way you go about writing for him ^^

- 🌷

★ FOUR-LEAF CLOVER

pairing ➴ arthur morgan x fem! reader note ➴ hihiii thank you soso much for the sweet request ( my first one ♡ ) & for being so kind my cutie tulip anon 🌷this took me so long i'm sorry i hope it turned out okie ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა also listened to baby come back by player while writing so i think that fits too hehe warnings ➴ light religious themes, mostly arthur's pov, OOC john marston ? ( for ch2 anyways but for arguments sake lets say this is an au where he matures quicker ), a little angstier than i intended, hurt / comfort, happy ending ♡ wc ➴ 5.2k

arthur’s hatred for the west grizzlies was growing stronger, and uglier, by the hour. not only was he freezing - a life spent in dry, desert plains didn’t equip anyone well for the cold - but he missed you, and that stung more than any type of frostbite. and now, with the gang’s panicked flee from blackwater, he considered himself lucky if he could secure five minutes with you. hence, he decided to spend another morning traipsing through the snow to the shack you were set up in. 

he mumbled out a handful of greetings, eyes scanning through the dilapidated cabin as he went through the headcount. rhythmic and routine, it was more of a ritual at this point rather than serving any true purpose; if someone were to fall ill whilst the gang was stuck in the harrowing mountains, they didn’t exactly have the resources to tend to such matters. john was already siphoning every drop of morphine and roll of clean bandages.

headcount. john, jack, and abigail were accounted for, which meant the marstons were fine, as complicated as the family dynamic was. onto the girls, including the new arrival mrs. adler, (though, the widow was definitely not fine, but at least she was still drawing breath) grimshaw, karen, mary-beth, tilly, and his favourite that he couldn't admit was his favourite — 

arthur snapped out of his mental arithmetics quicker than the crack of a pistol, brows furrowing into a deep crease. “where’s -” 

“outside.” karen replied with an equal swiftness, her words muffled slightly by the scarf covering the lower half of her face. “said she needed air, or something.” 

in any other circumstances, he’d probably feel an inkling of humiliation at how easily the blonde was able to predict his train of thought. after all, you were majority of the reason he came out here in the first place. or, all of the reason. but this, colter, wasn’t any other circumstances, and distress was already itching at his skin.

he bore a strong, protective streak for all of the girls, but plain protectiveness wasn’t enough to justify the intensity of his feelings for you. those feelings, they ran much, warmer, hotter, boiling, so much so that not even the deep frost of ambarino could thaw them.

“come to think of it,” grimshaw cut in then, blowing hot air into her gloved palms. not a single soul in camp seemed to be managing well in the arctic spring they’d waltzed into, arthur not excluded from that fact. “she’s been out there for a while. would you -”

he turned on his heels, interrupting her with a gruff “i got it”, frigid air cutting his cheeks as soon as the door swung open. two minutes ago, the slight heat of the once abandoned shack provided arthur with a warm, and welcome embrace. once he realised you were absent from the safety of its shelter, that sensation was swapped out for a humid suffocation instead.

you needed air, karen said. the high altitudes of the mountains were unlikely to grant you that kindness; as arthur trudged through plush snow while following the track of your footprints, he couldn’t help but shake the feeling that you were more likely to catch your death rather than a deep gulpful of oxygen. 

at last, the familiarity of your figure came into view, kneeled and turned away from him. he squinted through obnoxious white light reflecting off frozen ground, and called your name. no response. so, it either fell on deaf ears, or you couldn’t hear him. the grimace hadn’t left his face since he bolted through the cabin, and again, he yelled out for you. 

you flinched. he must’ve startled you, surprise written all over your features as you turned around. “arthur?” you blinked warily a few times, snowflakes falling from your lashes like powdered sugar. a pink tint on the tip of your nose, white mist floating out of your lungs and fanning around your hair.

spirits were low. unfathomably low, unspeakably low, but the sight of your face and the fall of his name from your lips served truer as a morale booster than any speech orchestrated by dutch. you looked other-wordly, the throes of exhaustion unable to spoil that fact. like a snow nymph, maybe, or something extracted out of a fairytale out here in the frost all on your lonesome. 

he would never grow exasperated at hearing you say his name. always in such a kinder harmony than he was accustomed to, more adjusted to people calling it out during barfights and shootouts, in much harsher tones. his name usually entailed a lengthy request or a fool’s errand, and sometimes the admonition that trouble was trailing closely behind. but with you, it tended to carry curiosity, and care. 

he swallowed dryly, gesturing a gloved hand around at the unwelcoming weather which enveloped you. “‘s freezin’ out here. y’need to get inside, get warm. grimshaw’s worried ‘bout you.”

your eyes widened slightly at his statement, and he had known you long enough to recognise it as embarrassment. embarrassment, because you had repeatedly told him how ashamed it made you to cause ‘unnecessary’ concern. or, any mode of concern, honestly. 

“i -” you turned back into your original position, and arthur cursed himself at being so selfishly wrapped up in you that he was rendered useless at the skill of recognition; worn, wooden crosses and almost-bare pine trees. the two of you found yourselves a few feet from the derelict graveyard, where frozen ground had been unearthed some days prior. your shoulders slumped, and you sighed. “i wanted to leave flowers, for …” 

your voice grew quiet, and arthur took the chance to shuffle closer, making his footfalls louder on intention — not wanting to startle you a second time. “for davey?” he solemnly finished your sentence and slipped both hands atop your shoulders. “mhm. but, nothing grows ‘round here ‘cept twigs ‘n branches.” you released another dejected sigh. “all i could give were some prayers.”

still facing away from him, you fished a rosary out from your coat pocket. he hummed, and watched as the worn beads swayed lightly in the wind from their position wrapped around your cream-coloured mitten. “still counts for somethin’.” he added quietly, hoping his words would bring you some comfort. 

your frame stiffened beneath his palms then. “you didn’t come out all this way just for me, did you?”

arthur scoffed. “sayin' that like its a bad thing.”

“it is a bad thing. you have enough to worry about.” you insisted, looking up at him with gloomy eyes while fighting off another roll of shivers. 

only you would trek out here in minus freezing temperatures, inconsiderate of the threat of hypothermia or frostbite, to pray for a soul that was - without a shadow of a doubt - heading southwards in the afterlife. another memento to jot down on the endless list of reasons of why he loved, no, cared, for you so much.

why was his brain jumbling up the words, now of all times? maybe to reassure his heart that he didn't just care solely on the basis of something as two-dimensional as a pretty face. obviously it wasn’t just your looks, the intensity of his swirl of emotions had been growing nauseating. 

“come on,” he coaxed the words out softly, urging you up with a delicate pull. “you’re shakin’ like a newborn foal, don’t want’chu gettin’ sick.” you complied without a single protest, and wrapped both arms around the cobalt blue engulfed over his bicep, which he offered for stability. extra warmth, too. objectives based on practicality, and not a chance to be closer, he reasoned internally.

the short journey back to the main camp was silent, save for the howling of wind and the crunching of snow as you walked. there were so many things he wanted to do then, so many things he wanted to ask you; if your sleeping quarters were warm enough, if you needed another blanket?

if you were eating properly —  you felt a little thinner, smaller than you already were, huddled against him. if you were coping alright with the loss of jenny? he was sure he heard a spell of sniffles on the ride up to colter, but you were always so damn quiet on the handful of occasions he’d seen you wound up with sorrows, he couldn’t be entirely certain. 

instead, he lightly kicked the cabin door open with the toe of his boot - his hands occupied by rubbing swipes back and forth over your shoulders to generate warmth, an action he hadn’t even noticed starting - and went to shepherd you inside. 

“you’re not staying?”

he hesitated, feeling the familiar jumble of words on his tongue. it was a simple question, and as straightforward as they come, but that tiny edge of disappointment in your sweet voice forced his heart into a faster tick. 

“no, dutch wants us to go ahead with the train robbery today.” he adjusted his voice into a lower tone, aware of the several sets of eyes on the pair of you.

the girls must’ve caught on to arthur’s glaring lovesickness by now, but luckily (or unluckily) john had one foot in the grave and was in all likelihood, using the remaining half of his brain to focus on survival. 

“okay, just …” you stood up on tiptoes, and gently brushed some snow from his popped out coat collar. “be careful, please?”  in response, his body betrayed him, and his eyes trailed down to your lips. “sure.”

you didn't notice. or, you did, and decided to not mention it.

grimshaw was quick to scold arthur for lingering too long, hissing something about the door being wide open and the cold getting in. she yanked you away, actually yanked, and haphazardly ushered you to the glow of the fire.

you looked back once; he looked back twice, suppressing the urge to stare a third time before taking his leave. 

he took your words to heart, and exercised further caution at your request. upon his return, after pawning off the o’discroll boy and exchanging words with dutch and hosea, arthur contemplated searching for you again.

oh, he wished he didn’t have to search for you. he wanted you to be in his cabin, curled up in his cot, and to stir softly at his approach. he wanted you warm, and safe, close to him, where he wouldn’t have to agonize over if you were alright or not. but, it was late, and he couldn’t spot any incandescence from oil lanterns within the shack. better to let you sleep. 

that night, arthur fell asleep in a cold bed. with graphite smudges on his hands, crumpled balled pages in the corner of his room, and his journal still tossed open on the ramshackle desk. he couldn’t draw the snowflakes on your lashes and the twinkle in your eyes from earlier quite right.

“damnit, watch where - ” the words died on arthur’s tongue as soon as he realised it was you who collided head-first into his chest. the cutest disgruntled sound echoed between your bodies, combined with his grunt, and he instantly felt like a rotten bastard for snapping at you.

of course, you'd turn the inconvenience of a collision into something heartwarming. he’d been at horseshoe overlook all of five minutes, irritated from the whole debacle with the wagon wheel and body still aching from all the chaos up in colter. all of that dissipated faster than gun smoke.

thankfully, his reflexes didn’t fail him and he was able to capture you by your waist before you crumpled into a heap on the grass. only, his grip was still firm once your equilibrium was restored. shit. 

“i was looking for you!” you twittered out the sentence happily, his formerly crass tone going completely over your head. “did grimshaw show you where you’re set up yet?”

he drew his hands away quickly, jaw tight and creaking with shame. “yeah, she did. wait, you were?” he quirked a brow at your statement, and felt the telltale flutter of his heart when you nodded eagerly.

he was amused now — grinning, and noticed the reason you had almost toppled over in the first place was due to something obscured you cushioned carefully between both hands. “what’chu got there?”

you shook some hair from your forehead, and began to shift your weight nervously. “well, we packed up so hastily after you boys came back from the train robbery, ‘n i was worried about your things getting crushed,” you unfurled your hands then, revealing the recognizable glass jar he kept by his bedside, the little pink flower inside undisturbed by the mayhem of the move. “so … i kept it with my things. i hope you don’t mind, i just -” you blew out an exhale, and avoided eye contact. “i know ‘s important to you.” 

arthur had to summon every inch of restraint to not capture you in a kiss right there, in front of all twenty people bustling about camp. his body had developed the habit of betraying him as of late, evident in all the tiny touches he’d been sharing with you during every interaction. first, the declaration that you had been searching for him specifically, followed by the knowledge that you thought about him enough to care about his things. it was all too, too much. 

“don’t mind,” all his energy was instantaneously channelled into keeping his voice steady, and ignoring the softness of your lips. “thanks, sweetheart. really, i mean it.” 

before you could reply, grimshaw called your name from the north corner of camp. you shot him a tiny, understanding smile, waving to the left of the two of you before scurrying off. 

dread flooded his nervous system. someone had been watching the entire exchange? 

“that was kind of her. she’s a sweet girl.” hosea locked eyes with arthur, his expression cognizant but gleaming with an undeniable mischievousness. so, now hosea knew, but that was sure to be inevitable given the wisdom of the older man. but knew what, exactly? that he had a soft spot for you? that was fine, he could live with that.

arthur’s gut twisted, and he prayed for a higher power to take pity on his damned soul, so that the obvious heat on his face wasn’t noticeable. maybe he’d get lucky and the shadows of the trees would conceal the blush. he’d been placing his bets on plain, dumb luck a lot recently.

“yeah,” he turned the jar over in his grip, head still reeling. “the sweetest.”

something had to give. arthur had been attempting (and failing miserably) to place a wide distance between the two of you for a torturous while now. the aftermath of blackwater, the tainted money tied up in the town and the trail of corpses the van der linde gang left in its wake provided him with a sense of clarity he had been severely lacking in. you deserved better, better than he could provide.

“wait - !”

so much for distance.

the swish of pale, pink skirts bounding towards the outlaw drew a smile to his face quicker than the halt he eased his tennessee walker into just ten seconds ago. maybe, quicker than the draw of his gun too. 

“my lady.” arthur tipped his hat at you, and leaned forward slightly to place his hands to rest atop the steel saddlehorn. “somethin' the matter?”

“no, not exactly.” you answered his question with a sweet bashfulness, a lock of hair obscuring your eyes as you shook your head. “wanted to give you this before you left.”

his weathered eyes locked on to the small plant you now extended to him, twirling the delicate stem between your fingertips before stilling your movements. “i was helpin’ abigail with her reading over there, 'n found it.” your head jerked lightly in the direction to the grove of douglas firs just south of camp, right amidst a thicket of forest green ferns. “'s for good luck. figured you'd need some?”

a four-leaf clover.

arthur was a bad man. he knew that. he made no efforts to conceal it nor change the entrenched manner of his ways, and that had been well and fine for years.

he couldn't change for eliza's sake, and he wouldn't change on mary's behalf. while aging and the plight of time had done their parts to clear up any doubts for him, many a sleepless night spent milling over the 'what ifs' and 'maybes', the ambiguity and sugariness which amalgamated together to make you reignited his once buried mental anguish.

he didn't consider himself a man of religion by any means; it would almost be a mockery of god to believe in the scripture but carry on living the way he did. robbing, shooting, killing. he briefly dwelled on how many of the ten commandments he violated in the last month alone, until coming to the realisation that you were still standing anxiously in front of him.

“sorry, i know 's silly 'n a little childish..” you sucked in a sharp, shaky breath but felt some relief when he accepted the clover and slipped it into the safety of his satchel. “but, with you going back to blackwater for sean, i - i don't know.”

he had to have mistakenly wandered into some type of earthly purgatory, for sure. your eyes gazing at him expectantly with a kindness he couldn't afford, or much less deserve by the same token. “ain't silly.” he replied bluntly, the words coming out much sharper than intended. arthur became narrowly aware of the ghost sensation of choking encircling around his throat, the sides of his oesophagus suddenly sandpaper dry. 

blackwater, right. although he was already mounted up by the exit of horseshoe overlook, lancaster repeater slung over his broad shoulders and map marked with the safest route to charles and javier, the upcoming job had already slipped his mind. it had been happening all too often even before colter, when he realised he was really over his head with you. but now, he was spacing out more. his focus was failing. on jobs, at camp, even during the simplest of conversations.

you were blessed (and cursed) with an innate ability to wash away the urgencies of his life with just your presence, as easily as the sea takes up grains of sand through a gentle brush on the shoreline.

blessed, because arthur hadn't felt like this in years. maybe close to a decade, with the years so long and expansive it was difficult to discern. and it was quelling a hunger, a starvation, he'd grown comfortable with for a long time.

cursed, because you were wasting all the love in your heart on him; and if his past with romance was a cautionary tale, that meant you were marked for doom. so he shouldn't reciprocate. if he did, why not line up the crosshairs on your forehead himself?

soft, and sweet, how could a sinner like him deserve a saint like you?

you pushed back a curtain of your hair then, allowing arthur to spot a fresh, nasty bruise along the swell of your cheekbone. “how'd you get that?” once again, his voice rang out sharply - from fear, from hurt. from the realisation that you weren't safe here, that he wasn't keeping you safe.

the question, or demand, forced your lashes into an embarrassed flutter. “just a coach robbery gone a little amiss.” fighting the urge to dismount, arthur's hand reached down to your face, thumb hovering above the mottled lilac and boysenberry underneath your skin.

your fingers, with equal hesitation, brushed against the back of his hand. “got whacked with a revolver, helping bill with some distraction work.” your voice dropped to a whisper and you tapped him, so gently, in a reassuring fashion. “'s only a bruise.”

but it was more than a bruise. deep shades of purple that made alarm bells ring in arthur's head like the ring of a lawman's whistle, telling him, urging him, to do something. if he could just admit it to himself, that he loved you, then he could keep you safe — he would keep you safe, because you'd be his to watch over.

but, he was too slow, and you misread his despondent expression completely; rushing back into camp and away from him for the third or fourth time. either way, he was left in the dust like the prize idiot, and could barely hear the forest around him over the roar of his bloodstream in his ears. you thought of him in the purest of ways and came to deliver a good luck charm. in exchange, he offered you curt and cold words, and didn't even have the chance to ask if you were alright.

“why you gotta act like that?”

arthur snapped his head around, eyes narrowing into slits. “what'chu ramblin' about now?” he seethed, taking out his internal conflict out on the nearest poor soul. why, of all people, did john think his opinion was warranted?

the younger man wasn't well enough just yet to be out on jobs, so he was stuck on guard duty. but, he was apparently well enough to pile on to arthur's growing headache.

“since you're so damn inclined to comment about my life, i should be allowed to talk about yours!” john shifted the carbine repeated within his grip, craning his neck to look back at camp. “why you gotta go and mess up every good thing that comes your way, huh?”

arthur groaned irritatedly, and urged his horse into a trot. “oh, don't start. worry about your own woman.”

your own woman. the slip of his tongue was realised as soon as the words were out in the air.

sean's rescue mission turned out alright after all. the rush of adrenaline granted arthur a moment of sweet respite from his thoughts of you, and he was glad for it. but, as it bubbled down, his breaths calming and his senses dulling back to their regular state, his torment began again.

his fingers flitted over another stolen object plucked from a dead bounty hunter. he wondered what you were doing back at camp. were you upset? embarrassed? guilt gnawed at his psyche, offering him no reprieve. had he humiliated you? maybe you were chopping slices of carrot for the stew with pearson, or maybe you were pegging shirts on the clothesline with grimshaw.

always so willing to help, even when you had done more than your fair share of chores for the day. perhaps the only similarity between the pair of you, a proficiency for hard work. but your sweetness, your goodness, so irrevocably intertwined with your nature wasn't something he thought he had, not at all. in another lifetime, he hoped you were instead ambling about in your shared kitchen. you'd make breakfast together. far away from bounty hunters and lawmen, and clad in one of his freshly laundered shirts thrown over your chemise.

he would pour coffee and pull you into his lap, breathe in your scent and look over the property with you from a chair on the porch. maybe, a buck and a doe would shyly trot by and he'd know he was finally doing some good in his life, at last. you'd huddle closer for warmth in the cool chill of the morning and he'd be at your beck and call. jesus christ. there he was, playing out a fallacy, a fantasy, rooted in no semblance of reality while looting corpses.

arthur absent-mindedly tossed the platinum belt buckle into his satchel, but remained glad that the little clover was safe inside one of the interior pockets. he decided then to take a detour before circling back home. the law would likely be watching the roads anyways, so he could cut through the lavender fields and maybe loop through strawberry to pick up some salve for your bruise.

the detour only added fuel to the fire, its roaring flames only making the treacherous plight of denial more onerous. riding through the lavender fields, it clicked in arthur's mind why he had come up to the meadow so frequently since the gang settled in horseshoe overlook.

its serenity, the blessed way it had of calming him, was only because it smelled like you. the tiny little perfumed oil you picked up in the blackwater general store one day, and how he waited until your back was turned to replace the silver coins you slid on the counter with his own. the wink he shot at the shopkeeper before scooping up your money, and then returning it to your tent that night all the while you remained none the wiser.

he offered to pay for it himself of course, but you denied, denied and denied, and he thought maybe it was better that way. to give you a gift unknowingly and let the love he had simmer and go unannounced, until it eventually fizzled out. and yet, as arthur stood engulfed in a whole field of you, glancing down to the rows of blossoms which reflected the shade of your bruise from earlier, he realised this wasn't something that would wane.

he grumbled something unintelligible to his horse, ignoring the fact that he was talking to the stallion like he would respond, and hopped off the saddle. arthur reached back around his gun belt and retrieved his hunting knife — trained eyes scanning for the bunch of flowers that looked the prettiest. he wished he could do something grander, or sweeter, that he had a slip of ribbon with him to secure around the bouquet of buds to make it all that more special for you.

the bouquet was going to mean a lot of things. it was a confession and an apology wrapped up in one, words he was too scared to say interweaved with lavender stems. he just hoped, he prayed, that you would have him.

when arthur approached the trail leading into camp, his nose scrunched up at how it already reeked like a distillery. he noticed taima and boaz were already hitched up to the right, meaning he was the last one to return home. but, before he could even think of joining sean's welcome back celebrations, he heard it; this time, he was certain, your sniffles matched the familiar phantom ones he noticed before the gang hitched up in colter.

he turned his head further back, catching a glance at the boquet secured in one of his saddlebags (the flap pushed to the side, so to not crush the buds) until he finally found you amongst the shrubbery. you stared at one another for only a beat, and his face distorted into a strong, forlorn veil when he realised the eye contact made you sob harder. you looked so little, so sad, and shaking, far away from the joy and the drunkenness by the campfires.

“arthur,” his name, once light and airy from your chest was strained out in a suffocating cry, like that of a wounded doe. “i thought you liked me.”

the outlaw was dismounted within the second, barely managing to avoid getting his legs tangled in the stirrups in his frantic path to you. 

the same nausea made home in his chest, that scorching lovesickness. “sweetheart,” he cooed, crouching down to your height and ensnaring your small wrists in both his hands. “'course i like you.” with your arms captured in his, you couldn’t hide from him. and he stared at you, into your eyes that lacked the twinkle he adored, bloodshot and rimmed with crimson. disgust ravaged his gut. he caused this?

“no, no,” you warbled, words barely distinguishable from the profoundness of the despair behind them. “i thought that you - that we -” you hiccupped desperately, dangerously towing into the territory of hyperventilation. your cheeks were smothered in tear tracks, large droplets snaking down your jaw.

arthur’s brain short-circuited, and lips crashed to meet yours. you whimpered into his mouth, into the kiss, and reciprocated with a matching starvation. it was messy, more than messy; disorderly, muddled with desperation and far, far rougher than he thought you deserved. the swapping of spit, the low groan from his lungs and the way you submitted sweetly, opening your mouth wider to accommodate his. the nuzzling of your noses against each other, his tongue lathing against your bottom lip. so close, that anything closer was impossible. 

he was acutely aware of the fact that you were lacking in oxygen much more than he was, that you had been crying less than a minute ago. he eased back gently, the loss of contact triggering another little whimper from you.

you leaned forward, desperate for him, and he placed a careful palm over your sternum. “easy.” he chuckled at your pout, so stubborn, feeling the still-wild pummel of your heart underneath his fingertips. “still ain’t caught your breath yet.”

his palm offered you an anchor back into reality, and you shakily inhaled. looking at each other, as though a blink would threaten the moment. “you sweet on me?” 

arthur hummed, shifting his focus from your eyes to the bruise on your cheek. “ain't in the habit of kissin' girls 'm not sweet on.” he hooked a careful finger around one of your curls, and placed a kiss on the damp, tender skin, exhibiting the same softness you'd handle a baby bird or bumblebee with a broken wing with.

the obviousness of the situation, and the light humour of his sentence, pulled a watery giggle from you. “yeah?”

he felt a small wave of shame, shame that the thing that pushed him over the edge in admitting his love had to be your cacophony of strained cries. he knew why he couldn't admit it, before. a love with him, well, it was terrifying. he was practically the priest, and you - the sweet little lamb - leading you to sacrificial slaughter by admitting it. but the world you lived in, his world, the world you shared, wasn't safe anyways. and his relentless denial of it had only hurt you in the process.

he nodded at your one-worded question, trying to muse up the will to ignore your tear stains. “sweet girl.” he sighed lowly, unable to. “didn't mean t'make you cry.” he shifted both of your bodies to cushion your body in his lap, and you balled up the fabric of his shirt in your fists. it would be alright. arthur had his entire lifetime to make up for it, and he'd start stuffing away dollar bill stacks and nosing around for safe spots to get the two of you out of this life — permanently.

you wriggled to look up at him with a big smile, so intent on reassuring him even in the face of the sadness that was slowly ebbing away. “'s not your fault. i feel bad- ” another light sniffle reverberated through the trees. “supposed to be celebrating.”

he rolled his eyes, not at you, but at the thought of having to separate from you ever again. “sean'll be fine, stop worryin.”

“i kept it, y'know. the clover?”

“you did?” your voice cracked with emotion, the fat of your uninjured cheek pressed against his collarbone.

arthur pet your head tenderly, hand slipping down to rub the spot between the planes of your shoulder blades soothingly. “course i did.” he replied, a little louder this time, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “'s my good luck charm.” but really, you were his good luck charm.

/N : i wrote this in between all of my classes for like a week so i'm so sorry if it's all over the place !! i'm a little unhappy w this & rushed the ending so might rewrite a some parts .. i can make a poor attempt at a part 2 w smut if people would like ♡ + sorry for the lack of interaction between arthur & reader, i get lost in descriptions sometimes oops

[gettothepaper]

[corvidaewritesshite]

By the Lake // oneshot

pairing: arthur morgan x f!reader

summary; A hot afternoon by the lake turns into something far more dangerous when a stranger with a fishing rod interrupts your reading of Romeo and Juliet. 

warnings; NSFW, minors do not interact, slow burn, romantic tension, outdoor setting so semi public, stranger to lover, gentle and soft arthur morgan, slight dom arthur morgan, praise kink (light), consent, gentle dominance, ruining mention, harder dominance for a moment, you face down in the dirt

word count: 6.8k 

author's note: I usually write Arthur in a softer light but i read this post about him having a big dick and needed to write this so… apologies.Or your welcome, depending on how you like your arthur fics.  I also really needed the practice for filthier writing. 

The soft breeze caused ripples to form in the tarp above you  and you smiled faintly, feeling the cool air brush across your face and bare arms.

It had been unbearably hot the last few days, the kind of heat that clung to your skin no matter how still you sat. But down by the lake, beneath the shade of the trees, the air felt lighter. Bearable at least. 

You adjusted yourself against the folded blanket beneath you, one leg bent lazily while the other hung over the edge of the small patch of shade. Above your head, the tarp you’d tied between two trees shifted gently with every passing breeze.

In your hands sat a worn copy of Romeo and Juliet, its corners bent and softened from rereading. 

…My bounty is as boundless as the sea… you murmured quietly to yourself, tracing the words with your thumb.

A splash interrupted you. Not loud. Just enough to pull your attention from the page.

You glanced up.

A man stood several yards down the shore, boots planted near the water’s edge, fishing rod in hand. Tall. Broad-shouldered. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, suspenders hanging loose against a faded blue shirt dampened darker with sweat across the back.

You hadn’t noticed him arrive. But now that you’d see him, it was hard to look away. 

He seemed focused entirely on the lake until he reeled the line in and turned slightly - enough for you to catch sight of the scruffy beard and the shadow cast by the brim of his hat.

Then his eyes flicked toward you.

You quickly looked back down at your book.

The lake went quiet again except for the distant buzz of insects and the creak of your tarp overhead.

You tried to continue reading. Tried not to look back at him. But your mind wandered with every second that passed. 

“Good afternoon. ma’am.” 

The voice drifted across the water low and gravelly, enough to pull your attention from the page without startling you.

Up close - or as close as this distance allowed - he looked less intimidating than he had at first glance. Large, certainly. Broad in the shoulders with a face worn tired by sun and hard living. But his posture stayed easy, careful almost, like he understood a woman alone might not appreciate being approached by a stranger.

You placed a finger between the pages of your book.

“Good afternoon.” You replied politely.

“Never thought books would survive out in this heat.”

“They do if you’re careful with them.” 

“Yes ma’am, guess that makes sense.”

The corner of your mouth twitched faintly.

He reeled his line in a little before casting it back out into the lake with practiced ease. The line whistled softly through the air.

For a minute, neither of you spoke.

The tarp above shifted with another cool breeze, dappling moving shadows across the pages in your lap. You tried to return to your reading.

…My only love sprung from my only hate…

“What’re you readin’, if you don’t mind me askin’?” interrupting your reading again. 

The man tipped his hat politely this time, almost apologetic for interrupting.

“Romeo and Juliet.”

He frowned slightly in thought.

“Heard the name before. Don’t think I ever read it.”

“You’re not missing a happy ending.”

That drew a quiet laugh from him.

“No, ma’am?”

“Everyone dies.”

Arthur blinked once.

“Well. That does seem unfortunate.”

You laughed softly before you could stop yourself.

The sound seemed to catch him by surprise. Not in a bad way, more like he hadn’t expected you to laugh at all.

He looked back toward the lake, though you noticed the faint hint of a smile lingering beneath his beard.

“I suppose fishing isn't much different.” You said abruptly and he furrowed his brow. 

“I let most of ‘em go, keep the big ones for dinner.” he sighed “Haven’t caught a damn thing today.”

“Maybe they sensed your pessimism.”

“Yes, ma’am. Fish are known for that.”

You hid another smile behind the spine of your book.

Silence settled again, easier this time.

You found yourself watching him over the top edge of the pages now and then. The slow roll of his sleeves exposed strong forearms tanned by the sun, and every movement he made carried the kind of unthinking steadiness of someone used to long days outdoors. 

After a while, he glanced back toward your tarp.

“That’s clever.”

You lowered the book slightly. “What is?”

“Your tarp.” He nodded toward the knots tied between the trees. “Keeps the sun off better than most tents I’ve slept in.”

“Oh.” You looked up at it briefly. “Thank you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He paused. “You campin’ out here alone?”

There was no suspicion in the question. Just concern politely disguised as conversation.

“For the afternoon.” 

“Well,” he said after a moment, “I reckon there’s worse ways to spend a hot day than sittin’ in the shade readin’ tragic stories.”

You studied him for a second before replying.

“And there are worse ways than standing in the sun talking to strangers, apparently.”

That finally earned a real smile from him; small, crooked, and unexpectedly warm.

“There are few strangers worth talking to ‘round these parts.” He muttered, readjusting his hat.

“Well I’m glad I made the cut.” 

Arthur huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, eyes lowering for a moment before lifting back to you.

“Helps you’re easy on the eye,” he said, almost bashful despite the words.

Heat rushed into your cheeks immediately, though the warm afternoon sun disguised it well enough. You looked quickly back down at your book, pretending sudden interest in the page.

“I’m only playin’,” he added after a second when you didn’t answer, the back of his hand rubbing awkwardly along his jaw.

You smiled faintly to yourself before glancing back up at him through your lashes.

“I could say the same for you, sir.”

Arthur blinked.

For the first time since you’d noticed him by the water, he seemed genuinely caught off guard.

A flush crept slowly up the back of his neck and into his cheeks beneath the scruff of his beard, and he cleared his throat roughly as though it might somehow recover his dignity.

“Well.” He shifted his weight awkwardly. “That ain’t usually somethin’ I hear much.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he muttered, though the crooked little smile tugging at his mouth betrayed him completely.

You watched him glance away toward the lake again, almost shy now, and the sight of a man his size looking suddenly uncertain made something warm twist pleasantly in your chest.

Arthur adjusted the brim of his hat lower over his eyes.

“You flirt with every fella that interrupts your readin’?”

“Only the polite ones.” 

That earned another laugh from him. 

The breeze stirred between the trees again, carrying the scent of lake water and summer rain somewhere far off. Arthur rested the fishing rod against his shoulder loosely, looking back at you after a moment.

“What happens next then?” he asked, nodding toward the book in your lap.

“In the story?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You studied him for a second, amused.

“You want me to spoil Shakespeare for you?”

“Well, I ain’t gonna read it and now I’m invested.”

You smiled, settling more comfortably beneath the tarp while Arthur lingered by the shore listening, the two of you talking as though you’d known each other longer than a single hot afternoon.

You folded the corner of the page carefully before closing the book halfway in your lap. The conversation had become far more distracting than the story.

Arthur seemed to notice.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “Didn’t mean to keep interruptin’.”

“You aren’t.”

His gaze lifted back to yours at that, quieter now somehow.

The breeze shifted again, moving the tarp overhead in soft waves. Arthur glanced toward the shade you’d made between the trees.

“Looks comfortable there.”

“It is.”

“Mind if I stand in the shade a minute?” he asked. “Sun’s tryin’ to kill me.”

You smiled faintly. “I suppose -  as long as you don’t attack me.”

“No, ma’am. I won’t.”

He stepped closer then, slow enough not to crowd you, boots crunching softly against the dirt and fallen leaves. Up close, you could better see the lines sun and exhaustion had carved into his face. There was something gentle hidden beneath all the roughness.

Arthur stopped just outside arm’s reach.

“Much appreciated,” he murmured, tipping his head politely.

“You’re very formal for a man standing by a lake with a fishing pole.”

“Well,” he said, “my mama raised me right before the world got ahold of me.”

The honesty in that caught you off guard.

You softened a little. “And here I assumed you were naturally charming.”

He smirked beneath the brim of his hat before finally taking it off, setting it beside him in the grass near the edge of your blanket. Without it, his hair fell messily from where the heat and wind had flattened it. He pushed a hand back through it, rough fingers combing the strands into something more familiar.

You tried not to stare.

“What's your name then, cowboy?” you teased.

“Arthur,” he answered easily, glancing over at you. “And you?”

You smiled innocently and returned your attention to the book in your lap.

“My mama raised me not to open up to random men.”

Arthur barked a short laugh at that, ducking his head.

“Well, sounds like a smart woman.”

“She was.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He leaned back against the tree trunk carefully, long legs stretched out in front of him. “Though I feel obliged to point out you’ve been talkin’ to me near half an hour already.”

“I never said I was followin’ her advice.”

That earned you another grin, slower this time.

“You always this difficult?”

“Only around cowboys.”

“Mhm.” Arthur glanced toward the fishing pole lying abandoned near the shore. “Thought fishin’ was supposed to be the dangerous part of my afternoon.”

“You approached me, remember?”

“Yes, ma’am, and I’m beginnin’ to suspect that was my first mistake.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head.

Arthur watched the sound leave you with that same quiet fondness creeping back into his expression.

“You got a name I can call you besides ma’am?” he asked after a moment, voice gentler now.

You looked at him over the edge of your book.

“I quite like ma’am actually.” 

Arthur looked back at you, the corner of his mouth tugging upward again.

“Oh, do you now?”

“It makes me sound respectable.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied immediately, the amusement in his voice warm and easy.

You smiled behind the edge of your book. “See? I like the way you say it.”

That seemed to catch him off guard more than the flirting had.

Arthur ducked his head slightly, rubbing his thumb along the brim of the hat resting beside him.

“Well,” he muttered, “suppose I can keep sayin’ it then.”

“How gentlemanly.”

“I ought to be.” 

You studied him quietly for a moment while the breeze moved lazily through the trees. Up close like this, he didn’t seem nearly as intimidating as he first had standing down by the lake. Large, yes. Rough around the edges certainly. But there was patience in him. Carefulness.

Arthur glanced toward your book again.

“You read all them fancy stories often?”

“Only the tragic ones.”

“Any reason?”

You thought for a second. “I think sad stories are romantic.”

“I suppose they are.”  

He squinted slightly against the sunlight breaking through the trees, one forearm resting over his bent knee while the other toyed absentmindedly with a loose thread on his hat. 

“But only when they ain’t happenin’ to you,” he added quietly.

You watched the breeze stir through his hair where his hat sat abandoned beside him, the afternoon light catching against the tired lines around his eyes. He looked like someone who knew sad stories better than he wanted to.

“And what about happy ones?” you asked.

Arthur huffed softly through his nose.

“Don’t reckon folks write many books about happy people.”

“No,” you admitted. “I suppose they’d be rather boring.”

“There you go.”

You smiled faintly, hugging the book a little closer to your chest.

“What about you?” you asked cautiously, fingers idly tracing the edge of the page. “You got a love story?”

The question hung gently between you.

Arthur’s faint smile faded into something quieter.

Not unhappy exactly. Just thoughtful.

He leaned his head back against the tree trunk, eyes drifting out across the lake while the breeze stirred softly through the branches overhead.

“Maybe once,” he admitted after a moment.

Your stomach tightened despite yourself.

“Oh.”

Arthur noticed the shift in your expression immediately and glanced back toward you.

“Ain’t got a girl waitin’ on me, if that’s what you’re askin’,” he said, voice calm and reassuring in a way that made heat creep embarrassingly into your face.

“I wasn’t asking that.”

“Mhm.”

You looked down at your book quickly.

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, though there was no meanness in it.

“She was a long time ago,” he continued more softly. “Good woman. Smarter than me by a fair margin.”

“What happened?”

Arthur rubbed his thumb slowly along his jaw.

“Life, mostly.”

The answer carried enough weight that you didn’t push further.

For a moment neither of you spoke. But the need to ask rose in your throat. 

“You still love her?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

Arthur went still for a second.

Then he smiled faintly,  small enough you almost missed it.

“I reckon you don’t stop carin’ about certain people,” he said. “Even after they stop bein’ yours.”

Something about the honesty of it made your chest ache unexpectedly.

He glanced toward you again then, eyes gentler now.

“But that don’t mean a man can’t keep livin’.”

The words settled warm beneath your ribs.

You looked down, pretending to straighten the pages of your book to hide the smile threatening at your mouth.

Arthur watched you quietly for a moment before speaking again.

“What about you, ma’am?”

You looked back up.

“Got some tragic romance tucked away in your past?”

“No.” You smiled faintly. “Nothing nearly dramatic enough for Shakespeare.”

“Well, that’s probably good.”

“You think so?”

“Yes ma’am.” 

“Well I think it makes me utterly dull.” You muttered, hand running through your hair softly. 

You watched him shift slightly beneath the tarp, careful not to crowd your space despite how comfortably the conversation had settled between you both. His shoulder brushed the tree trunk behind him, large hands resting loosely over one knee.

“You ain’t dull sweetheart,” he said after a moment, voice low. 

The word settled over you far warmer than the afternoon heat ever had.

You looked up from beneath your lashes, caught entirely off guard by how naturally it left him. Not cocky. Not practiced. Just gentle.

Arthur seemed to realize a second later what he’d called you.

A faint flush crept into his face almost immediately, and he cleared his throat softly, glancing toward the lake like it might save him.

“Pardon me,” he muttered. “That just… slipped out.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Did it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Been spendin’ too much time talkin’ to you, apparently.”

“And what does that do?”

“Makes a man careless.”

The way he said it made your stomach flip pleasantly.

Arthur rubbed a hand along the back of his neck, still looking a little embarrassed by his own boldness.

“I only meant…” He paused, searching for the words. “You got a calm about you. Ain’t many people these days can sit quiet with themselves the way you do.”

Your expression softened.

Most people mistook your quietness for shyness or awkwardness. Arthur spoke about it like it was something worth admiring.

The breeze stirred between you again, lifting strands of your hair across your cheek.

He watched you carefully, his hand twitching instinctively like he was going to tuck the strand behind your ear. 

But he stopped himself.

You noticed the restraint immediately, the way his fingers curled slightly before settling back against his knee instead.

Arthur let out a quiet breath through his nose, almost amused at himself.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “Keep forgettin’ you don’t know me well enough for that.”

Something about the softness in his voice made your chest tighten.

“You ask permission for everything?” you teased gently.

A crooked smile tugged at his mouth.

“Try to.”

“That must get exhausting.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said dryly. “Women tend to appreciate it though.”

You laughed quietly, and Arthur looked pleased with himself for causing it.

The strand of hair blew across your face again.

This time you tilted your head slightly toward him.

Arthur’s eyes flicked to the movement instantly, like he wasn’t sure he’d understood it correctly.

“You can,” you said softly.

For a second he didn’t move at all.

Then slowly, carefully enough that you could’ve pulled away if you wanted - he reached toward you.

His fingers brushed lightly against your temple, rough fingertips impossibly gentle as he tucked the strand behind your ear.

The touch lasted barely a moment. Still, warmth bloomed across your skin long after he pulled his hand back.

Arthur cleared his throat quietly afterward, suddenly very interested in the lake again.

“There,” he muttered. “Much better.”

You smiled faintly. “Thank you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

But his voice sounded a little rougher now.

At some point, your shoulder had settled against his.

Neither of you mentioned it.

Arthur glanced down after a while, noticing your hand resting between you both on the blanket.

Then slowly, cautiously, he turned his hand over beside yours.

An offer.

Nothing more.

Your heart fluttered embarrassingly hard as your fingers slipped against his.

Arthur exhaled softly through his nose at the contact, thumb brushing once over your knuckles.

The air beneath the tarp felt smaller somehow. Warmer. And Arthur sat close enough that your knees brushed every so often when one of you shifted, neither of you bothering to move away afterward.

“You’re starin’ again,” you murmured softly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The honesty of it made your pulse stumble.

Arthur’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before lifting again, restraint written all over his face.

“Tell me to stop,” he said quietly.

You couldn’t.

The breeze stirred softly around you while the lake lapped against the shore in the distance.

Arthur lifted one hand slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, fingertips brushing lightly along your jaw.

“So pretty,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Your breath caught.

Arthur’s eyes lingered on your face openly now, no longer pretending otherwise. His thumb brushed slowly along your cheek, rough fingertips impossibly gentle against your skin.

“Think I've been distracted since the second I saw you sittin’ here,” he admitted quietly.

Heat bloomed through your chest.

“You say that to every woman reading under a tarp?”

A grin tugged at his mouth.

“No, ma’am. Most women ain’t this hard to look away from.”

You tried to hide your smile, but Arthur noticed immediately.

“There it is,” he murmured softly.

“What?”

“That smile.” His eyes flicked over your face like he was memorizing it. “Been tryin’ to get more of those outta you all afternoon.”

Your stomach fluttered embarrassingly hard. Your core aching in  a way only literature could ever make it. 

Arthur leaned a little closer, close enough now that you could feel the warmth radiating from him beneath the summer heat.

“You know,” he said lowly, “when I walked down to this lake today, I thought I was gonna spend the afternoon catchin’ fish.”

“And instead?”

“And instead I found the prettiest thing out here lookin’ at me like she’s decidin’ whether I’m trouble.”

You laughed softly under your breath. “And are you?”

Arthur’s gaze dipped briefly to your mouth before lifting again.

“For you?” he murmured. “Oh probably.”

His voice was making you disgustingly wet beneath your petticoats and you prayed the blush on your face wasn't noticeable. 

“You alright there, sweetheart?” he murmured, clearly noticing your silence.

You nodded far too quickly.

That crooked smile returned immediately.“Mhm,” he hummed softly, unconvinced. “Don’t sound very certain.”

“You talk too much.”

“Yes, ma’am.” His thumb brushed lightly beneath your chin again. “But you like it.”

The fact he said it so confidently made your stomach coil, your thighs squeezing together in a desperate attempt to keep your cool. 

Arthur’s eyes drifted over your face, lingering on every tiny reaction you failed to hide from him. The blush in your cheeks. The way your lips parted whenever he leaned closer. The quick rise and fall of your breathing.

He noticed all of it.

And judging by the look on his face, he enjoyed noticing.

“You get shy when somebody compliments you?” he asked quietly.

“Maybe.”

Arthur chuckled warmly beneath his breath.

“Aw, don’t hide now.” He caught your wrist gently before you could turn away completely. “Been workin’ hard for these reactions.”

“You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he admitted shamelessly.

The breeze shifted around the tarp again, but you barely noticed it with Arthur sitting so close.

“You know what’s unfair?” he murmured after a moment.

“What?”

“You got me sittin’ here feelin’ like some lovesick idiot over a woman whose name I still don’t know.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Maybe I enjoy keeping you suffering.”

“Well,” Arthur laughed softly, shaking his head, “it’s workin’.”

The sound rumbled low in his chest, warm enough to make your stomach twist pleasantly again.

You became painfully aware then of just how close he’d gotten beneath the tarp. His broad shoulders angled toward you now instead of the lake. The shade cast soft shadows across him, catching along the muscles in his forearms where his sleeves remained rolled carelessly to his elbows.

Arthur was not a delicate man.

Everything about him felt solid. The kind of strength earned through work instead of vanity. Thick forearms dusted with hair, broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his faded shirt, large hands capable of gentleness despite looking like they belonged wrapped around reins or rough wood instead of your face.

Your gaze dropped before you could stop it.

Down the slope of his chest. The suspenders hanging loose against his shirt. The spread of his thighs where he sat close beside you in the grass.

Arthur noticed immediately.

A slow smile tugged at his mouth.

“Careful now, sweetheart,” he murmured.

Heat flooded your face instantly as your eyes snapped back to his.

“I wasn’t-”

“Yes, you were.” His voice stayed low and teasing, though there was something rougher beneath it now too. “And I gotta admit…”

He shifted slightly closer.

“…I liked it.”

Your pulse fluttered hard when his hand settled beside your hip against the blanket, caging you in without forcing anything.

“You’re very confident suddenly.”

“No, ma’am.” His eyes dipped briefly to your mouth again. “Just think maybe you want me a little too.”

His jaw flexed slightly.

And only then did you notice the shift in him too. The tension settling heavier throughout his body, his posture tighter despite how relaxed he tried to appear. The spread of his legs, the large bulge in his trousers that grew with each passing comment.

A flicker of heat crossed his expression and he exhaled hard. 

“Sweetheart,” he said softly, almost warningly, “you keep lookin’ at me like that and I’m gonna forget how polite I’m tryin’ to be.”

You swallowed hard beneath the weight of his gaze.

“Well,” you murmured, inching a little closer across the blanket, “That’s no good is it?” 

Arthur’s eyes followed the movement immediately.

You could feel the heat radiating from him now, close enough that your knee brushed firmly against his thigh. Neither of you moved away.

“You accuse me of distractin’ you,” you continued softly, “while you sit there lookin’ like that.”

A low laugh escaped him.

“Like what, sweetheart?”

You let your eyes drift deliberately over him again, slower this time.

“The shoulders.” You reached out lightly, fingers brushing the fabric stretched across his upper arm. “The voice.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened subtly beneath the scruff of his beard.

“And you know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured.

The teasing confidence in his voice only encouraged you further.

You shifted again, leaning back slightly onto one hand. The movement loosened the neckline of your blouse just enough for the warm breeze to brush against newly exposed skin.

Arthur’s eyes dropped instinctively.

Only for a second.

But you caught it.

A smile tugged at your mouth immediately.

“There it is.”

His gaze snapped back to yours, caught.

“Beg pardon,” he muttered, though his voice had gone noticeably rougher.

“You’re very polite for a man who keeps staring at my chest.”

Arthur let out a breathy laugh, dragging a hand down his face.

“Well,” he admitted quietly, “you’re makin’ that awfully difficult not to do.”

Heat fluttered low in your stomach again.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t attack me if I let you under my tarp.” 

Arthur stared at you for half a second before a startled laugh escaped him, low and entirely disbelieving. 

“I’m tryin’ my hardest sweetheart.” 

You smiled innocently, “Seems pretty difficult for you.” 

“Lean any closer and you’ll see how difficult it really is.” 

Arthur’s hand remained steady at your waist, fingers flexing lightly against the fabric of your skirt like he was constantly reminding himself not to pull you fully into his lap.

“You know,” he murmured, eyes dragging slowly over your face before betraying him and dipping briefly lower again, “most women don’t tease armed strangers in the woods.”

“Most armed strangers aren’t blushing because they saw a little bit of collarbone.”

Arthur groaned softly under his breath, tipping his head back against the tree for a second.

“Lord help me.”

You laughed quietly, delighted by how easily he unraveled for you despite trying so hard not to.

“You’re enjoying this entirely too much,” he muttered.

“Maybe I like seeing you flustered.”

“Mhm.” A slow grin tugged at his mouth. “And maybe I like being teased by pretty women beneath handmade tents.”

A few moments passed as you basked in the heated tension between you both. 

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he murmured, quieter now, “and I’m gonna stop thinkin’ straight.”

Your breath caught slightly.

“You already stopped thinking straight,” you replied softly.

That earned a low huff of laughter from him, but it faded quickly into something more serious.

“You’re real good at that,” he said quietly.

“At what?”

“Pushin’ a man right up to the edge… then lookin’ at him like you don’t know what you’re doin’.”

His thumb brushed once along your side.

Slow. Deliberate.

“And I’m bein’ real good about not forgettin’ my manners.”

“You’re being very good,” you said quietly. “Almost disappointingly so.” 

“Yeah?” he murmured.

You nodded faintly.The tarp shifted above you with the breeze, but neither of you seemed to notice anymore.

He leaned in and kissed you like he meant to be careful with it. Like every second was something he could still take back if he needed. His hand on yours, his other on your face - not pulling or pressing, just there, like an anchor he was afraid wouldn't hold. 

His eyes were half-lidded when they opened again, focused on you like you were something he couldn't trust himself with anymore.

The world beyond the tarp seemed far away now: the lake, the trees, the distant hum of insects faded into a blur beneath the pounding of your heartbeat. 

Arthur shifted his thumb against your cheek, rough skin warm where it rested there. 

“You alright?” he asked quietly.

You nodded faintly, the tip of your nose brushing against his. 

His gaze lingered on your mouth again before he exhaled softly, almost frustrated with himself.

“Christ.” he muttered under his breath. 

He kissed you again, deeper this time. His hand sliding from  your cheek to rest against your jaw. His body twitched like he needed the contact more than he wanted to admit. 

When the kiss broke again, he rested his forehead lightly against yours and closed his eyes for a second. 

“Sweetheart,” he said quietly, voice roughed down to something almost intimidating, “you are testin’ every good intention I got.” 

“What are your other intentions, Arthur?” 

For a faint second he said nothing, just kept studying you with that restrained intensity. Then that smile tugged on his lips again. 

“You really oughta stop sayin’ things like that.” he murmured. 

“But you like it.” You teased, your other hand tip toeing up his thigh and moving towards his tucked in shirt. 

His hand slid slowly from your jaw, finger trailing down your neck, before jumping to catch your hand on his midriff. 

The movement drew you closer, your chest adjacent to his - almost touching. 

“You keep lookin’ at me like you want somethin’.” he whispered.

“It isn’t ladylike to ask for what I want, cowboy.” 

“And what is it that you want?” 

You laughed, unable to say the words that came to mind. 

“You’re trouble.” he muttered “You’re handsome.” 

“You know,” he said after a moment, lifting his eyes back to yours, “most women ain’t usually this forward with me.”

“Maybe most women haven’t found themselves beneath a tarp with you- and no one in sight.”

Then, very deliberately, he leaned in and kissed you again. Pushing you backwards so he was the one on top. His broad shoulders blocking out the filtered sunlight overhead. 

You lay on your back now, one hand pinned down by his, the other at your side. The shift pulled a quiet sound from your throat. Your heart hammered painfully hard beneath your ribs as Arthur kissed you deeper now, rougher only in the sense that restraint had begun slipping through his fingers. His breathing had turned uneven, every exhale warm against your mouth. 

“You’re real pretty laid out like this,” he murmured before he could seem to stop himself. 

His lips brushed your cheek first, slow enough to make your pulse stutter before trailing lower along your jaw. Then your neck. Then the exposed skin near your collar where your blouse had shifted loose beneath his hands. 

“Real pretty.” 

A startled gasp escaped you, eyes squeezing shut as his tongue explored.

“C’mon ma’am,” he murmured against your skin “where's all that attitude gone?” 

You swallowed hard, fingers instinctively curling tighter around his. 

“You talk entirely too much.” you breathed. 

“Mhm.” Arthur lifted his head just enough to look in your eyes “There you are, thought I'd stunned you silent.” 

You tried to glare at him, but the feeling of him sucking and lapping at your neck felt too good to deny. 

“You blush so easily,” he said softly, as though he was fascinated by you. 

“And whose fault is that?” “Mine, I hope.” 

His right hand still held you in place while his left grabbed at your waist, wandering down to your skirts. 

“You still alright?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. 

“You sure you’re wantin’ this- me?” he asked, that confident facade fading momentarily. 

“I need you.” you whimpered, biting your lip as you held eye contact. 

“Fuck.” That did it. 

The word left him rough and breathless, like it had been dragged out of him against his will. 

Arthur closed his eyes for half a second, his hand instinctively tightening at your waist, bunching the fabric of your skirt in his fist while he breathed hard through his nose. 

He shifted slightly over you, broad shoulders boxing you safely beneath the shade of the tarp while his right hand moved slowly to your leg, caressing you from knee to upper thigh. 

“So soft-” he mewled, thumb flicking against your clothed core briefly before darting away. 

You swallowed hard as he did, his gaze following every miniscule reaction that crossed your face. 

“Tell me if I go too far.” he said softly. But it wasn’t a question, moreso a demand.

He arched his back and he crawled backwards, bunching your skirts up and revealing your dripping undergarments. 

“Jesus wept woman-” his eyes grew wide.  

“Arthur-” you moaned, biting your lip.

With that he forgot about holding back entirely. His rough hand cupped you softly, two fingers pushing your underwear into your wetness. 

You gasped as you felt them enter just and no more. 

Arthur brought them to his mouth and tasted them, eyes rolling back as he did so. 

“Fuck~” his hand went back again, impatient as he tried to figure out how to get them off. “Ah hell.” he growled, taking both his hands and ripping the underwear in half. 

You gasped loudly, the breeze hitting your wet clit, sending a bolt of shivers up your spine. 

“Need to taste you.” He mumbled, bringing his face towards it. 

When his tongue hit your hole it was over. You were a mess, moaning and writhing as he licked and sucked. The noises he made were equally dirty as the ground he rolled his hips into. 

“So good~” he moaned. “Fuck so sweet~” 

“Don’t stop!” you cried, your hand in his hair. 

You could only see his eyes, wild with passion, as he buried his tongue inside you, his nose rubbing against your clit fervently. 

“Arthur~” you cried, your head thrown back in pleasure. 

He pulled away, leaving you with a soft buzzing in your core. 

“I need you, okay sweetheart?” he knelt upwards, wiping his face with his sleeve and undoing his zip with the other hand. 

His cock was massive, the biggest you’d seen. His girth alone was impressive, never mind the length of it. 

He pumped it a few times as it dripped onto the grass. 

“I haven’t done this in a while but- I’ll be gentle-” he started, but you stopped him.

“Just take me- now.” you moaned, body limp against the blanket. 

“Yes ma’am.” he obliged, his right hand against your waist, the left still pumping his cock. 

When he pushed into you,  tears stung in the corners of your eyes and you cried out as you felt more and more of him fill you up. 

“Thatta girl~” he moaned, “just a little more.” 

When his hips finally met yours, you couldn't help but buck yourself up against him, and he laughed softly. 

“Desperate for me, ain’t you girl?” 

You nodded , your head falling to the side, cheeks glistening with tears. 

“Hey now,” he frowned, his thumb coming up and wiping them away, “you’re okay, I got you beautiful.” 

You cried out as he hit that coil in your stomach, the mix of his sweet words and his cock causing you to writhe. Your body shook with pleasure, his name mixed with moans and sobs falling from your lips as your head flew back.   

“Arthur~” you choked out, eyes still squeezed shut. 

He kept thrusting into you, and when you opened your eyes he had unbuttoned his shirt, clearly too hot for all of this exercise. 

“Sweetheart, you’re so good~” he moaned out, shifting so his hands were either side of your head. “So good f’r me.” 

His relentless attack continued, thrusting harder and further than before. His pace steady, but his arms shaking as he got closer and closer. 

“So pretty ain’t you- what would daddy say if he knew what you were up to.” 

That comment caused you to flush red, you hadn’t imagined Arthur to be a dirty talker - you hadn't imagined him to be anymore than a fisherman. 

“Don’t get shy now,.” He moved a hand to your jaw, tipping it so you were forced to look at him, his thrusting slow and slight. “smart girl like you, bet you wanted someone like me to walk up on you.” 

“Arthur~” you started, but it fell into a crude moan as he tightened his hand around your throat. 

“Pretty girl.” He drawled, using your neck and his other hand as anchors to hold you down as he fucked into you. “You gonna take it?” He teased, but you knew exactly what he meant. 

“Take what?” You batted your eyes, looking up into his storm fuelled eyes. 

“Fuck~ so sweet.” He moaned, head hanging low as he thrusted. “I’m gonna pump you full of me, okay pretty girl?” 

You whimpered your approval and he applied more pressure on your neck, causing you to gasp out and writhe under him.

He stopped and watched you for a moment, your silent pleads for him to release you from his grasp. Then he complied, watching as you gasped and choked. 

“Told you I was holding back beautiful.” 

“More- please” you gasped out, his cock splitting you in two. 

“What? You like that pretty girl?” He whispered and you nodded fast. He laughed. “Want me to fuck you harder is that it?” 

“Fuck~ please-” You mewled, tears still rolling down the sides of your face, your pussy burning as its filled to the brink. 

“You done that before?” he asked, more sincerely this time, and you shook your head. “Oh darlin’, I don’t want to scare you.” 

“A-arthur, I wanna.” you coughed out “I want to be had- taken by you.” 

“God almighty woman.” He looked around, noticing no one was there. “On your front then. I won't ask twice.” 

He pulled out of you and you winced, your hole flooded and open at the lack of him. You flipped yourself over, wiggling your hips in the air.

“Atta girl~ so naughty.” He smiled, smacking your cheek. You cried out, and he grabbed it, pushing into the sore spot he had left. “Uh uh pretty girl, you can do better than that.” 

With that he hit the other, then back to the original, over and over relentlessly as you cried for him, tears dripping, your face, now in the dirt  beyond the blanket. 

“Look at you, so dirty.” He pouted, rubbing his cock against your slit. “What would your daddy say hmm?” 

“Arthur- I-” 

“Shhhh shhhh no sweetheart. You done ‘nough talking.” He put his hand over your mouth and pulled you upwards. His other hand holding his dick, slipping the tip against your entrance. “I’m gonna fuck this pretty pussy now, that what you want?” 

You moaned against his hand. 

“Thought so.” He grunted, pushing himself into you in one swift movement. 

It hurt horribly at first, and you cried whole heartedly into his hand. He knew it hurt too, as he kept rubbing his thumb gently against your cheek, his body language so different from the tone he had taken with you just moments before. 

“Now now, sweetheart, yr’alright.” 

You moaned into his hand, your drool dripping between his fingers. He let go a little, wiping his hand on the blanket before slotting two fingers into your mouth. 

Your pussy leaked at the taste, and you felt your sweet juice drip down your thighs. 

“Smart girls are always the dirtiest.” He grunted, forcing his fingers down your throat as you sobbed  and moaned. “But you like it, don’t you?” 

“Yeah~” you said, muffled around his fingers. 

His pace after this was relentless, your face was smushed into the dirt again as his hands held you down, one on your ass one on your shoulder. 

“Take me, atta girl, take this cock~”  he grunted, hips bucking wildly as his seed released into your tight cunt. You weren’t far behind, cumming around his thick cock and gasping at the sensation. 

Arthur rolled onto his back beside you with a rough exhale, one forearm thrown over his eyes like he couldn't believe what had just happened.

“Christ alive.” he muttered hoarsely. 

The hand not covering his face found your hand instinctively. 

Arthur let out a quiet laugh under his breath. “You’re dangerous, sweetheart.” 

You turned your head toward him, smiling softly, “You’re the criminal here.” 

He huffed, running his hand from his face into his hair which was a mess now. 

“Best afternoon I've had in a long while.” He admitted quietly. Then after a beat, softer, “I need that again sometime.”

it was so hot this weekend so I wrote this to cool down hehe

[cowboyskeletonworks]

For Your Eyes Only

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader

Warnings: masturbation (male), nude photos (of reader), mad Arthur for a stranger seeing intimate pictures of you

Words: 2.1k

No use of Y/N

A/N: I was playing rdr and taking some pictures, and got this wonderful idea about what would happen if he got some pics 🤭. Also i think blue looks amazing on every skin tone, so imagine whatever shade of blue compliments you 💙

I have no clue how the camera even works in red dead, so I just assumed that it is the same as the disposable cameras (I know that is totally incorrect). I tired looking it up, but I didn't feel like looking super deep into it.

This is not super proofread, but I did a once over. I will go back through here soon and make sure it is edited better

Divider credits: @cursed-carmine

Arthur’s heavy footsteps radiate through the dingy photography studio in Saint Denis. The door creaks closed behind him, and darkness slowly shrouds his tall figure. The studio looks like a ghost town in New Austin instead of the bustling city it sits in. 

Camera resting in his hand, Arthur looks around the dusty studio for any sign of life; all he wants is to get his photos developed because he cannot do it himself. He didn’t understand how the film got full so fast. Usually he could go two months or more without having to get it developed. There was an egret atop a gator floating through the swamp, and he wanted a photo of it. He clicked the camera, and nothing happened. 

He had a sneaking suspicion you had taken photos on it; not that he cared, but he wished you would tell him when you used the last of the film. The photos you took on his camera were usually of the gang members, him, or random animals. 

A clattering comes deep within the studio that pulls him from his thoughts. Fast footsteps approach the front of the building, and a short man appears from the darker part of the building. “My bad sir!” He stumbles behind the counter, “What can I help you with today?”

Arthur takes a few steps forward, lifting the small camera up, and places it on the counter. “Can you develop the photos for me?” Sliding the camera towards the man, Arthur clears his throat. 

“Sure thing.” Grabbing the camera, the man looks to Arthur, “This will take a little while, so make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back out in a bit.” 

Arthur quirks an eyebrow at the man as he hurries to the back in the same manner he came up in. Turning, he sees three chairs, all with arms, lined up against the wall. A sigh falls from his mouth, and he makes his way over to them. 

Creaking under his weight, the chair accommodates him and the guns hanging low on his hips. Crossing his feet, Arthur relaxes slightly into the cushioned chair as he waits for the man. 

Fast footsteps make their way to the front startling Arthur slightly. He may have nodded off for a minute while waiting for the man to come back. Pushing up, Arthur shifts his shoulders to stretch from sitting for some time.

The man places the camera and a stack of photos wrapped in paper on the counter by the register. “Four dollars please,” the man mumbles. Fishing the money from his pocket, Arthur hands the man the money, who will not look at him now. 

Sliding the camera and bundle towards Arthur, the man looks up for a second then back down. “A little heads up would have been nice before I started processing those.” Arthur notices the man’s cheeks are flushed darker than they were when he initially saw him.  

Arthur’s forehead creases with confusion as he grabs the two items from the counter. “Uh, okay?” He slides the two into his satchel, “Thank you.”

The man nods his head curtly, and rushes back to the darkness of the studio. Shaking his head, Arthur was thoroughly confused what he meant by that. Grasping the door knob, Arthur pulls it open, and the sun blinds him momentarily as he had been in a dark building for an extended period of time. 

Mounting his horse, Arthur was still racking his brain as what the man could have possibly meant by giving him ‘a little heads up;’ this isn’t the first time had gotten photos developed at this studio before. 

The ride to Shady Belle was uneventful thankfully. With some quick hello’s and good night’s to the ladies, he makes his way inside the house. Trudging up the stairs to his room, he closes the door behind him shutting some of the sounds of members inside the house. He didn’t know where you were, but he figured you were off doing something. You were just like him, you like to go off on your own, and then make your way back to camp. 

Shedding his guns, he settles onto the small bed. He fishes the tied bundle of photos from his satchel. The paper crinkles as he discards it next to him on the bed, and he begins looking through them. 

The first three were pictures he had taken at a little cabin by the Kamassa River in Bayou NWA of a fox eating a bird, a gator head peering out of the water, and a spider orchid on a tree. The next picture was one you had taken of Abigail and John sitting on a log together having an intimate moment for once. Her head was resting on John’s shoulder, and his hand rested on her knee as they looked towards Jack playing. 

Arthur was still throughly confused what the man had meant because these all seem pretty normal pictures to him. Mindlessly looking through the photos, he sees a couple more landscape photos that he had taken at Bolger Glade. 

The next photo caught his attention; it was one you had taken. He shifts against the metal headboard of the bed as he looks down at the tin photograph of you. You were wearing your “special” corset top that was hardly ever worn. It was a blue color that complemented your skin beautifully. White lace frills the top boarder barely cresting the corset touching the swell of your breast pushing up from the bodice, and small, intricate flowers embroidered on the boning channels. Both of your arms were holding the camera up, and just the bottom of your chin was in the picture. He didn’t have to see your face to know this was you. 

Placing the photo down, he looks at the next picture. You were lying on plush grass, still in the corset, hair sprawled underneath you, but this time your right hand was grazing your breast ever so lightly. The corset was pushing your breasts up to begin with, and as you lie on the ground they press up even more. This time your mouth was in the picture opened just enough that if he were there he would have pressed his thumb into your mouth. 

His hips shift on an accord of their own as he looks at the picture. This. This is what the man had meant. You had taken his camera and took these photos without him knowing. Arthur’s hand goes down to adjust himself and clears his throat like he is some teenaged boy getting caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing. 

Arthur’s eyes widen at the next photo. Your corset is off, but your left arm is covering your breasts in a teasing manner. 

Sliding to the next, your right breast is entirely exposed as your left hand gropes your left breast. The humidity in the air has your skin glistening slightly under the rays of sun filtering through the canopy of the swamp you were taking pictures in. 

Arthur can’t believe his eyes. He gave his camera over to a man, unbeknownst to Arthur and the stranger, that you had taken these pictures. It irritates him because he would have never let some man see these. 

The next your right nipple peeks between your pointer and middle finger as your hardened left nipple is exposed completely; your bottom lip is pulled between your teeth. 

His hips shift again as he is starting to grow hard under the dark denim. 

Just when he didn’t think you could surprise him anymore, the next photo reveals that your bottom half is just as bear as the top half. Dense trees surround you in the background. The photo shows that you were lying on the ground naked with your knees bent, feet flat on the ground, and your legs were spread open. You had taken it as if you were taking any ol’ picture. The camera was pressed to your face, and your navel was showing. It was essentially a point of view that you have when Arthur is between your legs doing whatever he pleased, using this mouth or cock on you, except it was just you there. 

His jaw clenches as he looks at the next photo. Your hand was dipped between your thighs. This photo was taken in the same manner as the last. These were making his mind run wild. He still cannot believe that the photographer did not come in sooner to tell him. Arthur was half tempted to go back to the studio and give that man a piece of his mind, and fist. Whatever came first. 

He looks down at himself and finds that he is pressing up more against his jeans. His hands betrays his brain, and he palms himself through the rough denim covering himself. A deep groan catches in his throat as he relieves some of the building pressure. Oh fuck it he thinks. Setting the remaining photos down next to him, he fumbles with this belt and buttons of his pants. 

Lifting his hips slightly, Arthur pushes his jeans down to this thighs. His cock bounces as he settles back. The tip is red and leaking precum from the photos you had taken with him unaware of. Spitting in his hand, he grabs ahold of himself, and strokes himself a few times. Thumb swiping over his leaking tip, a moan slips from deep within. 

Head falling back, Arthur thinks of those pictures he has seen already: your beautiful body, mouth-watering breasts, and the ghost of what would drive a man crazy between your thighs. Another moan makes its way from his throat as he pumps himself thinking about your wet cunt. He can feel your velvety walls clenching around his cock as he fucks you; the feeling is heavenly that he can imagine stroking himself. 

His other hand reaches back down to grab the remaining photos as he continues to fuck himself. 

The sound that comes from his mouth cannot be stopped when he sees the next photo; his hand falters from stroking himself as he looks wide-eyed down at it. It was of your glistening cunt. Your legs were spread wide open, and your fingers are spreading yourself open even wider. He could tell you were leaned up against a tree now, supporting the upper half of your body, as you took pictures of what he would consider to be your most intimate part that only he should be able to see. 

Arthur’s jaw tenses as he continues to work himself as he goes to the next picture. His eyes roll to the back of his head when he sees the next picture. Two of your fingers were buried knuckle deep in your pussy. He could tell you were curling your fingers inside you just the way you have shown him before how you like. 

He can feel the pressure building deep in his pelvis, his dripping tip is so sensitive as he stokes himself, brushing his tip occasionally. It was taking quite a bit to bite the moans back. 

The next photograph your fingers are pressing your swollen clit. Your fingers are coated in your wetness from just being inside yourself, and he can see just how fucking soaked you were from fingering yourself. 

He notices that there are only two picture left. Your face is all that is in this one. Eyes scrunched, mouth open as you are crying out in pleasure. Arthur can’t hold it much longer. Why hadn’t he ever thought of taking pictures of you like this before? 

A deep, rough moan spills from his lips as cum spills from his tip. He keeps fucking himself, coating his cum over himself, as he looks at the last picture. You were looking into the camera with innocent eyes as your fingers were inside your mouth. Your tongue was sliding on the side of your finger, licking your wetness, as you took the last picture. 

“Goddamn it,” he mumbles looking down at the mess he made. Pictures are scattered on the bed as he thew them down as he took care of himself. His cum was painted across his thighs, hand, and cock. 

Reaching over, he grabbed a handkerchief that he kept nearby in case he needed it, and began to clean himself up. Normally he was wiping his cum off of you, but today it was different.

There were so many thoughts racing through his head right now: he wanted to kill the man in Saint Denis for seeing these picture, he couldn’t believe you took these pictures, he couldn’t get over that he came from looking at pictures of you, and why hadn’t he ever taken pictures of you while he fucked you?

He has some ideas now once you get back from whatever trip you are on. 

[demagol-karla]

Bail-Out - One-shot

Summary : Arthur bails f!reader out of jail. Or, Arthur takes his anger out on f!reader for getting caught like a dumbass.

Characters : Arthur Morgan

Pairings : Arthur Morgan x F!Reader

Rated : E

Word Count : 4.0k

Warnings : DUB-CON, LOW HONOR ARTHUR, Vaginal fingering, dry humping, semi-public sex, handjob, oral m!receiving, throat-fucking, slapping, mildly sadistic Arthur, come-eating, (kinda) ruined orgasm, hair pulling, bondage, light role-playing, degradation

Red Dead Masterlist / Masterlist

A/N : this is probably the least amount of time i've ever spent on writing a fic but i'm really pleased with how this one turned out this time! took me about two days, phew!! please comment and reblog to keep small accounts like mine on the algorithm !!

You'd only snapped out of your idle, aimless thoughts while staring through the barred cell window when a set of keys had been tossed over the Sheriff's desk with a raucous jangling. Irritably, you only spared him a peripheral glare before bringing your knees up toward your chest, hunched over to interlock your arms across them; You still needed to ruminate on a solution of this bullshit situation.

Some loud-mouth had gotten smart with you in the saloon down the way a couple days back, and you'd biffed him something fierce. He'd socked you good in return, tried to turn a knife from behind the bar on you before you'd shot him.

It was instinct; Defense, you protested.

They threw you in a cell nonetheless.

This town was a good distance from their current camp, but you had a reason to be all the way out here in New territory; Let it be evident that folks in this corner of Montana didn't take manslaughter so lightly.

You were to be hung tomorrow.

The soft scrape of a match against a bootsole drew your attention back to the deputy -- whom, as of now, was temporarily occupying the Sheriff's shoes -- once more. He arrogantly kicked his feet up on the edge of the varnished table while cupping a hand around the butt of his cigar as he lit and puffed the cherry full; His eyes met yours with a pearly grin to crease the corners, blowing the tangy smoke from the corner of his mouth like a locomotive's scathing exhaust.

"So," he started casually, his dark mustache quirking with aloof amusement, "considering your condemned status; Any final meals on your mind before execution, sweetheart?"

You visibly turned your nose up at the impudent suggestion dancing on the young deputy's tone, scoffing at the impression you decided to leave hanging in the stuffy air. Not even if he were the last man on earth, would you let him even get a peck on the cheek.

"Aw, what's the matter?"

His chastising lilt grated on your nerves like a cat being stroked against the grain; And if you possessed a tail, it might have snapped in agitation. You shot him another glare instead, watching chapped lips suck around the end of the cigar and puff out another furl of smoke into the still air.

"It's just the pair of us here, darling," he attempted to negotiate, letting the cigar hang from between his lips as he stood with a flourish of his coat lapels to begin striding toward you.

A click from the door to his left would halt him in his tracks, each pair of eyes in the jailhouse shifting to the threshold as a figure engulfed the doorway.

Your eyes naturally flickered up toward the man's face hidden by the brim of a sand-blasted leather gamblers hat, and saw the familiar frayed wax-hemp for a hatband before you got to see the rest of his face.

Arthur had come to save your sorry-hide once again.

Your heart had soared with relief upon knowing that the gang had caught wind of your disappearance, but it plummeted right into your guts when you caught the brief, pointed snarl on Arthur's face when his eyes flickered to you in the opposite cell.

"Deputy," he began, cool as ice, shutting the door behind himself as he set his hand on his hip and kept the other on the door handle, "why ain't this young lady ready for transport?"

The deputy just gawked before he found his authority again, "Excuse me, mister?"

Arthur slowly advanced on the deputy with a curl set in his nose like a buggered mutt, hand retreating from the doorknob to snatch the lapel of his duster aside, flashing the brass star of a United States Marshal with a short-tempered growl; The Deputy followed Arthur's hand, and you could see his face go white as a sheet. "Go ahead and ask me another goddamn question, and I'll have your Sheriff tearing your ass raw," the undercover gunslinger barked as he jabbed a finger in the younger man's sternum.

"Y-Yes, Marshal, sir," was all he could muster under Arthur's intimidating shadow.

"Either you're too goddamn ignorant to be trusted with federal telegrams, or your Sheriff just didn't give a rat's ass to tell you in the first place -- here's hopin', for your sake." Arthur's ire was evidsnt on his voice, and you had a hunch that most of it would've been meant for you if this deputy hadn't been such a greenhorn.

Oh, but Marshal Morgan wasn't finished.

"You ought'a know the broad in that cell has a federal bounty, I've come to collect for my superiors, and I'm already way behind my schedule without this wench situated in a wagon upon my arrival, boy," Arthur lowed, leering over the deputy until his cigar smoke wafted near his face. In a fraction of a second, Arthur angrily snatched the cigar from his fingers to sneer a question that came off as an order, "Where the hell is your Sheriff, I want a word with him."

"Oh! Oh-ho, uh -- that's unnecessary, sir -- Marshal -- I'll get that all arranged for you right now. I just -- I had no idea --" the deputy scrambled in place for a moment to remedy this unfortunate coincidence before darting off toward the Sheriff's desk.

"I'll bet," Arthur deadpanned, unimpressed as he took a long pull from the cigar, watching the deputy scurry to the entry door before he hissed sharply. "Just -- For Christ's sake, boy, I'm already behind! Just bind her, I'm hittin' the damn breeze."

The deputy gaped again before padding past Arthur with a purpose, fiddling with the keyring he'd retrieved to unlock your cell. It was all you could do not to grin like a moron at the scene before you; Arthur quelling his ire with the deputy's smoke while the latter shat himself over being reprimanded by an alleged Fed.

You managed to rein it in by the time your hands were bound at the small of your back for 'transit' to your Federal reprimand, or whatever the hell; It didn't matter on this day. Still, you shot the deputy a look and feigned a silent gag as Arthur escorted you toward the door, if only to save your bruised pride after being catcalled by grass-bellied bastards all weekend.

The look on his face was befitting of an entitled man that could get a badge for a handout, and not pussy.

Arthur mumbled his gratitude -- for what it was worth -- as he passed the deputy, flicking the fresh cigar into the mud with a final drag once the door was shut behind him as you trampled down the pinewood stairs. Your small victory dissipated like dew under the high sun when you became aware of the thick, heavy air Arthur tensely exuded in his silence as he escorted you down the road by the elbow.

"You're goddamn lucky I caught wind of this," Arthur finally spoke up once they were out of the office's ear-shot, the vestiges of the cigar smoke from his last pull wisping in your periphery, his grip tightening on your arm. "I should'a left you to swing in the mornin'. Let y' think we'd forgotten all about you."

It could've been an empty threat, but that wasn't likely the case with a man of his caliber.

Your responsive chuckle was more to ease your own nerves than to annoy Arthur further; It wasn't received as such, evident in the way he jerked you outward and back into his side as if you'd been fighting your binds, "All you do is provoke me, woman."

"You don't even know what happened, you got no right to be --" you'd began with a start, head whirling around confrontationally before Arthur curtly cut you off.

Between the deputy and your incarceration, as well as your attitude, he seemed to be at his wits end. His hand tightened into a painful vice on your upper arm while the other snapped up to scruff you and yank your head backwards. While you jerked to retaliate Arthur's abrupt temerity, he practically hoisted you up by your bound arms and hauled-off into an alleyway within three strides.

It was a blur of stars and streetlight between your strands of hair, eyes transfixed on the sky above as you were moved between two tall buildings, dizzy with an adrenaline spike as Arthur threw you face-first into the oak shingles. You stumbled to catch yourself as your legs buckled, unable to flail your arms and spare yourself that way, you just wobbled upright the best you could. Right as you'd caught your footing, a numbing crack split the air and spun you around, pain blooming across your cheek in waves as you gasped aloud.

As soon as you'd registered that Arthur had slapped you, his bare hand seized your jaw with a bone-breaking grip, yanking you toward himself to snarl, "You're a fuckin' idiot, girl. Every town from here to Custer's heard about you shooting half a man's face off in a bar; Just how often do you think that happens?"

His breath was hot and seething, and from what you could see past the mess of your hair, he was enraged, now.

"He pulled a knife on me, Arthur!" You'd whinge, biting your lip when you felt it tremble with the waver in your voice.

"You shouldn't have been there in the first goddamn place," Arthur roiled like thunder, pushing your head back into the wall as he shifted his grip to your throat. "Should'a let you believe I'd let 'em stretch this pretty fuckin' neck o' yours, maybe then you'd be more thankful for what I do."

"I'm sorry, Arthur," you puffed while nervously wetting your lips, tasting a hint of copper on your tongue. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that -- I know, thank you for busting me out."

His lips pursed as his head reeled back in feigned contemplation, his other hand was gloved, reaching up to messily pet your hair out of your face. With a hum, he shook his head and shrugged, "Uht-uh. That's just not good enough for me this evenin'."

Before the words had even fully ran off his tongue, your world spun again, facing the wall with an airless gasp when Arthur flattened his chest against your back, his bare hand replacing itself around your front to cup your throat as he pressed his erection up against your ass with a groan.

"W-What are you doing?"

It was all happened quicker than your addled mind could keep-pace with, twisting at the hemp that bit into your wrists as Arthur flattened you against the wall and slotted his face against your neck. Squirming was goddamn useless; You were only grinding backwards into the tent of his trousers without your hands free, fruitlessly pressing him back and away only afforded him more opportunities.

"Arthur, stop it!"

When your ass pressed back into his cock as it jumped againat the fabric, Arthur reached around to palm your clothed sex in his gloved hand. His fingers kneaded into the seam of your jeans, bringing you up on your tiptoes by his grip under your cunt, lifting you backwards onto his dick as it throbbed against your mound.

"Shut the hell up," Arthur mumbled lackadaisically, entirely unamused by your chaste protests as he rutted into your clothed ass. "You owe me, woman, and I ain't letting your interest stack-up."

You bucked with a stifled whine when Arthur pulled his hand back and slapped your pussy through your jeans as if to drive his point. Then he was fumbling at the buttons in the front, only enough to loosen your waistband, giving himself ample room to shove his hand down your pants, plunging into your bloomers and between your legs while you writhed and thrashed.

"No! No, Arthur -- please, not there --"

"Shut your goddamn mouth, before I gag ya the rest of the way home!" Arthur thundered, shucking your pants past your ass to deliver two harsh slaps that lingered against your naked thigh. "I don't want your filthy fuckin' cunt, anyway. Christ-knows where you've been."

His hand found the front of your sex again, cramming past the hem of your jeans to swipe two fingers up the seam of your sex, an unbridled, throaty moan breaking past his locked teeth. You were drenched, embarrassingly so; Sticking to the inside of your bloomers, your cunt was absolutely drooling over his fingers.

"I can feel you through my damn gloves, dirty fuckin' girl," Arthur rasped into the crook of your neck, grazing his teeth over the column as he rutted against your bare ass with temptation. You knew he wanted it. No man in his right mind would pass-up a quick, sloppy fuck in this situation, but Arthur held onto his resolve.

He had enough discipline to know how he wanted you at the end of all this.

His leather-clad fingers slipped along the folds of your cunt from your clitoris to the fluttering ring of muscle that wept for his attention. He was appalled, if his open-mouth breathing beside your ear had anything to show for it; You felt his cock pulsing and jumping against your ass with each pass of his fingers.

"You're gonna stay quiet and make this shit up to me," Arthur whispered, his tender, careful tone misleading you into a false sense of security as his erection stirred against you. "Or I'm leaving you here when I'm done and you can fuckin' walk home.

All you could do was concur with a nod against the rough oak panels, a soft whine betraying your distress as Arthur twirled his finger around your clit.

In the same heartbeat, Arthur shifted focus and crammed two of his thick gloved fingers into your sopping cunt, tightening his grip on your throat when you instinctively tried to fold and buck away. He only adjusted his angle, fully sheathing his two digits into your spasming walls as his hips pressed you against his palm from behind.

Your hands fisted at the front of Arthur's shirt as he pumped his hand, jackrabbiting his hand into your pussy with a lewd, wet slapping noise as you struggled to acclimate. "You'd better make-do with this, sweet thing, 'cause this is all I'm giving you," Arthur huffed out, meeting the frenzied contortion of your hips with the outline of his cock, pulling back from biting at your shoulders only to watch the wet patch of pre-cum on his breeches spread.

Occasionally, the thumb-seam of his glove would nip into your clitoris and leave you spasming frantically, whimpering in frustration as you sought it out for a modicum of relief. Your arms flexed and pulled at your restraints, kneading at Arthur's shirt as he pummeled your cunt raw and pink.

He moved in a way that utilized your grip on his shirt, your desperate fumbling pulling the hem up from where he'd tucked it into his jeans earlier. His murky brain seemed to come-to once more, the firm collar around your throat retreating between them to thumb-open the buttons on his breeches, maneuvering his cock out of his union suit and into your restrained hands.

The hot, velvety flesh knocked against your palms with a heavy weight, feeling his bare hand wrap your fingers around his shaft as the other persisted until your knees buckled.

"Shit, baby, le'me fuck those hands," Arthur growled like a depraved hound in rut, his dribbling cock already humping into your clasped hands.

With your grip secure, Arthur wrapped his arm around you in a bear-hug, fixing his hold on you as he centered his attention once more as your moans rose in pitch, his wrist snapping harshly.

His entire glove must've been drenched at this point, gliding easily against your folds as you rolled into the seam at the heel of his palm, head canted back against Arthur's shoulder with ragged, uneven gasps for air. Arthur almost matched your octave when your grip strangled his cock, zeroed-in on your pleasure for now. "This is all you fuckin' get, all y'get --"

Your nails bit into Arthur's shaft when your mind blurred around the haze of your pleasure, spasming between him and the wall as you pursued your permitted summit, fucking yourself onto Arthur's fingers as your clit ached and your guts rolled with a blinding-white heat. Your orgasm was practically ruined against the seam of his glove, his cock throbbing in your hands instead of where you needed him most, clamping around absolutely nothing as Arthur withdrew his fingers at the last second to abuse your clit and draw-out your climax almost painfully as your brain fought between stroking him or bucking into his hand as you babbled nonsensically.

Arthur's warmth and presence separated from you almost instantly, your glossy eyes shooting open against the wall as you turned around to find where he'd gone, your thighs still shivering from the aftershocks. He stood with his cock in his gloved right hand, stroking your slick over the engorged, mauve head of his uncut dick as he took a mental image of your disheveled visage. It was always rather evident when he was committing something to memory for his journal later, and that inking on its own made you clench around nothing.

"On your knees, sweetheart," Arthur chuffed, rolling his hand over his shaft wetly.

Of course, until now, you might've spat on his face and tore off in the other direction just go spite him. That was before he'd fingerfucked you within an inch of your life, however; Your legs were still trembling and your breath still short, so you obeyed and lowered yourself to the gravel that bit into your knees.

Arthur groaned openly as he watched your slow descent, hissing inwardly when he reached out to paw at your flushed, teary face. "You look so fuckin' good like this, baby," he huffed, his pupils engulfing the sunflowers of his irises in the dark, stroking your hair back from your face to grab a fistful of it and guide her head toward his erection, "Go on, so I can take us home."

You yourself got a big photographic with him displayed before you like this; Thick, long legs parted in a wide stance, fully-clothed and absolutely debauched with his battered cock in-hand, damn-near drooling over the way you looked.

Small victories.

And brief ones.

Once your tongue rolled out of your mouth, Arthur tapped his head against your cheek and then your tongue, just to watch your face blench before thrusting into your hot mouth with a heady moan. His fist twisted your bundle of hair around his fist, admiring the way your lips stretched around his shaft, delving halfway into your mouth before you'd gag and attempt to withdraw. Your screwed-up expression made Arthur grin in that crooked fashion he always did, feeling it bolt straight to your mistreated sex in response.

"You can do much better with that filthy lil' mouth, pumpkin," Arthur purred misleadingly, petting your hair out of your face before slapping the opposite cheek to elicit a cry from your full lips. "All 'at talk earlier? For this kitten-lickin' shit?" Arthur slapped you again, his opposite hand pushing your head a tad further when you found a rhythm.

He continued like that, gripping your hair close to the scalp to hold your head in place as he began to fully thrust into your mouth, passing the wedge of your throat with a perverted, broken moan as you gagged, "Mh-hmfph -- My cockdrunk girl, look at'cha... Show your Marshal just how goddamn grateful you are, baby, go on -- Mmf-fuck."

Your face had flushed as tears sprung into your eyes, choking and gagging simultaneously as Arthur sheathed himself to the hilt, pressing your nose flush against the dirty-blonde curls at the base of his cock until you coughed and his thighs shook. Eventually, his second hand would join the other behind the crown of your skull, bringing your face to meet his hips with each thrust as his balls applauded against your chin, switching between drilling into your throat and holding you in place until your throat clicked.

He was speaking absolute nonsense as your head bobbed, babbling and cooing praise in spite of his temper from earlier, peppering his affection to keep you from breaking away entirely. Arthur cussed as his head rolled back on his shoulders, shuddering before he folded over to watch you, "Fuck-baby-I'm-gonna-cum -- Christ alive, fuck!"

With a wheeze that tapered-off into a weak roar, Arthur exploded down your throat with a final thrust, panting hoarsely as he basked in the warmth of your mouth for a moment. He let you pull back from his musky pubic hairs a smidge, but refused to give you full control just yet as he let himself grow soft on your tongue.

"Show me," his command surprised you as he pulled his hips back, your lips releasing his cockhead with a soft pop as he pulled your head back to inspect your flushed, tear-tracked face. Astounding yourself, you unrolled your tongue to show him the pearlescent cum congealed on your tongue, studying Arthur's own scrutable astonishment as he cupped your jaw.

"Swallow it."

And you did; Closing your mouth, you gulped his tangy seed down with a sigh, absentmindedly licking your lips of any residue as Arthur's mouth fell open with a lewd moan.

He said nothing when he pulled you back up to your feet and wrapped you up in his arms to seal his drooling mouth to your own, lapping against your tongue to taste himself, allowing you a sample of that cigar from earlier along with it. You could've came again right then and there as Arthur practically devoured you, reaching around to knead the bare globes of your ass, dangerously close to your pulsating cunt, licking into your mouth until he'd had his fill, withdrawing only to reprimand you half-heartedly.

"Don't you ever do this shit again. You wait for me from now on," Arthur demanded, pinching your stinging cheeks together to drive his point home as you blinked at him.

You only nodded. He seemed pleased with that.

Arthur helped you put yourself back together after stuffing himself away into his jeans again, fixing your bloomers and breeches back into place, neatly tucking your shirt back in while your hands were still bound.

"Hey, d'you mind, Marshal?" you teased, smirking to yourself as you turned and flapped your hands at him pointedly.

Arthur just scoffed, perching his hands on his hips, "And how would that look on my record, lil' lady?"

"Wouldn't be the first time a U.S. Marshal partook in negotiations, no?"

He barked a short laugh, "Not this one."

He moved quicker than you again, even with most of his blood still accumulated in his cock, Arthur managed to grapple you to the dirt quickly. You almost shouted on instinct before remembering yourself, and you were only able to writhe for a moment anyway before his weight was on you, tugging at your ankles after bringing them together.

"The fuck are you doing, Arthur?!" You hissed in annoyance, feeling something cinch your ankles together before Arthur rolled you onto your back, pulling you up by the collar to sit-up so he could haul you up and over his shoulder.

Then you yelped, struggling to wriggle away as his arm strapped across the backs of your knees. You knew he wore that crooked, facetious grin.

"That's Marshal Morgan to you, ma'am," Arthur correctly truffle as he turned out of the alley, you watched the world pass from above behind Arthur's back as he made his way toward Boadicea. "Now, I'd hate to gag a lady, so please keep the complaints to a minimum," Arthur piped, reaching up to pat your ass before depositing you over Boadicea's dappled croup with a wheeze.

"You really are a fucking asshole," you growled, going limp once you knew your protests would get you nowhere.

Arthur mounted up with ease, turning Boadicea down the uneven road out of town, her gait punching into your diaphragm with each stride. Your alleged captor reached backwards to give your upper thigh a reassuring squeeze through your jeans, his pinky covertly stroking your sensitive pussy as he did.

Opportunistic pervert.

Footnotes : GODDAMN i had fun with this one. i got this idea in the middle of composing my cnc Alpha-17 fic and i needed to get it out before it managed to evade me, im a little proud of this one so i'd really love to know what you guys think !!! love y'all, more to come !! as always, reblogs and comments are encouraged/appreciated!!!!

[honeyem]

Shameful Deeds

Arthur watches you bathe as he pleasures himself.

tags: f!reader, male masturbation, low honor arthur, pervert arthur, mild obsession, fantasies, p in v, breading kink, size kink, he's big, praise kink, dom arthur

wc: 922

a/n: any recommendations or tips, please, tytyty

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

He was a bad, bad man.

He stood there and watched, watched when he first had stumbled across you as an accident, and watched when you dropped your final garment.

The sun beamed too hot and your clothes were too tight, having been long due for a bath and with Ms. Grimshaw being off your back, you slipped away, down the shore of Clemens Point. Arthur didn't expect to see you when he had the same idea.

He should have looked away, left even, when he first saw you. But your back was captivating. Glistening in a soft sweat, creasing beautifully around your shoulder blades, falling down to the slim of your waist, and curving out to the slopes of your hips. And oh God, your ass. As much as he tried to resist, his eyes fell to it. Perfect and plump.

He groaned knowingly, and much to his dismay. He felt it in his belly then in his cock, springing into a large swell under his pants. Blood rushed down to his growing bulge and up into his face. Shame consumed him. He didn't want to feel this way about you, especially like this. But the way you smiled at him every morning, greeting him with your sweet voice, and oh, that laugh; you were a soft melody to his silent and rough life. But this was perverted and desperate, and he was starved and sad. A miserable man, really.

He tried to stop himself but his cock pushed stronger than his will. He palmed himself through his trousers. Rubbing and squeezing softly, his greedy eyes never leaving your body. Never leaving when you slowly submerge yourself into the water and never leaving when you dive in, the peak of your ass and thighs breaking the surface; his hand squeezes harder.

When you rose from the water again, his breath caught in his throat. You were facing to the side now and he could see the humps of your breasts. Oh, how desperately he wanted to feel them, feel you. The squishy plush of your breasts fumbling in his hands while he slid his throbbing cock into your aching cunt. He can imagine it, your wet warmth enveloping him whole, he'd push in and out as you suck and squeeze him in. He'd make you feel so good. He almost moans aloud.

Enough. He tugs his belt loose, shucks his pants just barely down, and frantically grabs his cock out from his union suit. It protrudes, standing big and hard, rigid and aching. Veins ran up and down, thick and gushing, his tip flushed vibrant pink. Throbbing, another drop of precum pulses out from him and joins his slick mess. God, he had left a damp spot in his union suit and was dripping small drops onto his pants.

He exhales heavily, eyes trained on your hands as they drag through your hair and up your arm, imagining your fingers instead of his, he grips the head of his cock. Pressing his thumb into his tip, he groans low. Circling his thumb, then palm on his needy tip, and collecting his precum before he slowly pumps his hand up then down. Slow and tight.

Shakily exhaling, his eyes squeeze tight for a moment when his pace increases. He watches your hair stick to your wet skin; he would make your skin wet. He would make you sweat and pant, thrusting into you deep and fast. He would hit all the right spots and make you gasp. But only he is gasping.

His free hand juts out onto a tree, fingers aimlessly digging into the bark. Hunching over, he ruts his hips into his pumping hand. Watching your bare body, imagining fucking that sweet cunt. A sick, sick bastard.

He whimpers breathlessly, feeling his impending orgasm tingle through his body stronger. Moving his firm hand as fast as he can, he brushes his thumb around his tip again and- ‘Oh’. A broken moan falls from his lips, his hips canting up into his hand in small, fast, repetitive thrusts as his balls tighten.

He whimpers your name in a wrecked gasp as a thick rope of his cum spurts onto the grass. He groans as he works the rest of his spend out of his cock. He could give that to you. He could make you breathless, and he could make you gasp his name. He'd make you cum too.

He would ravish you and hold you tight as your cunt clenched uncontrollably around his big cock. You'd have trouble taking him, but he'd make sure you did; cooing sweet nothings into your ear as you whine and cry. He'd tell you how good you are. And when it's his turn, he'd put it wherever you'd like. Whether that's fucking his cum deep inside you and watching it drip out of your gaping cunt, pumping it over your belly or breasts or back and marking you with his spend, or shoving his cock down your throat and watching you gag on him as he thrusts cum deep into your mouth. But he's just a lonely bastard with his cock in his hand.

He hangs his head low and slips his soft cock back into his union suit, pulling up his pants and fastening his belt. He glances over to you only last time, beautiful and shimmering in the water, he sighs as his eyebrows furrow, his heart beats fast, admiring for a moment before forcing himself to step away.

A miserable, shameful, bad man.

[gentlesands]

Tented Whispers

II. Arthur Morgan .{SMUT}.

3.9 k words

Contents: Taking a midnight stroll after a restless night, Arthur passes your tent and hears you yell his name. He rushes in to find you helping yourself to the thought of him. SMUT, p in v, masterbation, etc.

The moon was high in the night sky as Arthur rose from his bed holding his head in his hands, he couldn’t catch any sleep no matter how hard he tried. He signs, deciding that he’s going to take a walk to clear his head, he dresses quietly, and steps out the tent breathing in the cool air. WIth every step he can’t help but think back to the woman camped across the clearing next to the shimmering lake. It had been one of your bathing days. Careful as always, you refused to wash too close to camp and asked the only man you truly trusted to stand guard for you. He agreed, the thought of any other man seeing you so exposed churned his inside something fierce, especially Micah. At first, Arthur had flushed at the mere idea of glimpsing you in your underthings, feeling like you were the most innocent and delicate flower that he'd be ruined by even thinking dirty thoughts. As the weeks passed and the two of you grew closer, his guarded politeness turned into something more. He admired your kindness and generosity, the easy way you shared what little you had, and the quiet glow that seemed to follow you wherever you went. He noticed the way your eyes narrowed against the bright sun, the curve of your genuine smile, and the softness of your voice when you spoke. 

He found himself appreciating your physical beauty as well. When you believed his attention was fixed on the treeline, he would quietly glance your way as you eased into the water, sunlight dancing along the surface around you. There was something captivating in the curve of your figure, in the natural sway of your hips as you moved. To him, they carried a quiet strength, the kind shaped for endurance, for nurturing, for bringing life into the world. He liked the soft mounds on your chest, perfect globes that he would worship all day if you let him. He noticed how your nipples always hardened when you entered the water, he always wondered how your breast would feel in his hands and your nipples pinched between his teeth. He wondered how’d you sound when he entered you and the lewd sounds that’d follow. Would you have a silent gasp or would you be praising him, saying his name over and over, begging him not to stop while your fingernails raked across his back. These were the thoughts that were plaguing him tonight.

The camp lay hushed beneath the night sky as he wandered through it. The fires had burned down to glowing embers hours ago, casting a low, amber light across the clearing. Above, the sky stretched wide and clear, and moonlight shimmered over the distant water, silver ripples catching his eye as he passed. Almost without thinking, his steps carried him toward your tent. He told himself it was harmless, just to make sure all was well. He had fallen into the habit of it, these quiet walks at night that led to you. More often than not, he’d find you inside, seated near the soft glow of a candle. Sometimes you sang to yourself, your voice low and soothing in the stillness. Other nights you bent over your journal, pen moving steadily across the page, your brow furrowed in thought. He never lingered too long. Just enough to glimpse the warm light through the canvas, or to catch the faintest thread of your voice drifting into the dark. And then he would turn back toward his own tent, carrying that small comfort with him into the night.

When he reached your tent and stopped some thirty paces away, he noticed at once that no light flickered within. The canvas of your tent was dark and still. Around him, the only sound was the steady chorus of crickets filling the night air. He paused, hesitating, then began to turn back toward his own tent. That was when he heard it, a faint, broken sound drifting from your direction. It sounded like you were crying. His chest tightened. You’d had nightmares before and he knew how fiercely they could grip you, he had woken up to your screams a couple times. Without another thought, he moved closer. Five steps from the entrance, the sound of heavy, uneven breathing penetrates his ears. He stood just outside the flap listening, when suddenly you cried out his name. The sound jolted straight through him, panic flared in his chest. He seized the canvas flap and threw it open, stepping inside in a rush. But what he found stopped him short. 

You were lying on top of your blankets, wide awake, not tangled in sleep, but staring straight at him. Your eyes were wide, startled, and your hair clung damply to your flushed face, beads of sweat tracing along your temples. The candle was out, the tent dim in the spill of moonlight from the open flap, and for a moment neither of you spoke  the silence thick with confusion and concern.

“Arthur!” you gasp, snatching a shawl from the chair beside your bed and pulling it tightly to your chest. “What are you doing?” He freezes where he stands, the flap still clenched in his hand. “I-I’m sorry,” he stammers, turning his head sharply toward the tent wall as though it might offer him some refuge. “I heard you cry out. Thought you were hurt. I didn’t mean to barge in.” His voice is rough with worry and with something else he can’t quite steady. He tries to look away, truly he does, his gaze fixated on the lantern hook, the small table, anywhere but you. Yet despite himself, his eyes flicker back. You’re flushed from whatever had gripped you moments before, breath still uneven, strands of damp hair clinging to your face. The moonlight spilling through the open flap traces the curve of your cheek, the rise and fall of your chest beneath the shawl. There’s something disarming about the sight of you like this, vulnerable, startled, real. He swallows hard and forces his gaze down to the ground. “You called my name,” he says more quietly now. “I thought you were in trouble.” The panic that had sent him rushing inside lingers in his posture, in the tight set of his shoulders. Whatever embarrassment he feels is tangled up with genuine concern and the undeniable pull he can’t seem to shake whenever he’s near you. But, he also feels something else at the same time. 

For a moment, he can hardly focus on what’s going on around him. All he can think about is what he witnessed the moment the flap came open and he saw what you were doing. Your delicate legs were spread open, resting against the canvas of the tent and the other lazily flopped to the side, holding your bodyweight with your left arm as your right arm was placed on top of your right thigh and your hand was resting on your cunt. It wasn’t resting, It was moving, making your naked breasts shake with it. That’s when a slow change comes over Arthur. The tension in his shoulders eases, and when he finally lifts his gaze back to you, there’s something different in his expression. The worry fades, replaced by a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He’s just realized something. You called his name. You called his name while your fingers were deep inside your cunt, trying to reach the spongy spot that sent electricity through your whole body while your palm was rubbing the little exposed button that sat between your folds. 

That realization straightens his posture. There’s a quiet confidence in the way he stands now, hat tipped slightly back, eyes soft but undeniably pleased. Not arrogant exactly but aware. “Well,” he says, voice low and edged with a faint smirk, “seems I was the one you were lookin’ for.” The cockiness isn’t cruel. It’s lighter than that, a man recognizing, perhaps for the first time, that the feelings he’s been wrestling with might not be his alone. Not if you were here laying under the cover of night pleasuring yourself to the thought of him. 

You sit there, speechless, the shawl clutched tightly at your collarbone. Whatever sharp retort you meant to give him dissolves before it ever reaches your tongue. He watches you for a beat longer, that faint, confident smile still lingering. Then, without breaking eye contact, he reaches back and lets the tent flap fall closed. The soft thud of it shutting muffles the outside world, sealing the two of you inside the quiet, dim space. His boots cross the ground quickly, two, three long strides and in seconds he’s kneeling on your mat. Your breath catches in your throat as he lowers himself, one knee to the ground, then the other, moving with slow, deliberate intent. The bed mat shifts softly beneath his weight as he comes closer, closing the small space that had remained between you. You can smell the faint woodsy scent that always clings to him, pine smoke, worn leather, the clean sharpness of night air. It wraps around you as solidly as the shawl in your hands. His eyes never leave yours, steady and intent, searching your face for something unspoken. He stops just in front of you, bracing one hand beside your hip on the mattress, careful not to crowd you yet close enough that you feel the heat of him.

He keeps moving until only a breath separates you, close enough that the warmth of him seeps through the thin air between your bodies. His gaze drops briefly to your lips, then returns to your eyes, searching, asking without words. Slowly, giving you every chance to stop him, he lifts his hand. His fingertip brushes lightly against your shoulder, barely there at first, testing the space between you. Then, with a gentle, steady pressure, he nudges you back against the pillows. It isn’t forceful. It’s a question disguised as a touch. “Lie back,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, though his expression remains careful. Attentive. He hovers there, only centimeters away, waiting for your reaction, watching to see if you’ll push him away or let him stay.

You ease back into the pillows, heart pounding, eyes never leaving his face. The mattress dips as he shifts forward, and then his hands come to rest on either side of your head, braced carefully against the plush surface not trapping you, but surrounding you with his presence. He hovers there, looking down at you.

For a long moment, he simply studies your face, the rise and fall of your breath, the way your lashes tremble, the flush that hasn’t yet faded from your skin. The moonlight spills across his features, carving shadows along his jaw, catching in his eyes. There’s confidence there again. Not careless but sure. His thumb brushes lightly against a stray strand of hair near your temple before his hand settles back beside you. His gaze drops briefly to your lips, then lifts again to meet your eyes. “You want this, darlin’?” he asks, voice low and edged with that familiar smug warmth. But beneath the tone there’s something steady. A pause. He waits for your answer, holding himself still, giving you the space to choose. You slowly nod your head trying to catch your breath. 

After he gains your consent, something in his expression softens completely. He doesn’t rush. Slowly, giving you time to change your mind, he lowers his head. His hand shifts slightly beside you, steadying himself as he closes the final inch of distance. His lips brush yours, gentle at first, almost tentative, like he’s testing whether the moment is real. For a heartbeat, you hesitate. The world seems to narrow to that single point of contact,  the warmth of his mouth, the faint scent of pine and smoke, the steady rhythm of his breathing. Then your eyes fall closed. You lean into him, your hand lifting to curl into the fabric of his shirt, and the kiss deepens. What began soft and careful grows more certain, more searching. He exhales quietly against you, surprised and pleased, and no longer restrained by doubt. His left hand slides from the mattress to your shoulder then across your collarbone sending shivers from your scalp down your spine. As he presses his tongue pushes past your lips, dominating you in the kiss, his fingers brush over the fabric of your shawl silently asking to take hold of it. Your fingers loosen your grip, allowing Arthur to teasingly slide the cloth down brushing against your perk nipple as he does so. A growl reverberates from his chest to throat as he slides his hand to cup the side of your breast, his palm large and warm against your flesh. He takes your bottom lip in between his teeth and gently bites it as he pulls away from you to look down towards the exposed globes. 

His mouth fills with his saliva looking at your breasts, your nipples are so hard yet so soft at the same time. Arthur can’t tell you the amount of times he thought about playing with them, rolling and pinching one while he sucked on the other. No warning and he wraps his mouth around the bulb, your back arching at the wet sensation. He groans, flattens his tongue, pressing the muscle into the soft mound tasting your sweat and inhaling your sweet scent. You throw your head back further into the pillows when he swirls his tongue causing a low buzzing to arise in your lower belly. “Fuck Arthur.” you moan, bringing your hands to your hair, fingers tangling themselves in the strands. “Please don’t stop.” He releases your nipple with a whine from you, smirking with the knowing of what he was doing to you. “Oh I wasn’t planning on stopping anytime soon, sweetheart.” Putting your other nipple in his mouth, he releases your breast and starts to slowly trail down your side. His fingers ghost over your ribcage causing you to twitch from the sensitive region, moving down your side with a controlled crawl, you flex uncontrollably when his fingers pass your belly button.

A yelp leaves you when he pinches the soft skin with his teeth, his thick warm finger rubs against your clit at the same moment making you jolt your chest pushing away from your blankets. The buzz in your belly becomes stronger, making you crave more of him, his touch, his smell, his cock. Two thick fingers border the sides of the sensitive nub, the rough callouses reminding you Arthur was a man, a strong man covered in tight muscles that flexed on top of you. A man that had known hardship, long rides, rough fights, cold mornings, and he was here holding you like you were going to break if he breathed wrong at you. You’ve waited for this moment for months, you had him near you as you bathed trying to get his attention, you could have only dreamed of being in this exact position and Arthur ruining you with his cock. Forbidding Arthur to  treat you as fraglike as a piece of china, you grab his wrist guiding him through your folds, teasing yourself, pinching your clit with the strong digits. Allowing yourself to feel the intense zap penetrate deep into your skin, you clench around nothing, the empty feeling frustrating you with each second that passes. You direct his hand lower, reaching your weeping cunt, wet juices coating Arthur’s middle and ring fingers as you slowly enter them inside you. He watches as you use his hand to fuck yourself, eyes lowered to your tight pussy as you clench down on him, swallowing him deep inside you striving to keep him there. 

He can’t take it anymore, it feels like his cock is going to burst from his pants spilling his seed all over you. A snarl leaves him as he removes his hand from your grasp, grabbing your waist, the movement hurried. He holds you down firmly leaving bruises the shape of his fingertips as he tries to compose himself, not wanting to lose control and hurt you. He watches as you snake your fingers from your stomach to your mound to find your clit yourself, erotic wet sounds fills the silence in the air as you massage your clit, taking Arthur’s place as you finger fuck yourself. Your small fingers don’t have the erotic sting of when he splits you open but you’re so desperate for relief you don’t care whose it is. Hearing you mewl his name and hearing his name whispered from your lips snaps the hold on his control, he uses his grip on your hips and his strength to flip you onto your stomach. Your face is pushed into the mat as he pulls your hips up, bringing you up on your knees, now on all fours as you feel his strong thighs flex against the back of yours. He unzips his pants, the sound exciting you and sending another flood through your pretty pussy. He shoves his pants down and pulls out his hard cock, the angry pink tip leaking precum leaving a damp patch on the front of his jeans. Arthur presses against your entrance, brushing himself up and down gathering all your slick, using it to lube himself so he doesn’t hurt you. Not too much anyway. 

You shiver as he slides his length back down against your quivering hole, his head tilting back as he pushes himself forward. Having to put in a little more effort from the way you’re gripping him so tightly. You wail at the way you feel every inch of him, your fingers gripping the blanket beneath you as he pushes through the tight ring of muscle. Reaching the end, Arthur stays seated in you for a second, letting you adjust to his size. Rubbing your hips provides comfort as he waits. When you’ve finally adjusted, you look back at him and nod, giving him permission to have his way with you. You’ve wanted this for months, since the day you met him if you’re honest. A smirk plays on his lips as he pulls his hips back, dragging his cock out leaving just the tip inside, then without warning he slams back into you. You shriek at the sudden movement, biting down on the blanket attempting to silence yourself as the man behind you drills into you.

Your vision goes black as your eyes roll to the back of your head, Arthur’s cock is stretching you to your limit, his tip kissing your cervix. He’s molding every vein, every bump, even the slit into you. Turning you into the perfect pussy just for his pleasure. You feel the buzz inside your womb growing more with each second, sending ecstasy through all of your limbs. Arthur’s holding onto you, grounding and steadying himself on your hips as he pounds into your tight pussy. He feels a spark flicker at the base of his spine as his balls start to rise into him, his thighs shake and his breathing becomes shallow. He’s about to cum, but not until you clamp down on him, and he definitely wasn’t pulling out of you when you did. Why would he deny himself the one thing that was made for him, the one thing that was truly his, why would he deny himself you. Arthur moved his hand from your hip, snaking it around pressing his pointer and middle finger back on your clit, earning a high pitched squeal. Feeling the buzz inside you shrink into a ball, you knew you were about to cum around his cock. You pull your hips forward to rock yourself against him, keeping the brutal pace he set. You couldn’t think straight anymore, your mind so fogged from the way he was fucking you into your bed, your cheek pressed into the bed and your hair sticking to your face. Arthur rolls your clit harder between his fingers sending erotic pleasure throughout your entire body, from your pussy to your fingers as you finally cum. Your mind goes blank as he fucks you through your orgasm, the intense shock making your eyes roll and any strength leave your body.

Watching you cum all over him, Arthur knows he’s next and picks up the pace, slamming into you even harder. He leans down, pulling you up to his chest, your back now flush to his shirt. His right arm stays wrapped around you and his left is placed between your breasts allowing him to wrap his hand around your throat. “Fuck.” Arthur growls in your ear, “I’m going to fill you up.” Moaning you focus on the way your shared heavy breathing fills the tent the same way skin slapping against skin, making you dizzy against him. You’re brought back when Arthur quickly slaps your clit. “M’ gonna fill this perfect cunt up to the rim, get so round and full with my baby. M’ gonna to make sure every man who dares to look knows you're mine.”. His words send a shock to your womb and you nod, “Please Arthur, make me yours. Fill me with your seed.” The damn breaks as he cums, shooting ropes of himself into you just as you asked. He pumps into you, his head thrown back. When his high comes down, Arthur stalls his hips, keeping you both upright as you catch your breath. After a moment, he finally slips out of you kissing the back of your neck. He gently lays you down and slowly pulls the blanket from under you, placing it over your naked body. Abandoning his pants and shirt before slipping under the blanket with you, he brings you into his chest, his arms caging around you in a protective hold. 

The tent falls quiet again, the world outside reduced to the steady hum of crickets and the distant, soothing rhythm of water brushing the shore. The night feels softer now, wrapped around the two of you like a blanket. Your cheek rests against his chest, his heartbeat strong and even beneath your ear. The warmth of him seeps into you, steadying your breath. “I love you,” you whisper into his chest, the words small but certain. You mean every syllable. He flinches at first,  just slightly, the confession catching him off guard. You feel the shift in his breathing before he pulls back enough to look down at you. His expression unguarded now, something vulnerable breaking through the usual confidence. “I love you too,” he says, voice rougher than before. A faint tremor slips through it. “I always have.” You lift your head, smiling up at him, and place a gentle kiss on his lips. Softer this time, unhurried and full of quiet certainty. When you pull back, your eyes drift closed as you settle against him again.

“You have worn me out,” you murmur, a sleepy smile tugging at your mouth. A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, the sound warm and content. He tightens his arms around you, drawing you closer until there’s no space left between you. His chin rests lightly atop your head as his breathing begins to slow. Outside, the night carries on undisturbed. Inside the tent, wrapped in his arms, you both let the quiet take you and drift together into sleep.

[spoiledmilks]

arthuurr <333

[girllock-writes]

| What Daddy Doesn't Know...

Summary: Your father's old colleague has been known to drop by. But when he starts to do it more often, you can't help but noice how much you like it. You start to wonder if he really comes just to repay an old debt, or if it's something else...

Warnings: mid-honor Arthur x fem!reader, age gap [LEGAL!], lots of pretending eye contact means nothing, loss of virginity, p in v, fingering, DADDY ISSUES :3, no use of y/n

AN: this will be quick - first time writing arthur! yay :) uhm, landon ricketts will be here soon bc if he isn't, i'll die. also a john one is on its way ❤️🫡🤠 (images from pintrest) (dividers from here)

Arthur Morgan had never come around this much before.

The summer was coming to a close, and you were positive the man had to be doing something illegal. After all, you were not completely unaware of the fact that your father was a safe cracker. And a rather good one, too.

In his younger days, he'd run with the Van der Linde Gang. But that was when his fingers were quicker, his ears were sharper, and his eyes were less tired. After you had been born, the man decided to give it up. He'd done a pretty good job of hiding his past. With a little homestead just west of Valentine, he'd made a good life for you, your mother, and your two little brothers who had come after you. Now, close to fifteen years had passed. You had seen a few of his old friends drop by every so often. Saying hi, checking in... among other things... but none of them had ever frequented so much as Arthur Morgan had that summer.

You vaguely remembered his face the first time he had stopped by. Early June–

After finishing your chores, you had slipped away to the fence at the edge of the property to read. It was a silly sort of romance. You couldn't remember the details, but it kept your mind occupied and the tall, dark, and brooding love intrest seemed much more interesting than the small pool of boys your age. You had looked up as a tall man on his tall horse trotted by slowly.

With his dark hat and brilliant eyes and revolver flasing in the sun agaisnt his thigh, he almost seemed like the very story you read. He slowed his mount, staring down at you. He asked you if your father still lived at this place. Obviously, you said yes. The man gave a smirk. "Don't know why I asked," he huffed. "You're the spittin' image of yer old man." Arthur had found it rather amusing that the little girl who had taken the gang's most excellent safe cracker for them was already a woman—and that she looked like the very man she had taken from them.

That day, Arthur Morgan had asked his old friend for something he would never ask anyone else. You heard the two men arguing when you were supposed to be asleep.

"I left, Arthur. I'm sorry." The voice of your father was firm, but laced with concern.

"I know," the outlaw insisted. "It's only this once. The gang is desperate. I-... I'm desperate." There was a long silence and you didn't dare peak from your hiding spot. "I'd owe you my life. The gang– we..." Another long pause filled the air. You could only see your father's back and part of Arthur's face from where you had positioned yourself. He did look desperate.

"Arthur, please," your father sighed.

"I'm askin' you–" the outlaw said sharply. His eyes had flicked behind his old friend, landing on a hiding and curious pair of eyes. His gut twisted. You pulled away quickly, hoping he really hadn't seen you. "Think of your family–"

"Is that a threat, Morgan?" The air had shifted. No longer was this just a favor. It was threatening the very life he had built so hard to create.

"Course not," Arthur scoffed, his voice low and rough. The sound reverberated in your ears. "I'll pay you back. Anything. You'll never have to hear from us again. Don't do it for me—do it for everyone else..." You dared to peak back out again.

"Fine," your father said after what felt like an eternity. His agreement had not only sealed his own fate, but yours. You didn't see Arthur again for a week.

With your parents in town and your brothers who knows where in the woods, you had been left to do the majority of chores by yourself. Having grown up on the farm, you were accustomed to doing hard labor, but it wasn't the easiest thing in the world for you. You swung the axe down to split the log, but only succeeded in getting the blade stick... again. With an annoyed grunt, you hammered the wooden block against the cutting stump. The log eventually broke, sending a low chuckle from the man you didn't realize had approached. You jumped slightly, cheeks turning pink from embarrassment and exertion.

"Mister Morgan," you said in suprised, taking a few steps back. "I... Papa isn't here–"

"I figured," Arthur said, a small smile tugging at his lips. "No self-respecting man would let his little girl do this all by herself."

Your eyes darted down in embarrassment. "Well it has to get done and I–"

"Don't gotta make excuses to me, sweetheart," he drawled. He'd walked close now, making your eyes dart back up out of curiosity. You blinked, suprised at how close he was getting. It wasn't that you were a terribly small person, but he seemed to loom over you. With his wide shoulders and sharp eyes. Your lips parted to speak, but no words came out. Arthur leaned closer, his large and rough hands brushing against yours as he took the axe.

"Let me." Was all he said.

And you did. Going inside quickly to finish a few other things, you paused once the door had shut behind you. Heart pounding, mind racing, heat pooling in your stomach in a way you didn't know it could. "Get it together," you growled at yourself, moving across the house to the kitchen.

Splashing some water on your face, you shook your head. But that didn't help the echo of the man's voice leave your ears. Moving to the window, you glanced out where you could see him. He'd shed his jacket and vest. His sleeves were rolled showing thick and hairy arms. You could see every muscle and vein from where you watched.

It felt embarrassing. He was a grown man. Probably even older than your father. But maybe that was the issue—you didn't know any real men besides your father. And well, you father was your father. You loved him more than anything. But fathers and daughters could only get along so often. This was completely different. There wasn't a boy your age that could live up to the kind of man your father was. But, in this moment, there seemed like there was a man who could.

You couldn't help but stare. Every move was precise and strong. Watching him was more thrilling than reading that horrible romance you had been invested in over the past few days. Your head felt sort of fuzzy. Your fingers gripped onto the counter. The feeling of his skin lingered on yours. That musky scent of gunmetal and bourbon and campfire was already butned into your nose. You'd been near him for maybe fifteen seconds.

Losing your balance slightly as you leaned closer to the window, you knocked an empty pot onto the ground. You jumped, tumbling slightly as your ears rang after hearing the loud noise. Your cheeks felt red again, despide no one having seen.

"Just perfect" you muttered to yourself.

Arthur didn't need to look to know that eyes were on him. He was well acquainted with the feeling of being watched. But being watched by you? Well, that was a new kind of feeling.

He had thought you were pretty from the start, but you were hardly even a woman. Still young and innocent—he knew even thinking that you had pretty doe eyes and soft lips could get him killed. Arthur Morgan knew he was a deranged and sick old bastard. He couldn't help it. But he knew better than to do something so horrible to a girl like you. Espically since your father was an old friend. Espically since he had pratically begged the former safe cracker for help. He might have been a bad man, but loyalty meant something to him.

Though, he didn't think it was entirely disloyal to put ideas into your head. A smirk tugged at his lips as he moved, setting up another log. He wasn't a subtle man by any means, but he knew you were sheltered enough to doubt that he was doing any of this on purpose.

The sound of something crashing made his head tilt up, eyes fixed on the window, where your curious eyes had no doubt been moments ago. Arthur laughed to himself before continuing to chop the wood.

The day wasn't terribly hot, but you knew how much work a task like that could be. After a while, you had finished a few other chores and decided to attempt to venture back out to the company of Arthur Morgan. Maybe you could regain some of your pride—though that was doubtful.

Filling a cup with cool water, you made your way back outside. Beads of sweat clung to his face and dark stains made his red shirt cling tightly to his large arms. You did your best not to stare. Arthur had paused when the timid figure had appeared in his peripherals. "Here," you offered, holding out the mug. Casually tossing the axe down, Arthur took the water gratefully, downing it in a few large gulps. You could only blink up at his bobbing adams apple.

With a satisfied smack of his lips, he handed the cup back. "Thanks, Miss," he hummed, eyes locking onto yours.

You took the cup, now focused on it to keep from gawking at the man. "I should be thanking you," you started as your chest felt warm again. "You didn't have to help–"

"Well I wasn't gonna let you stand round and suffer all day," Arthur stated, an amused sort of tone lacing his lips. "Ain't polite to let a lady to man's work."

You felt your cheeks turn red again. "I'm not a lady, mister."

That low chuckle rolled in his throat, filling your ears before shooting straight to your stomach. "Yes. Ya are."

Creaking of wheels and thundering of hooved sounded from around the house. Your parents had returned. Relief swept over you as you moved quickly to greet them. To your suprise, your relief faded quickly. With your family around, there wouldn't be much time to speak to watch Arthur like some obsessed school-girl... let alone speak to him.

Late that night, you replayed the afternoon in your head over and over again. His toned arms, the smell of sweat, his rough skin... A hot and uncomfortable neediness swept over you. Burying your face into your pillow, you pressed your thighs together. You knew enough to not be stupid about these kinds of things, but you didn't have any kind of experience to know how to deal with pure sexual desire. A stuttered moan rolled in your throat as you curled into a ball, hoping that the heat would pass quickly so you could be granted a peaceful night.

In his hotel room, Arthur took no such measures to deny himself. He really thought he would have survived, but after you had avoided him the rest of his short visit, he was sure he'd gotten to know. A twisted kind of pride burned in his chest.

The thought of you suffering alone in your sheltered little room, thinking about him... well... it was too much for one man.

As he fisted himself, Arthur could only imagine what you would feel like, taste like, be like. His hand could only do so much, but the image of your pretty eyes and the tought of your soft skin made him shudder as his head pressed against his pillow. Sometimes, he really hated himself for how horrible he was... other times, he didn't mind so much. That night was one of the ones where he couldn't really decide.

A few weeks later, Arthur stopped by again. This time, you only saw him speak to your father in the barn. He didn't talk to you. Didn't look at you. From your room, you watched him ride back off, wondering what exactly he wanted with your father.

The next day, your mother had said that your father went into town. He was gone for two days. When he got back, Arthur wasn't with him. You wondered if you would ever see the outlaw again. Part of you hoped you would.

Over the next few days, you didn't seem to think those romance novels were so silly anymore. Mostly because you were imagining Arthur Morgan insgead of whatever terribly written protagonist was in the book.

You really hadn't been interested in the idea of sex before. Sure, the idea of a guy, a courtship, a husband... those things sounded nice, but the handfull of boys in town that you knew made those prospects seem unappealing... and sex even more so. You had learned to just snuff it out, to distarct yourself before it became an issue. But Arthur Morgan plagued your nights endlessly. You felt a little awful, but it wasn't like there was much you could do. And, if you were being honest, you were a little too reluctant to try on your own.

But then he returned. To your surprise, you had walked into the barn to start chores, only to see Arthur Morgan helping your father and brothers to stack hay. Your eyes met his. Your heart almost stopped in your chest. Trying to conpose yourself, you quickly looked at your father. He smiled at you as if nothing in the whole world was wrong. "Hey, princess," he greeted.

You ducked your head, blush rushing to your cheeks and ears. "Papa..." You muttered, embarrassed. Moving quickly past the men toward the chickens, you didn't miss the way Arthur's eyes followed you or the slight twitch of his lips.

Later that same day, he'd caught you alone as you were brushing the horses. "Hey... princess," he teased, leaning against the stall.

"Don't–" You said quickly. The word came out a little harsh, but the thought almost made you sick. It wasn't a nickname you were terribly fond of, but it was what your father had always called you. And he was your dad... you had to give him at least that. The name had always made you feel smaller than you were, even if unintentionally. You didn't really want Arthur to see you as a little girl. You were nineteen after all...

You were a grown woman. Weren't you?

Arthur raised his hands defensively. "Sorry, miss," he apologized. But you could tell he didn't really feel bad. The man lit a cigar as he watched you work; how your delicate fingers held the brush, how your shoulders moved as you swept long stroaks across the animal, how your eyes flicked back and forth between the horse and him.

"Ya seem a little too old to be still livin' at home," he observed as smoke curled from his lips. "Daddy's little girl isn't so little, huh?"

You froze, terror and excitement runnung through your veins. Trying to seem mature, or at least unfazed, you shrugged. "Haven't had a reason to leave," you said simply.

Arthur huffed. There was a strange moment of silence before he spoke again. "Maybe ya just need someone to give you a reason to."

Your eyes shot to his. Unsurprisingly, he was still staring at you; just waiting for yours to meet his. Tipping his hat, he sauntered away. That's really when you started to suspect Arthur Morgan had more on his mind than helping your father.

For the remaing summer months, Arthur visited under any excuse he could. Helping to plow the field. Helping on the small cattle drive. Helping fix the roof. Your brother's were still fairly young and your father was secretly grateful for Arthur's help. But he knew the proximity of the outlaw to his family was dangerous. Just as a matter of occupation, if anyone caught Arthur here, that could ruin the former outlaw's peaceful life.

He wasn't a stupid man either. He was a father. He saw the your long stares that lingered after his old friend. He saw the twisted glint in Arthur's eye—and wondered how long his friend's self-control would hold out.

The two of you didn't talk much, but the glances and stares were enough to build thick fogs of tension which threatened every soul on the small ranch.

"I'm not an idiot, Morgan," your father growled, his finger in Arthur's chest. "I told you. I don't want the money. You've outstayed your welcome."

"'Scuse me?" Arthur glared, almost afriad he'd been caught. He hadn't really done anything.

"I seen the way you look at my daughter. That's a new low. Even for you." Something close to rage started to burn in Arthur's chest. But he knew it would be foolish to fight this out now. "I don't want to see your face around here ever again," your father stated. He was a terrifying man and Arthur wasn't easily intimidated. Taking a step back, the outlaw nodded.

"If that's what you want."

When Arthur stopped coming, you felt as if your whole world had ended. Even if it was never anything to him, the silly crush had been your window into a world outside of your comfortable one at your parent's ranch. You watched as the wagon rolled out of the small place. Your father and mother were off to town again.

From the forest, a second pair of eyes watched the wagon too. Arthur wasted no time once they were out of sight. He wouldn't be stopped by some wannna-be rancher. When you heard the knock on the door, you hadn't a clue in the world that behind it would be standing Arthur Morgan.

"M-mister Morgan," you said, eyes blinking in shock. "My father isn't here... he just left–"

"Ain't here to see him," Arthur stated, stepping inside without waiting for your permission.

You closed the door, heart pounding in your chest. "Oh? Well... uhm..."

Arthur turned, feeling his blood want to boil. Not in anger, but in need. Just his presence had you stuttering. He smirked, head tipping slightly as his hat hid his eyes. "Those the only sounds those pretty lips know how to make, miss?"

Heat flooed your face and chest. Your mouth started to feel dry. No one had ever said anything like that to you before. "Mister Morgan," you started, praying that some coherent words would find you. He was stepping closer.

"Don't think I'm completely stupid, sweetheart," Arthur hummed. "I seen how you been lookin' at me all summer. With them big eyes of yours..." He was close enough now, you could see his eyes again. Despite the bright color, they almost looked dark with a feeling you didn't fully understand. "Can't help but wonder..." Arthur's broad frame crowded you against the door. "If you look at all men like that. Or if it's just me?"

You swallowed nothing as your palms flattened against the wood. Eyes darting between his, fear kept you from saying anything.

"I asked you a question, girl," the outlaw growled.

Summoning all your courgae, you inhaled sharply before you spoke. You knew you couldn't lie. "Just you," you managed to breathe.

Arthur almost grinned. His ego had gone from a spark to a forest fire from just the two words falling from your lips. "Don't you know?" He hummed, hands slowly moving to hold your waist. "You can't look at a fella like that and not expect him to go mad?" He leaned close, inhaling deeply as his nose brushed against your jaw. You tensed at the unfamiliar and tickling sensation of his beard.

"I don't–" you started.

"'Course you don't," he murmured. You shivered as his breath tickled down your neck. "You don't know a thing. Do you? Daddy's got you safe here, don't he? But you're just dying for a sick bastard like me to break in and show you the rest of the world, huh?"

You couldn't breathe.

"Tell me what you want then, girl," he said, planting an ever so gentle kiss just under your jawline. "To go. To stay. To take you with me. I ain't particular."

Everything felt like it was spinning out of control. You took a moment to find your voice, not sure if you could even speak properly. You knew it was wrong to want him so much, but you couldn't help it. And if you told him to leave, he'd haunt you forever. "Stay–" You whispered, unsure if you truly meant it. "I want you to... to show me..." You couldn't get the words out.

Arthur laughed victoriously. "Ain't no better man to show you, sweetheart." Better was a very lose term by this definition. You were sure there couldn't be a worse man, but that didn't really matter to you when his lips moved frantically to yours. There was nothing sweet or gentle about the way he kissed you. It was all tongue and teeth. Arthur thought it was rather cute that you didn't have a clue what you were doing. He liked being in control of things.

You don't quite remember how you managed to get upstairs. In a matter of seconds his boots were discared at the end of your bed and he was pulling at the buttons on your dress. Your eyes studied his face as he watched your outer layes fall, revealing just as chemise which did little to hide your form.

The man was pratically a salivating dog. Crowding your space so you were forced so sit back on the bed, Arthur stared down at you. "You should stop playing pretend," he murmured, leaning down. Your back hit the mattress as his lips returned to your neck. "You're all woman, miss. Should be a crime that you been hiding it."

He'd hardly touched your skin and you felt like you would explode. Rough hands traveled mercilessly up your legs into the hot pool which was already forming between your thighs. A gasp escaped your throat as his fingers brushed against the coarse curls and against the sensitive bud you hardly knew was there.

Despite feeling rather numb all over, you were sure you could feel ever inch of yout body.

Arthur sighed deeply, his fingers traveling gently along your folds. He knew going too quickly would be a bad idea—you looked so fragile like this—but self-control had never been one of his strong suits. "Lesson one: just relax," he ordered, teasing one finger in and out of you so you could get used to the feeling.

Your fingers gripped the sheets as you stifled a moan.

Shaking his head, Arthur pressed two fingers in. You couldn't keep quiet that time. "Didn't wait all this time to not hear those pretty sounds, girl," he hummed, his touch softening almost slightly now that his peace had been said. For your own benefit, you didn't try to hold back any more. As much as Arthur tried to be gentle, it didn't help that his fingers were thick and that he was a hungry man. You were sure he was going to split you in half.

His fingers curled, hitting a spot you didn't even know existed.

"M-mister... nngh– Morgan–"

He chuchked, weak with the reality that you could hardly get his name out. And you were still trying to be so formal... so respectful. Even now as he prepared your tight virgin cunt for his cock.

"Yer alright, girl," he soothed. After what seemed to be an eternity of his deliberate movemnts, his fingers slid out, leaving you feeling strangely empty. Your nose scrunched unhappily. Arthur grinned. "Feeling lonely now?" He mused, looking down at his bloodstained fingers. It wasn't the first time he had blood on his hands.

You nodded, not trusting your own voice. Arthur shifted and the sound of belts clicking and clothes falling filled the room. You were almost too scared to look. Hands gently tugged at your final layer as gentle kisses ran hot and scruffy against your neck.

"Lesson two," Arthur breathed before moving to flick his tongue against your hardening nipples. "Enjoy it." Your eyes slowly opened. His looked up at you before he moved to place a kiss to your lips.

The moment was bliss. Gentle and exciting. For a moment, you truly thought this was what it meant to be in love with someone.

But the first contact of his tip with your folds sent you reeling. Arthur could have sworn he'd never had such a hard time getting into someone before. With each push, his low voice was the only thing keeping you steady.

"Easy, girl."

"Keep breathin."

"That's my girl."

At one point, Arthur was almost certian he'd get stuck. But he didn't thank that was such a bad thing. "Gah, yer tight—shit." He groaned as he dragged himself out, breathing heavily. Beads of sweat sparkled all across your body as Arthur found his way back in. He kissed up and down your chest, trying to get you to relax. Your hands found his arms and your nails dug into his flesh, leaving semi-permanent reminders of the moment.

"Mister Morgan–" you gasped, really trying to get used to the feeling. "Please–"

"Hey," Arthur hushed, kissing your lips as he found his rythm. "Just takes a minute. Nothin' wrong with that. And just call me Arthur." And he was right. After a mintue, you almost instinctively found your rhythm... with Arthur's help of course. Arthur considered himself a rather capable man, and his highest goal at the moment was your pleasure alone.

Though, he was getting a lot for himself out of it.

Your bed creaked lightly. Skin slapped against skin. Grunts fell from Arthur's lips. His name fell from yours.

Once you had gotten past all the newness, your chest felt like it might explode. You'd never expected sex to be good... let alone something you might like. Arthur's pace deepened and you felt the tip of his cock ram against yet another place of you that you didn't know could be touched. And again. And again. A hot and fuzzy feeling started to flood over you. Your head spun. Your fingers gripped Arthur's arms.

"Arthur–" You called, almost afraid. It was intense, fashing hot.

His voice in your ear was even hard to hear. "It's okay," he soothed. "It's normal. Just let it happen."

A series of moans fell from your lips as the feeling crashed over you in waves. Arthur did his best not to lose himself in the moment. The feeling of your walls contarcting around his cock was almost enough to make him finish. A slight residual twitch was left in your exhausted limbs as he pulled out. Blood and cum covered his dick, but he didn't much care.

Bending back over you, Arthur places another long kiss to your lips. It wasn't just desire this time—part of you hoped it was real. Part of him knew it was.

"Run away with me," he said, using his warmth to calm the pleasure-high tremors left in your limbs.

You sighed, your tangled hair sprawling across the mattress. "But what about–"

"Daddy doesn't need to know," he muttered into your neck. "Just promise me you'll think about it." You had to at least give him that.

Nodding, you melted against him. For a long moment the two of you rested there, with not a care in the world. Before leaving, Arthur had cleaned the both of you up and had made you tea and drawn you a bath. Placing a kiss on your head, he lingered for a moment before pulling back.

"I'll be back, sweetheart. Promise." You gave a small smile, hoping he really would. After he had left, you decided that you would run away with him.

You just hoped the both of you could go fast enough to outrun your father.

[maybestrid33]

The Newlywed Job

Rusty Ryan x Ocean!reader - Ocean's 11

Summary: You agree to help Danny with “one simple job.” Next thing you know, you’re fake-married to Rusty Ryan, living in a penthouse suite, being doted on in front of Monaco’s richest.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT, canon-style crime, light violence, swearing, fake dating/fake marriage, enemies-to-lovers tension, slow burn, mutual pining, accidental domesticity, crew teasing, one-bed situation, alcohol use, brief mentions of injury (non-graphic), highhhhh-tension, my man is POSESSIVE, kinda choking but not rlly.

A/N: ok so i know ive been mia for a while and im sorryyyy but school is just crazy idk bro i hate it too. I do genuinely have lots of drafts so they will come out, at a potentially slow but steady pace. hopefull ill be a bit quicker when i go home for christmas. anyways enjoy 9k words of hot brad pitt xxx

(also i was so tired when i edited this so pls lemme know if ive fucked something up)

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS

WC: 9k (i am so sorry)

You tell yourself this is the last time.

The absolute last time you let your brother Danny talk you into one of his schemes, no matter how smooth he makes it sound or how much he insists it’s "basically risk-free." Because somehow, "basically" always ends with someone jumping out a hotel window or faking a medical emergency in Paris.

Everyone’s already here when you walk in; Basher’s dismantling something that might be a phone or a bomb (honestly, could go either way), Linus is stress-eating grapes, and Rusty’s, of course, half-reclined on the couch with a cup of espresso and an expression that says he’s been bored since birth.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Danny announces, all grin and no shame. He crosses the room and plants a kiss on your cheek like he’s not the reason you were up half the night rethinking your life choices. “You remember everyone.”

“Unfortunately,” you mutter, tossing your bag down and ignoring the way Rusty’s eyes flicker up from his cup.

Linus perks up. “Hey, I didn’t think you were coming this time.”

“I wasn’t,” you shoot back. “Then Danny guilt-tripped me with the whole ‘family legacy’ speech. Very moving. Brought a tear to my eye.”

Basher snorts.

Danny claps his hands once, like a teacher about to start class. “Okay, enough sentimentality. We’ve got a mark, a time window, and a very exclusive hotel to get into. Rusty?”

Rusty finally sits up a little, rolling his sleeves up like he’s about to give a TED Talk. “Target’s name’s Jean-Luc Moreau. Arms dealer, owns half of Monte Carlo, and keeps a collection of rare bearer bonds in the safe of his hotel suite. We’ve confirmed the safe’s upstairs access only, but the whole floor’s keycard restricted. Only a handful of guests, all long-term, all old money.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Which means we can’t just sneak in.”

Danny grins. “And that’s where the fun part comes in.”

There’s a pause. A heavy, Danny Ocean pause. You already don’t like it.

“What fun part?” you ask slowly.

He turns that winning smile on you, the one that usually means disaster’s coming wrapped in a nice suit. “Well, you see, the only suite available on that floor is the honeymoon suite. Which means couples only. Exclusive. Staff verifies all bookings personally.”

You blink at him. “And?”

“And...” he says, like he’s unveiling the solution to world hunger, “Rusty and you are gonna be the couple.”

Silence. Then Basher actually chokes on his drink, Linus’s eyes go wide with barely suppressed glee, and you just stare at your brother, because surely this is a joke.

“Come again?” you manage.

Danny spreads his hands. “You two pose as newlyweds, check in, get cosy, fake cosy, and we move from there. We need eyes on that floor, and you’re the most inconspicuous pair we’ve got.”

Rusty finally speaks, voice calm, smooth as glass. “Define inconspicuous.”

Danny doesn’t miss a beat. “You clean up well. She’s got charm. Nobody’s gonna question it.”

“Except me,” you say sharply. “Danny, you can’t be serious. Me and him?”

Rusty quirks a brow, barely looking at you. “Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart. I’m not thrilled either.”

“Good,” you shoot back. “Because the idea of sharing a suite with you makes me want to chew glass.”

Danny steps between you like a man herding wild animals. “Okay, see, that’s perfect. You’ll be bickering, sure, but everyone bickers on their honeymoon. Authentic!”

Basher’s trying not to laugh. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

“Basher,” you warn.

Linus leans toward Rusty with an evil grin. “So, uh, Mr Ryan, you got a backstory for how you proposed yet?”

Rusty smirks, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s already winning. “Haven’t had time to workshop it. Maybe I’ll improvise.”

Danny groans, rubbing his temples. “You two can figure out the details later. We check in tomorrow. Play nice, both of you.”

You glance toward Rusty again. He’s watching you now, like he’s trying to figure out which one of you is gonna break first.

“Play nice,” you echo under your breath. “Sure. Can’t wait.”

By the time you hit the lobby, it’s obvious that Danny has made a huge mistake.

He’s standing a few paces back, hands in his pockets, watching you and Rusty walk in like he’s witnessing a car crash in slow motion. You can feel the crew listening in through comms; Linus’s voice crackles quietly in your ear, already smug.

Linus: “I’m just saying, they look married.” Basher: “If married means ready to murder each other in designer clothing, yeah.” Livingston: “For the record, her body language says ‘help me,’ his says ‘I dare you.’ It's fascinating.”

You don’t need to look to know Rusty’s smirking. He’s got that perfectly-pressed suit, crisp white shirt open just enough at the collar to be illegal in some countries. Sunglasses even though you’re indoors, because why not?

And you, well, you clean up too well for your own good. Gold slip dress, hair pinned like you didn’t try too hard but totally did. The concierge actually does a double-take.

Danny sighs through the comm.

Danny: “Okay. So maybe pairing the two of you wasn’t my brightest idea.” Basher: “Too late, mate. They’re in character now.”

You slide your arm through Rusty’s, strictly for appearances. He doesn’t miss the hesitation and his smirk deepens just a little.

“Mrs Ryan,” he murmurs low enough that only you can hear, voice all velvet mockery. “You’re trembling. Didn’t know I had that effect.”

“You don’t,” you whisper back, smiling sweetly for the staff. “I’m just allergic to smug.”

At the check-in desk, the receptionist looks about nineteen and immediately turns pink when she glances between you two. Her nametag reads Sophie.

“Welcome to Hôtel du Soleil,” she says in that breathy, over-practised accent. “You must be-”

Rusty flashes her a dazzling grin and slides over the documents before you can open your mouth. “Mr and Mrs Beaumont.”

You blink. Beaumont? That wasn’t the agreed name, but then again, Rusty did book the room.

Danny: “Rusty. It was supposed to be Harrison. Why are you-” Rusty: “Beaumont sounds classier.”

You resist the urge to elbow him in the ribs. “Yes,” you say through clenched teeth, “Mr and Mrs Beaumont. Honeymoon suite.”

Sophie beams. “Oh, how lovely! Congratulations on your marriage.”

You fake a bashful smile while Rusty, absolute menace that he is, slides an arm around your waist. “Thank you,” he says easily. “Still getting used to saying wife.”

Linus: “He’s enjoying this way too much.” Basher: “Yeah, but she’s about to knife him with a manicure file, so it evens out.”

Sophie hands you the keycard. “You’ll find fresh champagne waiting in your suite, Mr and Mrs Beaumont. If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Oh, I’ll bet,” Rusty murmurs, because he can’t not flirt with the world.

You give him a look sharp enough to cut glass as you turn toward the elevators. “Could you not?”

“What? I’m blending in.”

He holds the elevator for you, eyes flicking briefly over your dress as you step inside. “You jealous already, Mrs Beaumont?”

You jab the penthouse button with unnecessary force. “Keep talking, and I’ll make you sleep on the balcony.” The sudden quiet between you is thick. Rusty leans back against the mirrored wall, expression unreadable.

“You really hate this, huh?”

“I hate you.”

He grins lazily. “Good. Makes it believable.”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop the tiniest corner of your mouth from twitching. Because of course he’s impossible, and of course part of you enjoys matching wits with him. It’s infuriating.

When the elevator dings, he gestures for you to step out first. “After you, darling.” He walks behind you, wheeling a sleek black suitcase with the easy grace of a man who’s done this a thousand times. You swear you can feel the smug radiating off him.

“Room 1203,” you mutter, checking the gold-embossed number on the keycard.

You turn the card in the slot, the door clicks open, and for a moment both of you just… stop.

The suite is obscene. White-on-white everything, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Riviera, the ocean gleaming so bright it almost hurts to look at. A bottle of champagne on ice, rose petals scattered on the bed. The whole 'newlyweds in love' fantasy.

You drop your bag on the floor. “You’re sleeping on the couch.”

Rusty strolls past you like he owns the place, inspecting the minibar. “There’s no couch.”

“There’s a chaise.”

“There’s a decorative chaise.”

“Then get decorative.”

He chuckles under his breath, already pouring himself a glass of champagne. “You know, most couples enjoy this part.”

“We’re not most couples.”

You stalk toward the window, arms crossed, staring out at the ocean because it’s better than looking at him. “I can’t believe I agreed to this.”

Rusty leans against the counter, watching you with that infuriatingly calm expression. “You agreed because your brother asked you to.”

“Yeah, and I’m regretting it by the minute.”

He tilts his head. “Regret’s not really a good look on you.”

The comm in your ear pops alive with the sound of muffled laughter.

Linus: “Well, they’re settling in nicely.” Basher: “If by nicely you mean ready to commit homicide.” Danny: “Alright, everyone focus. They’re just getting into position.” Livingston: “Cameras are live. Suite’s clean.”

You tug the earpiece slightly, muttering, “You know we can hear you.”

Basher: “Just keeping morale up, love.”

Rusty ignores the chatter, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “So, what’s our cover story?”

You grab the hotel itinerary from the desk. “According to Danny, we’re on our honeymoon after a whirlwind romance in Florence. You’re an architect, I’m a gallery curator. We met at an exhibition. Fell madly in love.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Accurate so far.”

“Excuse me?”

“You like art. I’m easy to fall in love with.”

You glare. “You’re one glass of champagne away from testing that balcony railing.”

Before he can fire back, there’s a sharp knock on the door.

You and Rusty exchange a quick look, was this supposed to happen?

Danny: “Relax. Just a couple of the guys running secondary checks.”

Rusty sighs, opens the door, and in strolls Basher wearing a bellhop uniform that’s one size too small and holding a silver tray with a flourish.

“Complimentary chocolates for the happy couple,” he announces, straight-faced except for the twinkle in his eye.

You pinch the bridge of your nose while Rusty takes a chocolate. “Thank you, son.”

Basher grins. “My pleasure, sir.” He glances at you. “Ma’am.” Then adds, deadpan, “Congratulations on your nuptials.”

Behind him, Linus appears in an equally unconvincing waiter outfit. “Room service. Just making sure everything’s perfect for Mr and Mrs Beaumont.”

You cross your arms. “I hate all of you.”

Linus beams. “Love you too.”

Danny: “Focus people. Linus, Basher, go check the hallway security. You two, unpack and blend in.”

Rusty raises his glass toward the hidden cameras. “Blending in beautifully.”

The restaurant gleams like a jewellery box, all gold accents, white linen, and a soft jazz trio playing in the corner.

Rusty’s hand is at the small of your back as he steers you through the room.

Danny: “Okay, you two just need to be seen. Dinner, a few smiles, maybe a toast. That’s it.” Basher: “I give it ten minutes before she throws a fork.” Linus: “Five.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes, smiling for the hostess. Rusty flashes his signature grin, the one that could sell snow in the Sahara. “Reservation for Mr and Mrs Beaumont.”

The hostess leads you to a table by the window. The ocean shimmers outside, lights reflecting like stars scattered on water.

You’re halfway into your seat when Rusty pulls it out for you, smooth as silk. “Careful, darling,” he murmurs, close enough that his breath brushes your ear. “Wouldn’t want you to wrinkle the dress.”

Danny: “Is he serious right now?” Linus: “Oh, he’s serious. Look at him.” Basher: “The man’s in character, Danny.”

Rusty settles across from you, setting his napkin in his lap with all the poise of a man born rich. He takes the menu from your hands before you can even open it.

“I’ll order,” he says easily.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Can’t have you overthinking it. You’ll ruin the illusion.”

“I can order my own food, thanks.”

He smiles faintly. “Of course you can. But why waste that energy when I already know what you like?”

You narrow your eyes. “Do you now.”

He glances up, eyes glinting. “Champagne over wine. Anything with truffle. And you’ll pretend you don’t want dessert until I order it anyway.”

Danny: “This is painful.” Basher: “No this is amazing.”

The waiter appears, Linus, wearing a fake moustache that’s criminal in itself. He barely holds in a laugh as Rusty gives him the order. “We’ll start with oysters, then the sea bass for my wife, and the filet for me. Medium rare. Two glasses of your best champagne.”

You don’t miss the way Linus bites his lip to keep from cracking up. “Very good, sir.”

When he leaves, you lean in. “You realise you sound like every pompous husband in every bad movie ever, right?”

Rusty takes a sip of water, unfazed. “Exactly. Authenticity.”

You huff a laugh, but your pulse is traitorous, you're far too aware of him across from you, how effortlessly he plays the part.

A few minutes later, Linus brings the plates, somehow without tripping, and Rusty’s performance escalates.

He cuts into your fish before you can touch it, sets the perfect bite on your fork, and holds it out.

“Open,” he says smoothly.

You stare. “You’re joking.”

He arches a brow. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

Danny: “Oh, for the love of- he’s feeding her?”

You can feel your brother’s blood pressure rising over comms, which makes it that much sweeter when you lock eyes with Rusty, lean forward, and take the bite.

He grins slow. “See? You love it.”

You chew with exaggerated grace. “I’m tolerating it.”

“Oh, I’ll take tolerating. It’s a start.”

When the champagne arrives Rusty raises his glass. “To new beginnings,” he says, voice soft but carrying just enough warmth that for a split second it doesn’t sound like an act.

You clink glasses because what else can you do.

Danny: “You’re enjoying this way too much.” Rusty: “That’s the point of a honeymoon, Danny.” Danny: “You’re dead when we get home.”

Rusty just smirks, watching you over the rim of his glass.

The restaurant doors open straight into the hotel bar, a low-lit wonderland of glass and gold.

You feel Rusty’s hand settle on the small of your back again, guiding you through the crowd. You don’t look at him, but you can feel the smug amusement radiating off him like a heat source.

Danny: “Alright, play it up. Be the happy couple. We’ve got eyes on Moreau. He's in the corner seat, navy jacket, surrounded by sycophants.” Basher: “Copy that. And might I say, the newlyweds are lookin’ disgustingly in love.” Livingston: “Camera feeds are perfect. Keep smiling.”

“Smile,” Rusty murmurs, voice low enough that it brushes your ear.

You angle your face toward him, your expression all teeth. “I am smiling.”

Still, when you reach the bar, you let him pull you in close, practically caging you between him and the counter.

Basher, now wearing the world’s most obvious bartender disguise, leans forward, grinning. “What can I get the honeymooners tonight?”

Rusty doesn’t miss a beat. “Something sweet for the lady, something stronger for me. Surprise us.”

He slips a ridiculous tip across the counter and Basher winks, moving to mix the drinks while pretending to wipe down a glass.

“You’re really leaning into this,” you mutter, eyes scanning the room for Moreau.

Rusty smiles like he’s got all night. “That’s the job, sweetheart.”

“I thought the job was getting close to the mark.”

He nods toward Moreau without even turning his head. “And what do you think he’s watching right now?”

You risk a glance. Sure enough, Moreau’s gaze flickers your way, interested.

Rusty senses it immediately. He slides an arm around your waist, pulls you in until you’re practically in his lap, and murmurs something against your hair that sounds far too real.

Danny: “Okay, that’s enough. Don’t overdo it.” Basher: “They’re doing great, boss. Leave ‘em be.”

Basher sets down two drinks, a glowing pink cocktail and a neat whiskey, and retreats. Rusty picks up the cocktail, holds it out to you.

“Try this. It suits you.”

You narrow your eyes. “Because it’s pretty or because it’s lethal?”

He smirks. “Yes.”

You take a sip anyway. For the next half hour, you mingle. Hand in hand, touching shoulders, laughing too loudly at things that aren’t funny. Rusty plays it flawlessly; devoted, charming, slightly possessive in a way that makes half the women at the bar sigh.

And you meet him beat for beat.

At one point he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear and you tilt your chin up just enough to make it look natural. The move feels choreographed, practiced. It isn’t.

Danny: “Alright, you’ve got Moreau’s attention. He’s signalling his guy to approach. Get ready.” Linus: “You two are scarily good at this.” Livingston: “I think Danny’s about to combust.”

You spot Moreau before Rusty, he's the kind of man who radiates arrogance. Perfectly tailored suit, a ring that probably costs more than a house, posture that says the world answers to him. He’s surrounded by two business associates, one of whom is already half-drunk and laughing too loudly.

Rusty follows your gaze. “That’s him,” he murmurs, tone too casual.

“Yeah, I gathered,” you say, adjusting the strap of your dress.

Danny: “Okay, keep it smooth. Just introductions tonight. We don’t need a pitch yet.” Basher: “And for the love of God, don’t antagonise him.” Linus: “Or flirt back.” You: “Oh my God, can you all stop?”

Rusty hides a grin behind his glass. “They worry about you.” You start toward Moreau, glass in hand.

Rusty keeps pace easily, sliding a hand around your waist again just as Moreau turns and spots you. The man’s smile widens.

“Ah,” he says in accented English, “you must be the newlyweds. Everyone at the hotel has been talking about you. Quite the entrance.”

Rusty chuckles, the picture of warmth. “Word travels fast in Monaco.”

“It does when a couple looks like that.” Moreau’s gaze lingers on you a moment too long.

You return the smile, polite, bright, controlled. “We didn’t realise we were the entertainment.”

Rusty’s hand tightens almost unnoticeably on your hip. “She never does,” he says lightly. “I keep telling her she doesn’t blend in well.”

Moreau laughs. “I imagine not. What brings you here? Honeymoon, yes?”

You open your mouth, but Rusty beats you to it. “Honeymoon and a little business,” he says, tone perfectly balanced. “Architecture, art curation, we find ways to blend the two.”

Moreau perks up at business. “Ah, fascinating. And you, madame, you curate art? I’ve quite the collection myself. Perhaps you could give me your opinion.” Rusty’s smile doesn’t falter, but you can tell he’s watching every microexpression.

Linus: “Oof, he’s definitely flirting.” Basher: “I’d say he’s two compliments away from inviting her to see his etchings.” Danny: “Rusty, stay cool. Don’t blow the cover.”

Rusty laughs softly, leaning in closer to you, his hand sliding from your hip to your lower back in an almost possessive gesture that feels a little too natural. “Careful, you’ll have her analysing your decor before dessert.”

Moreau raises his glass. “Then perhaps she’ll find a piece worth taking home.”

You smile through it. “We’ll see.”

Rusty reaches for your hand, threading his fingers through yours. “She’s already taken home the most valuable thing in the room.”

Linus: “Man’s about to throw hands in a suit.”

You shoot Rusty a look that says tone it down and one that probably also says thank you, but you’re not unpacking that right now.

Moreau shifts topics, asking about your travels, your supposed villa in Tuscany and your shared love for 'beautiful things.' Rusty keeps his smile, but his answers start getting shorter, drier, as if the man’s every word grates a little deeper.

When Moreau finally excuses himself, murmuring something about meeting again for drinks tomorrow, you and Rusty keep the act running just long enough to watch him leave the room.

Danny: “Ok, all done, nice work guys.” Basher: “And Rusty only looked like he wanted to deck him twice. Progress.”

You exhale, taking a long sip of champagne. “Well,” you mutter, “that went well.”

Rusty tilts his head, that unreadable half-smile back in place. “I don’t like him.”

“You’re not supposed to.”

“I mean, I really don’t like him.”

Linus: “Okay, that’s enough romance for one mission.” Danny: “Get back upstairs before one of you actually commits to the bit.”

You set your glass down and turn toward the elevators, your smile sharp as ever. “Come on, husband. Let’s go plan the rest of our fake marriage.”

Rusty follows, still smirking. “Sure, sweeheart. That's exactly what I want to do with an evening in Monaco."

When you reach the suite, the battle for the bed continues. "You'd think that a hotel this expensive would have options in terms of sleeping arrangements. Ideally two."

Rusty looks at you, "We're meant to be married." He tilts his head, studying the bed. “And, to be honest… this might count as two. Or three.”

You follow his gaze. It’s massive. You’ve seen smaller stages.

Rusty steps closer to it, frowning thoughtfully. “California King?”

You cross your arms. “No, California Kings are half normal. This thing is not normal.”

“Could be custom.”

“You think they commissioned a bed?”

He shrugs, as if that’s a perfectly reasonable assumption. “We are in Monaco. People commission weirder things.”

You narrow your eyes. “Okay, name one weirder thing.”

He turns, deadpan. “Danny’s decision to make us pretend to be married.”

Danny: “I heard that.” Basher: “He’s not wrong, though.” Linus: “I’m just impressed they haven’t strangled or kissed each other yet.”

You roll your eyes and yank the earpiece out, tossing it onto the dresser. “That’s enough of the peanut gallery.”

Rusty does the same, setting his down beside yours. “Peace and quiet at last.”

“Don’t get used to it,” you mutter, dropping your bag near the chaise.

For a few beats, there’s just silence and that faint, expensive hum of central air conditioning. You both end up staring at the bed again, like it’s the enemy.

“So,” you say slowly. “We do need to figure out the sleeping situation.”

He raises a brow. “Do we?”

“Yes, Rusty. We do. Unless you plan on sleeping standing up like some kind of suave vampire.” He chuckles.

You glare, but it’s half-hearted. “I’m taking that side.” You point.

“Fine.” He moves to the other side immediately, dropping his jacket onto a chair. “Just don’t cross the equator.”

“The what now?”

He gestures lazily across the middle of the bed. “That imaginary border that keeps us far enough apart.”

You can’t help it, you laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re the one arguing about bed borders,” he says, kicking off his shoes.

You sit on the edge of the mattress experimentally and sink about three inches. “Oh my god, it’s so soft.”

He glances over, curious, then sits down beside you. The bed dips slightly under his weight, pulling you half an inch closer. “Huh. It’s like sleeping on air.”

You both test the bounce at the same time and accidentally knock shoulders, freezing. "Rusty, go back to your half."

“Sure thing, sweetheart.”

You groan. “Don’t start that again.”

"The pet names? They’re part of the act.” You throw a pillow at him, hard.

You finally stand, grabbing your bag and heading toward the bathroom. “I’m locking the door.”

As you disappear behind the door, you catch him murmuring to himself, voice just low enough that you almost miss it.

“Definitely custom.”

You bite back a smile. Damn him.

You come out of the bathroom ready to pretend the day never happened. Silk nightie donned and emotionally detached. The only issue threatening your peace of mind is Rusty Ryan having decided to exist on your side of the galaxy like a magazine spread.

He’s shed the dress shirt for a plain white tee and sweatpants, sleeves rolled, gold watch still on because apparently he sleeps in style.

You blink. “What are you, auditioning for a sleepwear commercial?”

He glances up from the TV remote. “Just trying to make the brand believable.”

You crawl into the bed, your half of the bed, and sweep the blankets over you. “The border is somewhere down there,” you say. “Don't trespass.”

Rusty reclines with the ease of a man who has never once respected a boundary but absolutely knows how to pretend. “Now, why would I trespass, sweetheart? ”

The room settles into a warm gold hush. For a moment, it’s comfortable.

Then Rusty shifts, barely, just a subtle adjustment of hips and shoulders, and the bed gives a low creak.

You glance over instinctively. His eyes flick toward yours, amused.

You turn back to your pillow.

A second movement and another creak, this one softer.

Then-

Danny’s voice explodes from the dresser like a grenade going off in a monastery.

Danny: “What was that?”

Rusty freezes, though he looks deeply entertained.

Basher: “Uh… sounded like movement.” Linus: “Movement? No. No no no no-” Danny: “If you two are in that bed-”

You clap a hand over your face. “Danny. We’re literally just lying here.”

Rusty speaks up, voice perfectly calm, “Dude, the bed squeaked. That’s all.”

Danny: “Beds don’t squeak twice unless something is-”

Your head thunks back against the pillow, “Would you please stop talking, Danny?”

Danny: “I swear if he even brushed your shoulder-”

“Oh my god, he breathed okay? It's not our fault the bed has opinions.”

You groan. The bed creaks again. Danny gasps like a Victorian maiden.

Linus: “Oh my God.” Basher: “I ain’t sayin’ anything.”

Rusty, sighing, “Guys, go to sleep”

Danny: “I heard a sound.” You: “Congratulations, you have ears.” Basher: “This is better than cable.” Danny: “Everyone just shut up.”

Rusty exhales softly. “You realise if we move too much, Danny’s going to assume we’re eloping mid-mission.”

“Then stop breathing so loud,” you shoot back.

Danny: “Seriously. Sleep.”

You both snicker like kids caught whispering past curfew, turn away from each other, and eventually the room goes still again.

You surface from sleep slowly, the kind of groggy where everything feels warm and soft and oddly comfortable. For a second you can’t remember what day it is, where you are, or why your pillow seems to have a pulse.

Then the pillow moves.

You freeze.

Your head is on Rusty’s chest. His arm is curved loosely around your shoulders, hand resting at the small of your back like it’s been there for hours. His heartbeat thuds steady beneath your ear.

Oh no.

You shift slightly, trying to slide away without waking him, but the movement just makes him murmur something half-asleep and pull you in closer.

He smells like coffee and expensive soap.

Click.

The door opens.

“Alright, rise and shine, lovebirds. We’ve got-” Danny freezes.

Linus gasps, “Oh my God.”

“Morning, honeymooners.” Livingston seems completely unbothered.

You jolt upright so fast you nearly catapult off the bed, grabbing at the sheet like that’ll restore your dignity. Rusty blinks awake beside you, eyes narrowing at the crowd now standing in the doorway.

“…Why are you in our room?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.

“Because this-” Danny gestures at the two of you “is not the debrief setting I pictured.”

You’re still tangled in the blanket. “We were sleeping.”

Basher grins. “Looked cosy, though.” Rusty runs a hand down his face, sighing. “You people are unbelievable.”

Linus points, “You’re the one cuddling your fake wife.”

“I was asleep!”

Danny looks like he’s ageing in real time. “Can we focus? Moreau’s moving tonight, we need to-”

Basher interrupts, deadpan. “No, no, I think we should unpack the emotional subtext first.”

Rusty shoots him a look that could curdle milk. “Basher.”

“Alright, alright. Debrief.” Then Linus smirks, “But for the record, that was adorable.”

You bury your face in your hands.

About 10 minutes later everyone is recovered, mostly. Danny’s already at the table, papers spread out, mid-rant. “We need focus today. No distractions. We’re professionals-”

He stops mid-sentence as you walk past him in a half-buttoned shirt, hair still damp, eyes sharp. You’re adjusting an earring with one hand while scrolling through security feeds on your phone.

Rusty’s behind you, jacket slung over one shoulder, cufflinks in hand, sipping coffee like it’s a performance art piece.

Basher leans toward Linus. “I swear, they’re a magazine spread waiting to happen.” Linus nods, “They look like they’ve been married for years.”

You glance over your shoulder. “What?”

Danny exhales through his nose. “Nothing. Just sit. Please.”

You nod, but pause halfway to grab a small bottle from the dresser. You hand it wordlessly to Rusty.

“Forgot this.” He accepts it without looking.

Danny stares, blinking slowly, like he’s buffering.

You ignore him and turn back to the mirror. “Can we go over the plan again? I want to make sure I’ve got Moreau’s schedule right.”

Rusty comes up behind you, holding your necklace. “Here.”

You start to protest, “Rusty, go away I can do it”, but he’s already clasping it, fingers brushing the back of your neck.

You freeze for half a second, mostly because you can feel everyone watching.

Basher whistles under his breath. “That’s domestic, mate.”

Danny rubs his temples. “Can we not narrate every move they make?”

You finally take a seat at the table, flipping open the laptop. Rusty sits beside you, calm as ever, sleeves rolled, tie hanging loose around his neck.

Basher murmurs to Linus, “Bet you ten bucks they’re holding hands by lunch.”

Linus, grinning, “Double if they don’t even notice.”

Danny slams the folder shut. “I can hear you.”

You hide your smile behind a sip of coffee. “So what’s the plan for tonight?”

Danny groans. “The plan is I somehow get through it without committing a homicide.”

Rusty leans back, smirking. “Ambitious, but I believe in you.”

Basher snorts into his drink.

That evening the Monte Carlo Grand Gala looks like money had a baby with fireworks and named it excess. Crystal chandeliers, a live orchestra, champagne that probably has its own security detail.

Danny’s voice crackles in your ear.

Danny: “Alright, team, positions. Basher, Livingston, you’re in the control room. Linus, you’re floor service. Rusty, keep the mark entertained until we’ve got the vault bypassed.” Rusty: “Yep." Danny: “And someone make sure my sister doesn’t kill anyone.”

You’re still upstairs in the mezzanine, final touch-ups under glittering light. Your gown catches the gold and throws it back. It's simple, black silk that flows perfectly, as if it were stitched directly onto your body.

Rusty waits at the base of the grand staircase, suit crisp, cufflinks catching the light. He’s mid-conversation with Moreau when something shifts in the air. He looks up.

And freezes.

For once, Rusty Ryan has nothing to say.

Basher: “Ohh boy, he’s gone.” Linus: “Is he breathing?” Danny: “I swear to God, if he-”

Rusty exhales a quiet laugh, the kind that doesn’t quite hide the stunned look in his eyes. “You clean up well,” he says softly when you reach him.

You arch a brow. “You look surprised.”

“I am.” He offers his arm, voice steadying. “Shall we, Mrs Beaumont?”

You slide your hand into the crook of his elbow, a forced smile tugging at your mouth. “Lead the way, dear.”

The descent feels choreographed, every step deliberate. Cameras flash, waiters pause, Moreau forgets to sip his drink.

Linus: “She’s got half the room staring.” Danny: “Everyone focus, please. Eyes on the job.” Livingston: “Rusty’s eyes are very much not on the job.”

Rusty mutters under his breath, “Tell them to turn off the mics.”

You fight a smile as you reach the ballroom floor, the two of you slotting into the rhythm like you’ve done this a hundred times, his hand finding your back, your fingers brushing his sleeve. Perfectly choreographed affection.

Moreau recovers enough to greet you both. “Ah, Mr and Mrs Beaumont! You’re the talk of the evening.”

Rusty grins, charm on autopilot. “That tends to happen when she walks into a room.”

Basher: “Danny, you still alive?” Danny: “Barely.”

You turn your attention to Moreau, slipping easily into small talk while Rusty orders the drinks. A whiskey for him, champagne for you. The conversation glides effortlessly, like a dance choreographed around secrets.

Livingston: “Vault access in sixty seconds.” Basher: “Copy. Keep the mark busy.” Danny: “No pressure.”

Moreau leans in slightly, all smiles. “You two are… quite the couple. How long have you been married?”

Rusty’s eyes meet yours, the tiniest glint of mischief. “Feels like forever.”

You match it. “And somehow not long enough.”

The orchestra swells.

Danny: “Just… don’t let it get weird.” Basher: “Define ‘weird.’” Linus: “Too late.”

You can feel the tension humming through your comm like static.

Basher and Livingston are in your ear, talking fast. Danny’s trying to keep control, but his voice has that very specific edge that means something’s about to go sideways.

Basher: “We’re ninety seconds from lock override, wait, no, forty-five.” Livingston: “He’s wrapping up early.” Danny: “What? He can’t- someone stall him!”

Rusty’s hand tightens slightly at your waist, jaw ticking. He’s already calculating. Then he mutters, low enough that only you can hear, “We need a distraction.”

“Okay, like what? I can’t fake faint, I did that in Prague.”

His lips twitch. “Then we improvise.”

“Rusty,” you warn.

“Trust me.” He leans in a little, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back up. His voice drops, steady and soft, annoyingly sure of itself.

“I’m gonna kiss you. Just go with it.”

You blink, heartbeat tripping over itself. "What? Rusty, stop messing around. We need to be serious."

He exhales, tension melting into a slow, practised grin. “I am being serious.”

You take his arm when he pulls you toward the dance floor, deciding to just go with it after all. Moreau glances your way again.

Danny: “Rusty. Don’t you dare.” Basher: “Oh, he’s gonna dare.” Linus: “This is either genius or HR violation level seven.”

Rusty guides you effortlessly into the rhythm. The crowd sees as you spin and laugh like you’ve never done anything so easy in your life.

He’s saying nothing now. Just looking at you. The way his thumb traces the small of your back says everything words would ruin.

Then, perfectly timed to the final rise of the music, he dips you clean and kisses you, slow. He pulls back a fraction, lips still brushing yours, "Well, we've got their attention."

Every conversation around you fades into a single heartbeat. Moreau’s attention is locked. The crew’s comm line goes dead silent.

Danny: “...I’m gonna kill him.” Basher: “Vault’s open!” Livingston: “Transfer complete!” Linus: “Well. That worked.”

Rusty pulls back carefully, still holding you there, breath ghosting against your lips. “For the record,” he murmurs, voice steady, “that was strictly professional.”

You manage a smirk despite your pulse jumping. “Oh, totally. Just business.”

He straightens, helping you up, hand lingering at your back because apparently professionalism has elastic boundaries.

Danny: “Get the drive and get out.” Basher: “Copy that, boss. Romeo and Juliet are moving.”

You and Rusty make your exit through the glittering chaos, champagne glasses clinking and half the room still applauding the impromptu “newlywed moment.”

Neither of you say a word until you’re clear of the crowd, halfway down a quiet marble hallway.

The suite door swings open, and you stumble in first, heels dangling from one hand, gown half-unzipped. Rusty trails behind, loosening his tie like someone who’s just successfully robbed a billionaire and kissed his fake wife in front of Monaco’s elite.

He tosses his jacket onto the couch. “Well,” he says casually, “that went smoothly.”

You shoot him a look. “Smoothly? We almost got caught, Danny’s probably having a coronary, and you decided to add a live audience kiss to the plan.”

He just smirks. “It worked, didn’t it?”

The smirk sticks, unfairly attractive and absolutely illegal in three countries. You drop your heels onto the floor with a thud. “You can’t just-just do that.”

Rusty steps further into the suite, hands in his pockets like he isn’t the reason your pulse is tap-dancing in your throat.

“Which part?” he asks, feigning innocence. “The kiss? Or the part where it worked?”

“You know exactly which part.”

“Mm,” he hums. “The kiss, then.”

You open your mouth. Something snappy is supposed to come out. Some sharp, indignant, classic-you retort.

But nothing shows up. Your brain short-circuits at the memory, his hand at your waist, his mouth on yours, the way he didn’t kiss you like it was strategy so much as something he’d been holding back from doing for way too long.

He watches you falter, and his smirk softens into something warmer. Something that should not, under any circumstances, make your knees feel weird.

Rusty takes a slow step toward you.

You try to glare, but it’s weak, embarrassingly so. “Don’t.”

“Why not?” he asks quietly.

Another step. He’s close enough now that you can smell the cologne he only wears on jobs, clean, sharp, expensive trouble.

“Because,” you say, and it’s supposed to sound firm but comes out like you’re trying to remember how sentences work.

He tilts his head, studying you like he’s mapping out every reason you’re lying.

“That why your hands are shaking?”

You immediately hide them behind your back. “They’re not.”

He chuckles, soft, low, not mocking. More like he can’t help it. “Sure,” he murmurs. “Okay.”

He reaches out, slow enough to give you the chance to pull away. You don’t.

His fingers brush your jaw first, barely anything. Just enough to make your breath catch.

Your gaze flicks to his mouth. Too fast. Too obvious.

He notices. Because of course he does.

The air between you tightens, heat curling through the quiet like it’s learning your name.

Rusty’s thumb sweeps once along your cheek. “You know,” he says, voice dropping, “you didn’t seem this mad when I kissed you the first time.”

“That was for the job,” you whisper.

“Oh?” His mouth grazes close to yours, not touching, just near. “And now?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Your body answers for you, leaning in, breath mingling with his, your hand finding the front of his shirt without even remembering to be dramatic about it.

He exhales, it ghosts across your lips.

“Tell me to stop,” Rusty says, but he already knows you won’t.

You shake your head once.

And he closes the distance.

His lips are warm, steady, confident in that infuriating Rusty way. Your fingers curl tighter in the front of his shirt without meaning to, pulling him closer. He answers instantly, his free hand sliding to the back of your neck, guiding you in with a softness that makes your knees consider quitting their job altogether.

The kiss deepens slowly, naturally. More pressure, more heat, more of that devastating sense that he’s kissing you like he knows exactly how you’ve imagined it and is meeting every unspoken expectation.

You feel him smile slightly against your mouth, and the worst part is it ruins you a little.

You hover close, foreheads brushing, breaths mixing. Rusty looks at you like he’s trying to memorise the moment, catalogue it, pocket it for later.

Then, as if he’s checking whether the universe changed its mind, he murmurs, “Still mad at me?”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Shut up.”

He grins and before you can overthink anything, he cups your waist and pulls you back in.

This kiss hits different.

He kisses you like he’s done pretending he doesn’t want you.

Like he’s relieved.

Like the whole stupid enemies-to-lovers dance finally fell into place.

Your hands slip up his shoulders, anchoring yourself as he draws you closer, closer than the job, the pretence, the arguments ever allowed.

You feel his breath catch at the contact.

He recovers quickly, now laughing into it, low and wrecked and warm, lifting you just enough that your toes leave the ground, carrying you across the room.

The bed is right behind your knees now.

He pauses. Lets his forehead rest against yours. Breathes you in like he’s trying to calm himself down.

“Baby,” he whispers, the warning in his voice useless, “you’re killing me.”

You kiss him again anyway.

He drops you onto the absurdly large bed, following down and caging you against the mattress. He's bracing himself on his forearms so he’s hovering just above your face, that stupidly hot smirk tugging at his mouth.

“You know,” he says, kissing the side of your jaw, "I got them to change the key card on the door."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, no interruptions tonight." You kiss him again at the thought.

He inhales sharply, then chases you like he’s starving.

His hand cups your waist, tugging you closer until you slot perfectly against him. The strap of your dress falls off your shoulder, and he makes a low sound into your mouth.

Your fingers curl into the waistband of his trousers, dragging him forward. "You're wearing too many clothes." He drags his mouth away, smirking softly as he stands.

His jacket slips off his shoulders first, in one smooth push. Next he reaches for the tie, loosens the knot with a practised tug, pulling it free. The dress shirt is next. He works through the buttons quickly, holding eye contact the whole time. The room’s quiet except for the small click each button makes, then the shirt comes off in one easy shrug, drifting to the floor.

Your eyes drag over him, the ridges of his abs and the muscles in his shoulders.

When he gets to the belt, he slows down. Just a little. The buckle slides open with a soft metallic snap. Your breath shifts, and he smirks, definitely on purpose, and pushes his trousers down with one confident sweep. They drop around his ankles.

Now he’s standing there in the soft lamplight, suit scattered all around him on the carpet and various pieces of furniture.

You try to act normal, like him stripping down in front of you wasn’t causing a mini heart attack, and he lifts his eyebrows.

"Your turn, sweetheart. Need a hand?” he asks, already stepping closer again.

He kneels on the bed behind you, one big hand guides your body into a slightly more upright position. He brushes your hair over your shoulder, gentle enough that it sends a shiver skimming down your spine.

Then his hand finds the zipper.

The first touch is light, fingertips grazing the edge as he feels for it, and you swear he does it just to see your breath hitch.

“Hold still,” he murmurs.

He slides the zipper down slowly, like he’s checking every tooth of it. The silk loosens around you, slipping away from your shoulders. You look up, trying to calm your breathing, but he’s already watching you in the mirror across the room.

Your breathing does anything but slow down when you meet his eyes.

When he's done, he rounds the bed, standing in front of you again. Then he drops onto the mattress, which dips under his weight, settling against the headboard while he gestures for you to come closer.

"Now its your turn to raise an eyebrow, "What about my heels?" He smirks, "I say we leave them on."

You open your mouth to protest, but get pulled into his lap before you can, like it’s nothing. Like it’s habit.

You push yourself up, straddling him, his big hands hauling you closer by your hips.

He whispers against your mouth, voice wrecked.

“Tell me to stop.”

You kiss him instead.

He groans, devastatingly, and flips you gently onto your back like he’s done it a thousand times.

His forehead is pressed to yours, breaths tangled.

“Please don't make me wait anymore,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours.

You pull him down again because you’re done pretending.

One kiss turns into two.

Into five.

His hands are everywhere. Your waist, your arms, tucking hair behind your ear before finally snaking around your back and undoing the clasp of your bra. When he tugs it away he leans back slightly, taking everything in. His pupils are blown, darting back and forth between you eyes, lips, and... well.

He dives back in again, mouth dragging along your jaw, your neck, and he’s whispering your name like it’s a prayer he’s trying not to say too loud.

Finally, he reaches for the last piece of lace on your body, literally ripping it off, leaving you completely bare beneath him. At the same time your hands find their way to the waistband of his boxers again, giving it a sharp tug and letting it slap back against his abs.

"Patience darlin', they'll come off too don't worry."

And they do, in fact, come off too.

He's beautiful, every part of him.

Your fingers slide down to his jaw, and he watches them move like he’s hypnotised. “Rusty.”

“Mhm”

"Please..," He leans back a little, looking at you.

"You ok? What-" You kiss him before he can finish. He inhales sharply and then chases you like he’s starving. Your hand finds his cock, already hard and straining. You give a couple pumps, sliding your thumb over the head. He shudders, full body, his own hand snapping to yours and holding your wrist tight.

"Alright, enough of that." Then he takes both of your hands in one of his and pins them above your head. Your legs fall open under him while his hand slides up the inside of your thigh.

His fingers find exactly where you need them. You’re soaked already.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Look at you.”

He drags one finger through your slit, and your hips buck against his hand. “Easy,” he shushes you. “We’re not rushing.”

You’re panting now, fully boneless beneath him, and he hasn’t even really started.

Then, one finger presses inside. Thick, slow, stretching you. You gasp, and he moves his hand from yours to curl around the back of your neck, holding you steady.

Your whole body jolts.

He curls the finger inside you, slow and deep, dragging over that spot with perfect precision. Your thighs start to shake.

“Feel good?” he murmurs.

You nod frantically, whimpering as he adds another.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he grits. “Taking me so well.”

He picks up the pace just enough. The wet sounds are obscene, your body clenching already. You moan into his shoulder, trying to quiet yourself, and he laughs softly against your ear.

“Don’t hold back,” he whispers. “Let me hear you.”

Your walls flutter around him and he groans again, curling his fingers harder this time. You cry out, head falling back.

“Come on,” he commands. “Right now. All over my fingers. I want to feel you.”

You shatter on the next curl.

It’s white-hot, instant, and loud, your moan echoing through the room as your hips grind down onto his hand. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. He works you through it, watching you the whole time.

When you finally still, twitchy, he presses a kiss to your temple.

Then? He lifts his fingers to his mouth. Sucks them clean. You watch, dazed, and he just smirks.

“You alright, baby?” he asks, voice low and hoarse against your temple.

You nod. Barely.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His gaze is so intent, so focused, it knocks the air from your lungs all over again.

“Still with me?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

His smirk returns. “Good. Because I’m not done.” He settles between your legs, the wetness between them suffocating. You’re trembling under his gaze, too overwhelmed by the tension in your body to form a coherent thought.

His eyes narrow, his lips curving into that smug, self-assured grin that you’ve come to recognise so well.

The moment his hands return to your waist, you feel the heat of him as he adjusts his position, settling deeper between your legs. You feel his breath on your skin, and then without warning, he thrusts into you, the sudden movement drawing a sharp gasp from your lips.

Your breath catches. Every inch stretches you open, your body already overstimulated.

“Shhh,” he murmurs, pinning you down with his body. “It's ok.”

His rhythm is slow but unforgiving, pushing in deep, pulling out just enough to make you ache, but not enough to let you come undone. He’s not interested in giving you what you want, not yet anyways.

He’s in control, it’s almost like he’s savouring the power.

You fight to keep quiet, to maintain some semblance of composure. But the more you try, the more desperate your body becomes, your thighs trembling as he continues to fill you, again and again. Every movement of his is measured, deliberate. He’s testing you, pushing you to your limits, and you know, deep down, that he’s not about to stop.

He shifts again, and before you know it, one of his hands slides down to your throat, his fingers pressing gently against your pulse. It’s not a choke, not exactly. It’s more of a reminder, a subtle dominance that makes your head spin.

“Just relax for me, baby,” Rusty whispers in your ear, his voice rough, like he’s barely holding himself back. “You’re doing so well. I’ll take care of you."

You try to follow his instructions, biting your lip to stifle the sounds threatening to spill out. His thrusts grow harder, faster, and you swear the world is spinning around you. Every inch of you is filled with him, and you can’t stop the way your body reacts. Your hips instinctively rise to meet his, desperate for more.

But he’s not giving you an inch. Not yet.

“Rusty... please,” you breathe, not caring if your voice is barely above a whisper, barely audible.

“Please what?” he asks, his pace not faltering. The smugness in his voice makes you want to scream in frustration. But you can’t.

“Please... let me...,” you plead, your voice shaking.

Rusty chuckles darkly, the sound low. He looks down at you, still pulling back and thrusting in a rhythm that’s slowly breaking you apart.

“You’ll get there, baby,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “When I say so.”

You feel yourself getting closer, but it’s as though your body is at war with your mind, the tension between your legs building, tightening like a coil, ready to snap.

"Alright sweetheart, come for me." All you can do is hold on and ride the waves of pleasure, clinging to whatever semblance of control you have left.

He knows. He knows what he’s doing. And he’s not stopping until you’re shattered beneath him.

You’re on the brink of losing it, on the brink of breaking apart, but he doesn’t give you any relief. Instead, he pulls out and flips you onto your stomach, his hands pinning you down as he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice thick. “You’ll always be mine.”

As Rusty's movements grow more intense, you feel that final coil inside you snap. He’s been relentless, unyielding, and now, he’s driving you to the very edge of what your body can handle. Your breath hitches, your pulse thunders in your ears, and before you know it, your body betrays you. Spasming, trembling, completely undone by him.

Rusty doesn’t stop. Not even for a second.

He pushes into you with a deep, controlled thrust, and just like that, he lets go, filling you completely. The force of his release is enough to make your entire body feel weightless, as if the air around you has disappeared.

He holds himself inside of you for a moment, staying still as his breath quickens, his chest pressing against your back.

“Good girl,” he murmurs in your ear, his voice softer now. He brushes a strand of hair from your face, his fingers gentle as they trace the lines of your jaw. “You did so well.”

You just lie there, panting.

“You good?” he asks, his voice a little rougher than before, but there’s that concern there. A side of him you don’t often see, it catches you off guard.

You nod, still too dazed to speak. It’s only after a minute or so that Rusty finally pulls out, his movements slow and careful as he does. He pulls you close again, his arms wrapping around you, holding you tightly against him.

“Let me know if you need anything,” he murmurs, his hand running through your hair, massaging your scalp. He sounds so casual, but you can feel the weight of his words, the care in them.

You lean into him, letting your head rest against his chest. His heartbeat is steady, and you try to match it with your own.

Eventually, you doze off like that, in the arms of your fake husband, no longer caring about any bed-tresspassing.

hope you guys liked it, ik it was long but i feel like i owed it to you lol.

[all-my-love-for-harry]

Dangerous Chemistry

pairing; jake seresin x bradshaw fem!reader

summary; Jake finally meets someone who matches his freak... too bad it's Bradley Bradshaw's little sister.

word count; 9.3k

warnings; porn with very little plot!!!! SMUT, size kink, oral (fem and male receiving), overstimulation, fingering, mentions of bdsm (not used), dom!jake, switch!reader, jake becoming pussy whipped REAL FAST, dirty talk, nipple play, rough sex, choking, hair pulling, unprotected sex (don't do that!!), aftercare,

a/n; this is so nasty, i apologize in advance. i am, in fact, ovulating. also there are some songs references so let me know if you catch any!!

masterlist

For an event meant to celebrate excellence, the Navy’s annual gala was astonishingly dull. The ballroom shimmered with gold light and soft music, floral arrangements taller than your torso lined every table, and hundreds of uniforms moved through the space with effortless, rehearsed formality. It should have been glamorous. It should have felt elegant and exciting. But instead, it felt like you were trapped in the world’s most boring snow globe.

You sat alone at a round table dressed in navy blue, an empty champagne flute hooked loosely between your fingers as you turned it in slow circles. The stem clicked against your nail each time you rotated it, a quiet, repetitive tap that matched your boredom a little too perfectly. You’d taken your time getting ready, choosing the kind of dress that made you feel confident, powerful, almost luminous under the soft lights. Your hair fell just right. Your makeup was flawless. You looked like someone meant to be seen.

And Bradley Bradshaw had left you to collect dust approximately eleven minutes after escorting you inside.

He hadn’t meant to disappear, not originally. He’d walked you in, pointed out the layout of the room, found your table, and promised he’d be right back after grabbing you both drinks. Then a brunette at the bar turned toward him with a smile that could have been seen from space, and Bradley, predictable as the tide, drifted in her direction like a sailor following a siren’s song. That had been… forty minutes ago. Maybe more.

Now you were alone with your thoughts, your empty glass, and the sinking realization that bringing you as his date had been more of a technicality than an intention. Couples glided across the dance floor, command officers traded stories near the stage, and the clinking of silverware rose and fell like rainfall. Everyone seemed perfectly entertained except you.

You shifted in your seat, the satin of your dress whispering against the chair, and let your eyes wander out of sheer desperation. No one looked particularly interesting. No one looked at you at all, really. You could have been a statue planted there for decoration. You lifted your empty flute as if debating whether another drink would help or simply make the night feel longer, and you exhaled a small, frustrated breath that fogged the rim of the glass.

It was that quiet, irritated sigh that caught someone’s attention.

You weren’t aware of it, not at first. But across the ballroom, a pair of sharp green eyes had drifted lazily around the room in search of amusement and landed on you like they’d been pulled by gravity. Lt. Jake Seresin had been pretending to listen to a conversation he wasn’t truly invested in, nursing a half-finished drink and scanning the crowd for anything remotely interesting. And then he saw you — a stunning woman sitting alone, looking both dangerously pretty and dangerously bored — and he straightened a little, expression shifting from polite disinterest to something keen.

You didn’t see him move. He excused himself with practiced charm, rolled his shoulders once as if slipping into a different version of himself, and began making his way through the crowd toward you. His walk wasn’t rushed or obvious, but there was purpose in the way he cut across the room, weaving between officers with the effortless confidence of a man who never questioned whether he belonged somewhere. The lights caught the brass on his dress blues just enough to make him stand out, though he hardly needed help.

You remained blissfully unaware until his shadow stretched across your table and a smooth, warm drawl dipped into your evening like a drop of honey.

“Well now… leaving an empty glass in front of a woman that pretty ought to be considered a crime.”

Your head lifted, startled out of your boredom.

And Jake Seresin was standing there, smiling like meeting you had just become the best part of his night.

Up close, Jake Seresin looked like trouble wrapped in a uniform: all confident posture, golden hair, and a grin that said he’d been complimented his entire life and never once gotten tired of it. He lifted your empty flute between two fingers, inspecting it as if it offended him personally.

“Whoever let this happen,” he said, tilting the glass thoughtfully, “doesn’t deserve to be within ten feet of you.”

You arched a brow, letting your gaze sweep over him slowly, deliberately—just enough that his smile twitched. “Bold assumption,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “How do you know I wasn’t the one who did it?”

“Sweetheart,” he replied, bending slightly so he could speak just for you, “I don’t believe for a second you’d let yourself get bored.”

You hummed, amused, tapping a manicured finger against the tablecloth. “Maybe I was waiting for someone worth my time to show up.”

That earned you the kind of look men usually tried to hide—the quick, sharp flicker of interest that flashed behind Jake’s eyes before he settled back into that lazy confidence of his. He gestured toward the empty chair beside you.

“Mind if I fix your evening?”

You gave him a slow, knowing smile. “That depends. Are you any good at it?”

Jake laughed under his breath, the sound low and rich, before he pulled the chair out and sat without waiting for permission—because of course he didn’t. But the way he angled his body toward you, knees nearly brushing yours, made it clear he wasn’t here to waste time.

“I’m excellent at it,” he said simply.

You plucked the champagne flute from his hand and set it down. “That sounds like something a man would say before disappointing me.”

His grin widened, teeth bright, eyes sharp. “Darlin’, I don’t disappoint.”

You tilted your head, pretending to inspect him. “You sound very sure of yourself.”

“I am.”

You smiled, slow and feline. “Good. So am I.”

For a moment he just looked at you—really looked at you, like he was trying to figure out where exactly you’d come from and how the hell he’d gotten this lucky. Then he leaned back, draping an arm casually over the back of your chair, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his sleeve.

“So,” he began, voice dipping into something playful, “a woman like you didn’t show up to this thing alone.”

“Didn’t I?” you teased.

“Nope,” he said, too quickly. “Not buying that. Someone brought you. Question is: who’s the idiot that left you sitting by yourself?”

You shrugged, the movement making your dress catch the light in a way that momentarily stole his train of thought. “Maybe he got distracted.”

“Then he’s dumber than I thought.” Jake lifted his glass, taking a slow sip while his gaze stayed firmly on you. “Should I be worried he’s coming back to claim you?”

You matched his easy tone with one of your own. “I don’t know. Should you?”

He set his drink down, leaning in with a confidence you recognized instantly—because it was the same brand you carried. “Depends,” he said. “If he’s the jealous type, I could be in trouble. But if he’s the blind type… then I think I’m doing him a favor.”

Your lips curved into a smirk. “You don’t even know who he is.”

“I don’t need to.” Jake’s gaze flicked over you, deliberate, appreciative, unhurried. “All I know is he’s not here. I am.”

You let that settle for a moment before raising a brow. “And what do you plan on doing with all that opportunity, Lieutenant?”

His eyes gleamed, and your heartbeat picked up just slightly—not that you’d ever let him see it.

“Well,” he said, voice warm enough to melt pearls, “I thought I’d start by making sure you never get bored again tonight.”

You lifted his champagne glass off the table, took a small, teasing sip, and set it back in front of him.

“That’s a big promise,” you said.

“And I’m a man who keeps his promises.”

You leaned closer, your lips a breath from his ear, voice sweet and wicked all at once. “I guess we’ll find out… won’t we, cowboy?”

Jake inhaled sharply, a tell you savored immediately. “You keep talkin’ like that,” he murmured, “and it won’t just be your glass I’m refilling tonight.”

“Good,” you said, settling back in your seat with a slow smile. “I like a man who follows through.”

And Jake Seresin—poor, clueless, very interested Jake—looked at you like he was already imagining following you anywhere.

—

Jake hadn’t even been sitting beside you for ten minutes, but the air between you already felt warmer, charged, like someone had turned the dimmer switch low and decided to simmer the two of you just for entertainment.

He said something smart-mouthed — something cocky and wicked and absolutely designed to get a rise out of you — and you laughed, slow and throaty. Then you let your hand fall casually onto his thigh, fingers resting just above the sharp line of his uniform crease, nails grazing fabric like you didn’t quite realize what you were doing.

Jake realized.

His breath hitched barely, but you caught it. You always caught things like that.

“So,” you murmured, letting your thumb sweep once along the inside of his leg, “you were saying, Lieutenant?”

Jake leaned closer, way too close, close enough that you felt the warmth of his breath at the hinge of your jaw. His voice dropped, honeyed and deliberate. “I was saying… I think you enjoy gettin’ yourself into trouble.”

You tilted your head slightly, playing innocent. “Me?” you whispered. “Not at all.”

“Liar,” he murmured, lips brushing just close enough to make your pulse jump. “You walked right into my evening like you were lookin’ for something to break.”

You leaned in too, matching his tone, your nose nearly brushing his. “Maybe I’m just looking for something fun.”

His eyes flicked to your mouth — quickly, hungrily — before returning to your gaze. “Darlin’, if you wanted fun, all you had to do was ask.”

You laughed softly, stood up without warning, and let your fingers trail along the length of his jaw as you whispered, “Come on then. Let’s see if you can keep up.”

Jake followed. Of course he did.

You led him out of the ballroom with the kind of confidence that made him swallow hard, weaving through the crowd until you found a quiet hallway dimly lit by gold sconces. It curved away from the main floor, shadowed, empty — forgotten.

You stopped beside a recessed bit of wall, turned, and before he could say a damn thing, you grabbed his dress blues by the front and pulled him into you.

Jake’s back hit the opposite wall first. Then he recovered. And when he did, he caged you in, reversing the entire situation in a heartbeat and pressing you back into the hidden corner like he’d been waiting to do it all night.

You looked up at him — forced to, with the height difference — tilting your chin just enough to meet his eyes. And then… you batted your lashes.

Soft. Sweet. Fake innocence painted over molten intent.

Jake’s breath left him in a quiet, reverent curse he didn’t even fully voice. His entire posture changed; his body hovered close, drawn like he physically couldn’t stop himself.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice rougher than before, “you keep lookin’ at me like that and I’m gonna forget we’re at a damn gala.”

“Maybe I want you to forget,” you whispered back.

He didn’t wait another second.

Jake’s mouth hit yours with the kind of heat that had been building since the moment he spotted you — firm, hungry, but controlled enough to show he knew exactly what he was doing. You kissed him back just as fiercely, your hand sliding up to his collar to pull him closer, your body arching against his in a challenge rather than surrender.

He pressed you harder into the wall; you nipped his bottom lip in retaliation. He growled softly — actually growled — and you smirked against his mouth, delighted.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet, it was a collision — two confident people testing who would give first.

Jake tried to deepen the kiss, trying to take control. You refused, kissing him back with equal claim, fingers threading into the hair at the back of his neck and tugging just enough to make him let out a low, startled sound he clearly hadn’t meant to give you.

His hand slid to your waist, firm, possessive without being presumptuous, and his other braced beside your head as if he needed the support. Your lips parted; his followed; your tongues brushed, and both of you inhaled sharply at the same time.

Jake pulled back just barely, panting softly, forehead pressing to yours. “You’re… somethin’ else,” he breathed, stunned and breathless in a way you doubted he even recognized.

You smiled, eyes half-lidded, lips swollen from kissing. “You started this,” you whispered.

“And you’re gonna finish me,” he muttered, almost dazed, eyes flicking down to your mouth again.

Your fingers slid down the front of his uniform deliberately slowly. “I might,” you said, playing with the fabric like a promise.

Jake’s hand tightened at your waist, his control hanging by a thread. “You’re dangerous,” he murmured.

“So are you.”

“You’re—” He cut himself off by kissing you again, harder, like whatever he was about to say slipped straight into action instead.

Jake broke the kiss with a sound you felt more than heard, breath hot against your lips as he dragged his mouth down your jaw and onto your neck. His lips brushed your pulse once—soft, fleeting—before he sank into you properly. He kissed the spot beneath your ear with slow, deliberate pressure, then nibbled gently, then sucked just hard enough to make your knees weaken.

Your fingers curled into the front of his uniform, and the tiniest sound slipped out of you—sweet, warm, embarrassingly inviting. Jake froze when he heard it, then exhaled a low curse against your skin before kissing you again, this time open-mouthed and hungry, like he was tasting dessert.

You tugged lightly at his jacket, a silent invitation, and Jake groaned into your throat as if that was the confirmation he’d been praying for.

He lifted his head, breathless, lips brushing your ear. “You wanna get outta here?” he asked, voice gravel low and desperate in a way that made your stomach flip.

You didn’t bother answering with words. You nodded once, slow and deliberate, and Jake’s hand closed around yours instantly—warm, firm, claiming without trapping—as he pulled you out of the hallway and back toward the gala entrance.

His stride was purposeful. You followed easily, almost floating as the two of you stepped out into the cool night air. Jake dropped your hand only long enough to hand a valet ticket to the young man in a crisp suit. The valet’s eyebrows lifted when he saw the number on it.

“Right away, sir.”

Moments later, the engine of a very expensive car purred before you even saw the headlights. A sleek Porsche 911 Cabriolet, black, polished to a mirror, glided to a stop in front of the two of you. Convertible top down. Impossibly sexy. Undeniably Jake.

He opened your door like a man who’d been raised right, offering his hand as you stepped in. His touch lingered just a little longer than necessary before he closed the door gently and circled around to the driver’s side.

The moment he settled into his seat, the car came alive with a deep, smooth roar. Jake’s hand gripped the wheel; the muscles in his forearm flexed; his jaw clenched slightly as he tore out of the valet lane with confidence he absolutely enjoyed showing off.

You reached over, plucked his phone from the console, and typed your address into the GPS with the ease of someone who’d already decided exactly how the night would end. Jake glanced your way, eyes flicking briefly from the road to your lips as you handed the phone back.

“Good girl,” he murmured, softer than he meant to.

You let your hand fall casually onto his thigh.

Jake tensed immediately. Not in fear. In anticipation.

You didn’t stop there. You let your palm drift higher, slow, teasing, wicked—your fingertips brushing closer and closer to the place he most definitely didn’t want touched if he planned on driving safely.

His breath stuttered. His grip on the wheel tightened. His jaw ticked.

“Sweetheart…” he warned, voice unsteady in a way that made you smile.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you leaned across the center console, lips finding his neck, and you began to kiss him—slow at first, then deeper, doing exactly what he’d done to you back in that dark hallway. You felt his pulse jump. Felt the way his breath caught. Felt the way his whole body reacted to the heat of your mouth.

“Darlin’, I’m drivin’,” he said through clenched teeth, trying and failing to sound unaffected.

“Are you?” you teased against his skin, your breath warm, your fingers slipping a little higher.

Jake inhaled sharply, the sound half-laugh, half-groan. “I swear,” he muttered, “you’re gonna get us pulled over.”

You giggled, brushing your lips higher along his jaw. “Maybe you should pull over yourself,” you whispered, voice dripping with mischief, “and we can… share one seat.”

Jake’s hand slipped off the wheel just long enough to grip the edge of your thigh, firm and possessive.

“Keep talkin’ like that,” he murmured, voice dark and wrecked, “and I just might.”

The Porsche surged forward, the engine growling as Jake accelerated—not reckless, but absolutely not calm.

He was drunk on you. Already. Entirely. And the night had barely begun.

Jake barely had time to suck in a breath before you reached out and toyed with the top button of his dress blues, your fingertip dragging just under the edge of the fabric like a dare. He let out the softest, roughest curse — the kind a man makes when he’s trying very, very hard not to lose the last shred of control he has.

He didn’t succeed.

He yanked the steering wheel to the right, pulling into the first empty patch of curb he saw. The car hadn’t even fully settled before he threw it into park and turned to you like he’d been starving for years.

His hands cupped your jaw immediately, warm and firm and hungry, guiding your mouth to his. The kiss hit like a spark to dry tinder — sudden, scorching, impossible to put out. Your hands fisted in the front of his jacket, dragging him closer even though there wasn’t an inch left between you.

“Jesus,” he muttered against your lips, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You didn’t give him time to think. You slid one knee over the console, then the other, letting him haul you the rest of the way until you were straddling him in the driver’s seat, your skirt riding scandalously high along your thighs. His hands were everywhere — over your hips, your waist, the curve of your back, memorizing every place he could touch and aching for the places he couldn’t yet.

The hood was still down. The cool night air kissed your bare skin while Jake’s much hotter hands moved over it, the contrast enough to pull a soft, involuntary sound from you. His answering groan was low and broken, like it punched straight out of him.

You rolled your hips without thinking, instinct meeting instinct. Jake’s breath stuttered; his hands tightened on your waist; his head tipped back like he was in pain from how good it felt.

“Fuck, I—” he murmured.

You cut him off by kissing him again, deeper, slower, deliberately ruining his sentence and his composure. Your arms looped around his broad shoulders, struggling to meet behind him — he really was that big — and the slight, helpless gasp he let out when your nails grazed his neck only fueled you more.

His fingers slid up your sides, tracing the shape of you through satin and skin, thumbs brushing just beneath the edge of your dress in a way that made your pulse spike wildly. Your own hands wandered too, exploring the hard lines of his chest, the strength under his uniform, the heat radiating off him in waves.

Every shift of your hips pulled another sound from him, another ragged exhale, another “sweetheart—” whispered like a warning he didn’t want you to listen to.

You didn’t.

You pressed closer, lips brushing his jaw, his throat, the sensitive place just beneath his ear. He shuddered hard enough that you felt it all the way through you, grip tightening on your waist like he needed something to hold onto.

Your voice was a slow, wicked whisper against his skin. “What’s wrong, Lieutenant? Thought you could handle me.”

His laugh came out strangled. “I can.” His mouth found yours again, fierce and breathless. “God help me, I definitely can.”

And with your body moving against his like you were made to fit there, with the night air cold on your back and him hot everywhere else, with the car rocking subtly under the two of you, it was very, very obvious that he meant it.

Eventually — eventually — you pull away from him in the front seat, both of you breathing like you’d just sprinted a mile uphill. Jake looks wrecked in the best possible way: hair messed from your fingers, lips swollen, pupils blown so wide they swallow the green. He takes a beat before he can even speak.

“We’re… we’re driving,” he mutters to himself, like a man repeating instructions in a crisis.

You slip back into the passenger seat, smoothing your dress as if you hadn’t just climbed across his lap and fried every one of his neurons. Your smirk is downright sinful. Jake’s stare lingers on you for a second too long — then he forces his eyes back to the road and shifts the car into drive.

His knuckles turn white around the steering wheel.

He’s trying so hard not to look at you. He fails every ten seconds.

The muscle in his jaw ticks as he clenches his teeth, and it’s almost funny how obvious the tension is — physical, coiled, demanding. He adjusts in his seat with a frustrated exhale. The evidence of how badly he wants you strains against his uniform pants, and the longer the drive goes on, the worse his restraint gets.

You don’t help, not even a little.

You trail your fingers along the inside of his forearm, featherlight, making him shiver. You let your heel tap against his thigh, just enough to remind him how close you are. How small you feel next to him. How big he is compared to you.

By the time he pulls up to your place — a small, one-story home tucked behind a fence — Jake doesn’t even glance at it. Not the neighborhood. Not the porch. He barely registers the curb.

He’s laser-focused on you.

You open your door and he’s there instantly, coming around the car with a purposeful, almost predatory step. His hands find your waist the moment you stand, bigger and hotter than you remembered. You swear his whole body aligns behind yours like instinct — broad chest pressed flush to your back, his breath warm against your ear.

“Open the door,” he murmurs, voice low, already kissing a path down your neck.

You fumble with your keys because he won’t stop. His hands bracket your hips, keeping you pinned against him, and the contrast of your height against his becomes its own kind of thrill. He’s massive around you — long limbs, wide shoulders, the whole of him boxing you in. You can practically feel the satisfaction rolling off him at the size difference.

“You’re killing me,” he says into your shoulder, and God, he sounds enchanted.

The lock finally clicks.

You push the door open.

Then you turn on him.

You fist a hand in the collar of his uniform and drag him inside with a force that knocks the breath out of him. For someone barely reaching his chest in heels, you move him like he weighs nothing.

Jake’s lips part — surprised, delighted.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he laughs under his breath, “you’re—”

You don’t let him finish. You pull him down to kiss you again, hard, hungry, claiming. He shuts the door behind him blindly, never taking his hands off you, only to find himself pressed back against it when you push him.

He laughs again — breathless this time — because he didn’t expect you to be this strong-willed, this bossy, this willing to take the lead.

He likes it way too much.

“Bedroom,” you say against his mouth.

And he doesn’t fight, not even a little. He lets you shove him off the door. Lets you take his wrist. Lets you drag him down the hallway as though he belongs to you already. And tonight he does.

He follows willingly, eagerly, eyes locked on your hips, your shoulders, the way your small frame commands the space.

You barely make it two steps into the room before your palm lands on his chest and you shove. Not hard enough to hurt him — just hard enough that he goes, landing on your bed with his back sinking into the mattress, arms flaring slightly in surprise.

Jake’s head lifts immediately, eyes dragging over you with a hunger that’s almost reverent.

You climb onto the bed after him, one knee sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips until you’re straddling him. Even now, even with you on top, he feels massive beneath you — long torso, broad chest, those strong hands already itching to touch.

You lean down first.

Your lips crush into his in a kiss that’s more a claim than a greeting. He answers with a low sound you feel all the way to your toes. You bite his bottom lip on purpose — slow, firm, deliberate — then tug it between your teeth. Jake’s breath stutters, and the second you release him, his hands slide up your back with a kind of desperation he tries (and fails) to hide.

He’s searching for something, you feel it in the way his fingers map your spine.

Then he finds the zipper.

You hear it before you feel it, that soft, slow whisper of fabric giving way. His eyes stay locked on your face the whole time as he drags it down… down… down… and the dress loosens around your shoulders. He nudges it off with his fingertips, following the cascade of fabric as it falls to your hips, then off completely.

You’re left in nothing but black lace.

Jake makes a sound — not a groan, not a curse, something deeper, something that comes from the bottom of his chest. His head falls back for a second like looking at you actually takes him out.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice rough, “you’re—”

You cut him off with a smug roll of your hips that earns you another breathy, helpless exhale.

He helps you kick the rest of the dress away, hands warm on your thighs, greedy in the way they travel your skin. You sit up straighter, letting him look — because you want him to. Because the way he stares at you makes your pussy wetter by the second

Then you lean down again, but this time your lips find his ear. Your voice drops to a whisper soft enough to make goosebumps rise along his neck.

“Not fair you’re still wearing all that.”

He smiles — slow, dangerous, unbearably cocky — his head turning just enough that his nose brushes your cheek.

“Well,” he drawls, arrogant and inviting all at once, “sounds like you’ve got a problem to solve, darlin’.”

His hands settle on your hips, fingers flexing, “Go on,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded as he looks up at you, “fix it.”

You accept his challenge with a slow, knowing smile. Then you start undoing his uniform.

The first button pops open beneath your fingers, and you lean down to kiss the newly exposed skin — warm, taut, already tense with anticipation. Another button. Another kiss. You work your way down the crisp fabric, your mouth following the trail your hands create, and Jake melts back into the mattress with a soft, low sound that’s dangerously close to a groan.

Piece by piece, the layers come off.

His jacket, his shirt, his undershirt. They land somewhere on your floor, forgotten the second they leave his body.

By the time you’re done, he’s down to nothing but his boxers — and every inch of him on display looks like something carved out of pure ego and muscle. His chest is broad and golden under your bedroom’s soft light, his abs tight and defined like they’d been sculpted rather than grown. He’s breathing harder than he should be, muscles moving beneath his skin like they’re alive.

You stare, of course you stare. And Jake notices instantly, of course he notices.

“You see something you like, sweetheart?” he asks, and then — because he’s him — he subtly flexes. His arms, his chest, the cut of his abs, everything hardens under your gaze, and it’s such a shameless show-off move that you actually laugh under your breath.

You’re kneeling between his legs by then, small and wicked and absolutely in control. When you look up at him, lashes lowered, lips parted, expression soft and sinful — Jake’s breath visibly catches.

You nod. Slowly, teasingly. Then you lean in.

Your hands glide up his thighs first, just enough pressure to make him inhale sharply. Then your mouth follows — pressing kisses to his hipbone, then higher, over the ridges of his stomach. His skin jumps beneath your lips, muscles twitching like your touch is too much and not enough at the same time.

You take your time.

Open-mouthed kisses along the line of his abs, a playful nibble beneath his ribs that makes him hiss through his teeth, another kiss right over his sternum.

He props himself up on his elbows, eyes locked on you, chest rising and falling like he can’t get enough air. His gaze is sharp, hungry, watchful in a way that makes heat coil deep in your stomach. He tracks every shift of your body, every dip of your head, every place your mouth lands like he’s memorizing it.

Your lips move higher, dragging a slow, teasing kiss right over his heart. His hand lifts like he means to touch your face, but he stops himself — barely — fingers curling into the sheets instead.

“Careful,” he warns, though his voice is already fraying at the edges, “you keep worshipping me like that, I’m gonna start thinkin’ you’re tryin’ to ruin me.”

You smile against his skin, wicked and sweet.

If only he knew.

Jake holds it together longer than any sane man would, but the second your mouth trails too close to where he’s already aching for you, something in him snaps.

His hands close around your waist — strong, decisive, claiming — and before you can react he flips you onto your back like you weigh nothing. Air leaves your lungs in a startled gasp, your hair fanning across the sheets, your small frame suddenly under him instead of over.

He braces himself above you, one hand beside your head, the other still warm on your hip. His smirk is devastating.

“My turn,” he murmurs, eyes dragging over you like he’s about to devour you whole.

You bite your lip, smiling up at him with lazy challenge. “Be my guest, handsome.”

Jake’s pupils darken so fast it steals a low sound out of him. You arch your back just enough to make his breath catch, your chest lifting toward him. He follows the motion instinctively, sliding his hands beneath you to find the clasp of your bra.

The hook gives with a soft click.

He pulls the straps down your arms, slow, almost reverent, and tosses the last piece of lace aside. The moment you’re bare beneath him, he goes still — eyes sweeping over your body like he’s seeing something he knows he’ll crave for a long, long time.

“God,” he says under his breath, voice roughened, “you’re… unreal.”

Then he lowers himself.

He starts at your collarbone, lips warm and open against your skin. He kisses down your chest with a patience that feels almost torturous, every inch of his mouth a promise. His hands slide along your ribs, his thumbs brushing your sides as he moves lower. You feel the heat of his breath, the slow drag of his lips, the occasional scrape of his teeth that makes your stomach clench.

You suck in a shaky breath when he reaches the curve of your waist. Your hips twitch — his smirk deepens.

He keeps going. Wet, deliberate kisses down the slope of your stomach. One just above your hipbone, another just below your navel.

Your breath hitches the moment his mouth hovers near the top of your panties — so close you can feel the warmth of him, so close you swear he can hear your pulse.

He doesn’t touch you where you want him. No, the teasing bastard skips right over it.

Instead, he kisses the inside of your hip, slow and maddening, before sliding back up your body in a torturous trail of heat and lips and tongue.

By the time he reaches your mouth again, you’re breathless.

He kisses you deep, slow, claiming — like he wants you to taste exactly what he’s been doing to you. His hand cups your jaw, tilting you up into him, and you swear he’s smiling against your lips.

“Think you can handle it?,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheekbone, throwing your words back you.

You lie sprawled out beneath Jake's massive frame, your body humming with need, those thin panties clinging to your soaked pussy like a second skin. The air in the room hangs heavy with the sharp tang of your arousal, mixing with the faint musk of his sweat as he hovers over you, eyes dark and predatory. His rough hands grip the edges of your panties, yanking hard until the fabric tears with a sharp rip, exposing your dripping folds to the cool air.

You gasp, the sudden exposure sending a jolt straight to your core, but before you can snap at him for ruining them, he's already shifting down your body, his strong fingers digging into your hips.

Jake doesn't waste a second. He drags you closer by your thighs, spreading them wide, and buries his face right into your pussy. His hot mouth latches on, tongue lashing out to lick a broad stripe up your slit, tasting every bit of your wetness. You buck instinctively, trying to grind against him for more, but his grip tightens, one massive arm pinning your lower stomach down flat against the mattress.

“Greedy little thing,” he growls against your skin, the vibration making your clit throb. “I'm gonna eat this pussy until you're screaming.”

His lips seal around your clit, sucking hard, tongue flicking relentlessly while he devours you like he's been starving for days. The wet sounds of his mouth working you fill the room, sloppy and obscene, your juices smearing across his chin.

Your hands fly to his hair, fingers tangling in the thick strands, tugging hard to keep him right there. He groans into you, the sound rumbling through your pussy, and it only makes you wetter. God, his tongue feels like fire, swirling and probing, dipping inside your entrance before sucking your clit again. You whine, hips twitching under his iron hold, the pressure building fast and fierce.

Then his free hand slides up, a thick finger pressing against your hole. He pushes it in slow at first, stretching your tight walls around his girth—his hands are so fucking big, one finger alone feels like it might split you open. You gasp loud, back arching as he starts pumping it in and out, curling it just right to hit that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes.

“Fuck, you're so tight,” Jake mutters, voice muffled against your pussy. He adds a second finger without warning, scissoring them wide, thrusting deeper while his mouth never lets up, lips sucking your clit like it's his lifeline. The stretch burns so good, your pussy clenching around him, sucking his fingers in deeper.

You cry out, “Oh my god, Jake!” as the coil in your belly snaps. Your orgasm crashes over you hard, walls pulsing, gushing all over his hand and face. Your legs shake uncontrollably, thighs clamping around his head, but he doesn't stop—keeps fingering you through it, tongue lapping up every drop like it's the sweetest nectar.

You scream again as a second wave hits, even stronger, your body convulsing under him. “Too much—Jake, fuck!” you gasp, oversensitive nerves firing wildly, but he just growls and drinks you down, his hips grinding against the sheets, his cock straining hard against his boxers.

The friction must be killing him, but he's focused on you, sucking until you're a trembling mess. Finally, you can't take it anymore—you yank at his hair, pulling him up your body. His face glistens with your cum, lips swollen and smug.

“Need you inside me” you beg, voice hoarse, hands shoving at his boxers.

They slide down, and his thick cock springs free, slapping heavy against his ripped abs. It's massive—veiny, flushed red, pre-cum beading at the tip, making your mouth water.

You wrap your hand around it, squeezing the hot, throbbing length, feeling it twitch in your grip.

Jake moans deep, head falling back. “Shit, baby, I'm not gonna last if you keep jerking my cock like that.”

He swats your hand away roughly, positioning himself between your legs. The blunt head of his dick nudges your soaked entrance, rubbing up and down your slit, coating himself in your slick.

You moan, thrusting your hips up to take him in, desperate for the stretch. “Fuck me,” you whimper, and that's all he needs.

Jake slams forward, burying his cock inch by thick inch into your pussy, stretching you wider than ever before. It burns, the fullness overwhelming, your walls fluttering around him as he bottoms out, balls pressed tight against your ass.

“So fucking tight for me,” he grunts, holding still just long enough for you to adjust, your nails raking down his broad shoulders, leaving red crescents on his skin.

Then he pulls back and thrusts in hard, setting a brutal pace—hips snapping against yours, cock pounding deep with every stroke. The slap of skin on skin echoes loud, mixing with your desperate moans and his ragged breaths. “Not so chatty now. Eh, sweetheart?”

You open your mouth to answer, but all that comes out is another gasp when he buries his face in your chest, mouth latching onto one nipple, sucking it hard between his teeth before biting down. The sharp sting shoots straight to your clit, making you clench around his pistoning cock.

“You like that, huh? Dirty little thing,” he rasps, switching to the other nipple, tongue swirling before nipping again. You arch into him, head thrown back, exposing your neck. He takes the invitation, lips trailing hot kisses up to your throat, sucking marks into the skin while he fucks you relentlessly, cock dragging against your walls, hitting that spot over and over.

“Harder, Jake—fuck my pussy harder,” you gasp, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. He obliges, thrusts turning savage, the bed creaking under the force. Your bodies slick with sweat, his massive frame dominating yours completely, every slam pushing you closer to the edge again.

But he's not done yet—his hand slides between you, thumb finding your clit, rubbing circles as he pounds away, drawing out more filthy sounds from your lips.

Your body tightens like a vice around Jake's pounding cock, the relentless rub of his thumb on your swollen clit sending you spiraling. The third orgasm rips through you without mercy, your pussy clenching hard, milking his thick shaft as waves of pleasure crash over you.

You scream his name, vision blurring, every nerve ending on fire while your juices soak his balls and the sheets below.

“Fuck, yes—cum on my cock,” Jake growls, his thrusts never slowing, slamming deeper through your spasms. He thinks he's got you broken, fucked so stupid you can't even string words together without gasping, your mind a haze of bliss.

But your ego flares hot—fuck that, you're not done fighting for control.

With your legs still locked around his waist, you summon every ounce of strength, twisting your hips sharply. The momentum rolls you both over, his massive body flipping beneath you with a surprised grunt, his cock staying buried deep inside your dripping pussy.

You land straddling him, thighs clamping his hips, and you grab his wrists, pinning them down on either side of his head against the mattress. His eyes widen in shock, dark and hungry, not expecting you to turn the tables like this.

Realistically, you know you couldn't overpower him if he fought back—he's bigger, stronger, built like a goddamn tank—but he lets you, his muscles flexing under your grip, a smirk tugging at his cum-smeared lips.

“Surprised, big boy?” you taunt, voice breathy but defiant, as you start riding him hard. Your hips roll in a punishing grind, soaked pussy sliding up and down his veiny length, using his cock like your personal toy to chase another high. The stretch feels obscene, his girth splitting you open with every drop, your clit grinding against his pelvis.

Wet squelches fill the room, your arousal dripping down his balls. You release his wrists, hands sliding up to his neck, fingers wrapping around his throat in a light choke—just enough pressure to make his breath hitch, his eyes flashing with raw lust.

“You like that? Me taking what's mine?” you whisper, squeezing a bit harder, feeling his pulse race under your palms.

Jake gasps, the sound rough and needy, but he doesn't stay passive. His huge hands clamp onto your hips, fingers digging bruises into your skin as he yanks you down harder, slamming you onto his cock with brutal force.

“Oh, you're playing dirty now,” he rasps, voice strained from your hold. One hand releases your hip, shooting up to wrap around your throat in retaliation—his grip firmer, possessive, cutting off just enough air to make your head spin in the best way.

You'd wear his hand like a fucking necklace, the pressure making your pussy flutter around him. His other hand tangles in your hair, yanking back sharply to expose your neck, your tits bouncing with the force.

He surges up, back slamming against the headboard, pulling you with him so you're chest to chest, his cock driving even deeper.

“Aren't you sneaky? Might have to tie you up, baby, keep that wild ass in check,” he snarls, eyes locked on yours, thumb pressing into your windpipe just right. The threat sends a thrill straight to your core, your walls clenching him tight.

Despite the slight burn in your lungs, you smirk down at him, grinding slower to tease.

"Good thing chains and whips excite me," you shoot back, voice husky, nails scraping his chest as you pick up the pace again, riding him like you own him.

That flips a switch. Jake plants both feet on the bed, knees bending for leverage, and thrusts up savagely, his hips bucking to meet yours. His cock spears into you over and over, balls slapping your ass, the fight for dominance electric—neither of you yielding an inch.

You choke him tighter; he squeezes your throat harder, hair-pulling yanking your head back as he bites your collarbone, marking you. Sweat slicks your bodies, the room reeking of sex, your moans turning to guttural cries with each punishing stroke.

But he's had enough of your rebellion. With a feral growl, he surges forward, flipping you onto your back again—your head now dangling off the foot of the bed, the world upside down in a dizzying rush. His hand stays locked on your throat, pinning you down, while the other roams your body greedily.

Fingers pinch your nipples hard, twisting the sensitive peaks until you yelp, the pain sparking straight to your throbbing clit.

“My turn to fuck you senseless,” he grunts, cock plunging back in, pounding your pussy with renewed fury. His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing rough circles, while his mouth descends to suck a nipple into his hot mouth, teeth grazing the bud.

You writhe under him, legs spreading wider, nails raking his arms. “Yes—harder, harder,” you gasp, the choke making every word a desperate plea. His thrusts turn erratic, cock swelling thicker inside you, veins pulsing against your walls.

Jake's obsessed—your tight, defiant pussy gripping him like a vice, so different from the submissive girls he usually breaks. You want to break him, and fuck, it's driving him wild.

“Shit—gonna cum, baby, gonna fill this pussy,” he warns, voice breaking, hips snapping faster, the bedframe rattling.

But you shove at his chest with all your might, pushing him off and onto his back. Dropping to your knees between his legs, you grab his slick cock—coated in your cream—and shove it into your mouth. The salty tang of your mixed juices floods your tongue as you bob deep, throat relaxing to take as much as you can.

Your hand pumps the base, twisting, while you hollow your cheeks, sucking hard. Looking up through your lashes, you see his head thrown back, abs clenching.

“Fuck—yes, swallow my cock,” he groans, hands fisting your hair, twisting it into a ponytail to guide your head. You gag as he thrusts shallowly, saliva dripping down your chin, mixing with pre-cum.

Then he explodes—hot ropes of cum shooting down your throat, thick and endless. You swallow every drop, moaning around his pulsing length, the taste bitter and addictive making your pussy clench emptily.

Jake's groans echo loud, body shuddering as he holds you in place, fucking your mouth through his release. When he's spent, you pull back slowly, tongue lapping the underside, cleaning every inch. He hisses at the overstimulation, cock twitching sensitive in your grip.

Your lips still tingle from Jake's thick cock, the salty tang of his cum coating your tongue as you savor the last drops. You're kneeling between his spread legs on the rumpled sheets, your knees digging into the mattress, heart pounding from the way he just exploded down your throat.

His chest heaves with ragged breaths, sweat glistening on his broad, muscular frame, that cocky grin already creeping back onto his face despite the exhaustion.

Jake props himself up on one elbow, his green eyes locking onto yours with that playful spark. He lets out a breathy laugh, wiping a hand over his stubbled jaw. "Fuck, doll, and here I thought I was gonna rock your world tonight."

His voice is rough, laced with amusement, but you can see the heat lingering in his gaze, the way his cock twitches slightly against his thigh, not fully soft yet.

You giggle, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly, your body still buzzing from the intensity. Crawling up, you flop down beside him, your naked skin sticking to the damp sheets.

"Guess you're not that good at thinking then, huh?" you tease, turning your head to meet his eyes, your pussy throbbing and slick between your thighs, untouched but aching from the buildup.

He mocks a gasp, clutching his chest dramatically, but it dissolves into another low chuckle that vibrates through the bed. His eyes drop then, roaming down your body without shame—over your flushed tits, the curve of your hips, straight to your pussy.

It's a mess, lips swollen and glistening with your own arousal, juices smeared on your inner thighs from grinding against nothing while you sucked him off. Jake's cock gives another visible twitch, thickening just a bit at the sight, and you feel a fresh pulse of heat low in your belly.

Before you can say anything, he swings his legs off the bed and stands, giving you a full view of his tight ass flexing as he moves. Muscles ripple under his skin, that confident stride taking him toward the bathroom.

You can't help it—a sharp whistle escapes your lips, playful and hungry. "Damn, look at that ass," you call out, biting your lip as you watch him go.

Jake glances over his shoulder, shaking his head with a smirk, but you catch the way his cock bobs with the motion, half-hard again already. "Keep whistling like that, and I'll come back and fuck that mouth quiet," he shoots back, his voice dripping with that dominant edge that makes your clit throb.

“Promises, promises.”

He disappears for a moment, the sound of running water faint in the background, and returns with a warm, damp cloth in his big hand. Without a word, he climbs back onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. His hands are firm as he rolls you onto your back, your legs falling open instinctively. "Spread 'em," he murmurs, his tone casual but commanding, eyes fixed on your dripping pussy.

You comply, parting your thighs wide, exposing the slick folds to the cool air. The warmth of the cloth hits first, Jake's touch gentle but thorough as he wipes away the mess—your arousal, the faint traces of his earlier precum that might have dripped.

It's intimate, this aftercare, his broad chest hovering close, the scent of his sweat and cum still heavy in the air. You hiss softly when the fabric grazes your sensitive clit, but you relax into it, your body melting under his care.

"If you wanted to touch me again, you could've just asked," you tease, your voice breathy, a giggle threatening to spill out as his hand lingers a second too long on your inner thigh.

Jake's eyes flick up to yours, that smirk widening into something wicked. Before you can react, his finger—thick and calloused—slides right into your soaked pussy, no warning, no buildup. It stretches you just enough, curling slightly inside your tight heat, and a sharp moan rips from your throat, swallowing your teasing words whole. Your walls clench around him instinctively, greedy for more, the sudden intrusion sending sparks up your spine.

"Who said I needed permission?" he growls low, pumping that finger once, twice, feeling how you drip around it, your juices coating his skin. His thumb brushes your clit in a lazy circle, making your hips buck up off the bed. Fuck, he's good at this—teasing you right to the edge without mercy, his cock hardening fully now against your leg as he watches your face contort in pleasure.

You gasp, grabbing at his wrist, but not to stop him—hell no, you want him deeper, rougher. "Jake... shit, don't stop," you whine, your voice turning slutty and desperate, pussy fluttering around his invading finger.

He chuckles darkly, adding a second finger without hesitation, scissoring them inside you, stretching your walls while his free hand pins your hip down.

"Look at you, so fucking wet for me already. Sucked my cock like a good girl, and now this pussy's begging for it."

His dirty talk hits like a drug, words rough and urgent, his breath hot against your neck as he leans in closer. The wet sounds of his fingers fucking into you fill the room, obscene and loud, your arousal slicking his hand all the way to his wrist.

Your tits heave with each thrust of his fingers, nipples hard peaks begging for attention, but Jake's focused lower, twisting his digits to hit that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. You moan louder, thighs trembling, the afterglow twisting into something raw and urgent again.

His cock presses insistent against your side, leaking precum onto your skin, and you know he's not done — not by a long shot.

He pulls his fingers out abruptly, leaving you clenching around nothing, a frustrated whimper escaping your lips. Licking them clean with a deliberate slowness, he meets your hazy gaze.

"Taste like you need more than a tease," he says, voice gravelly, tossing the cloth aside and settling his body over yours, his hard length nudging your thigh promisingly.

—

Jake woke with the kind of bone-deep ache he usually associated with a brutal training day, except this time it had nothing to do with dogfighting and everything to do with you.

Every muscle in his body reminded him, pleasantly and a little sharply, of the night before—your hands clawing at him, your legs locked around his waist, the way you’d begged and taunted and pulled him back for more until neither of you could remember if the number was two rounds or three or four.

You were still asleep beside him, sprawled in the sheets like you’d been poured there. The thin blanket barely covered you, falling low enough that he could see the faint marks he’d left on your collarbone and the curve of your breast, along with the deeper ones he could swear matched the shape of his teeth.

He smirked at that, then felt the sting on his own back when he moved. God, you’d scratched him to hell. And he’d loved every second of it.

For a moment, he just sat there, feet on the floor, running a hand over his face as he let the quiet settle. Sunlight crept through the blinds, warm and soft, catching on the mess of clothes scattered from the door to the bed. His underwear ended up half under your dress. He stepped into them, stretching slowly, shoulders rolling, the long line of his back flexing as everything in him protested in a good, satisfied way.

Coffee. That seemed like the smart next move. Something normal, something grounding while he waited for you to wake up all lazy and smug, probably planning to tease him for how wrecked he currently felt.

He eased the bedroom door open, careful not to wake you, and padded into the hallway. Last night had been too dark, too frantic, too much of your mouth and your hands and your laugh echoing in his head for him to notice anything beyond you.

Now he actually saw your space—pictures lining the walls, framed moments of your life. You with friends, you alone with a bright smile, you as a kid missing a front tooth, and a teenage boy who had to be your brother or some cousin because the resemblance was there but not copy-paste.

He kept walking, still half-distracted by how good he felt and how much he wanted to crawl back into bed with you. Then he passed the large frame hanging dead-center on the next wall.

Your degree.

His steps faltered, then stopped completely.

His vision did not betray him. He blinked anyway, once, twice, then leaned in as if getting closer would somehow change the letters staring him straight in the face.

Bradshaw.

The name punched the air right out of his lungs.

For a second, Jake didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Everything in him went cold, then hot, then cold again. All of last night replayed in his head at warp speed—your laugh, your mouth, the way you’d moaned his name, the way he’d bitten down on your throat because you’d told him to.

He ran a hand through his hair, stared at the degree like it might start explaining itself, and felt the full weight of the situation crash over him.

He had just spent the night doing every filthy, hungry thing he’d ever fantasized about to a woman who might as well have been crafted for him… with Bradley Bradshaw’s sister.

He was so dead.

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[dolliecowboys]

my arthur is so expressive sometimes

[stottlemorgan-deactivated202512]

"A Little... Refinin'."

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female Reader. Summary: You shave Arthur's face for him. It's all cutesy and y'all're sweet on one another and GAH. Tags: Fluff, literally the purest fluff. Starts off with Arthur being very full of self-loathing. Word count: 2,958. Author's Note: Thank you to the sweet anon who requested this, I truly hope you love it. I got SO carried away with the idea that it just... Needed to be a fic instead of headcanons.... Love uuuu. Planning a part II. Ao3 Link

A heavy sigh. Tired, worn skin, parts dry and sunburnt and peeling. Wrinkles nestle deeply into his skin at the corners of his eyes and across his forehead. Nasty scars deboss his features, as though he is a sculpture, uncared for and unfinished. Full of dips and marks both inside and out, never to meet the kiln, never to be improved. An impossibly repugnant sight.

He feels the disgusted expression morph his features into something even more grotesque before he sees it reflected back at him in the small mirror. It feels like an insult every time. His lips part dumbly, from behind which unevenly set teeth peek. His brow furrows, shadowing the one thing he may dare to like about himself; the blue of his eyes which are currently squinting. Staring too long at himself brings forth thoughts and memories as worrisome and uncomfortable as his face.

The shaving station is a necessary utility, but to him, a feigned performance of self-value. A place for him to hack at his hair and beard, quickly and methodically. To finish up with a shrug and a “good enough”, not a place for priggishness.

“You ugly bastard.”

Arthur’s voice barely escapes as much more than a low grumble, a subtle but continuous and harmful mantra that coats his insides like tar. He begins an attempt to crush the familiar feeling with some deep, grounding breaths. His palms take some of his hefty weight, the wood of the barrel beneath them pressing pinkish shapes into his skin. Much like most forms of pain, he doesn’t mind it.

The rustle of your skirts and the padding of your pottering feet marry together with the chirping birds and whispering spring air as you round his tent and give him a once over. You smile and nod in greeting. He returns the gesture, albeit a tad stiffly, struggling to climb out of his thoughts, though your voice helps coax him.

“You look like you need a shave, Arthur.” You walk past him and through to the back of his tent, an air of domestic authority about you as you snatch some of his washcloths and socks from the little hanger and stuff them into the basket at your hip. He does a double take, his head turning as his gaze follows you.

“What?”

On occasion, you’d make little comments like this; telling him you like the new shirt he bought in Valentine, or his recent decision to grow his hair out. It left him quietly bewildered each time, unsure whether the arrhythmic dance of his heart was due to fondness or awkwardness. Whatever it was, he has spent each moment in your presence suppressing it. You pass by again, placing the basket on the floor outside of his tent with a thump.

“I said you look like you need a shave–” you say with a smile, “-You’re gettin’ all scruffy.” Your nose scrunches as you gesture to your own chin, scratching it as though you have stubble. His self-loathing lightens further, your playfulness stirring into the bitter tar like honey, sweetening him up as it always does. 

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Gettin’?” He asks, making you laugh.

“Mister Morgan, you ain’t scruffy. Far from it. You jus’ need a little… Refinin’.” You say with a grin, waltzing closer to him. He feels the column of his spine lock up slightly at your closing proximity and he swallows down a nervous sound.

“Refinin’, huh?” He echoes, his eyes flitting down to your flowing skirts as you stop in front of him. He forces his eyes closed before he can think of how nicely your shirt fits.

“Yessir.” You say simply, picking up the razor from the barrel, turning it and watching it glint in the sunlight. Arthur’s features tighten slightly, and his eyes flutter open as he feels you lean forward and one by one remove each item off of the barrel, playing them on his cot.

“What’re you doin’?”

You return to the barrel and pat the top, “Sit, I’ll give ya a shave.”

Arthur blinks, and his head is shaking before he even finishes processing your words.

“Naw, you ain’t gotta do that–”

You roll your eyes, swatting at his chest and his skin beneath the fabric tingles in waves again and again. “Oh, hush up and sit’ch your ass down.”

With a concessive sigh, Arthur plants himself atop the barrel, lips pressed into a firm line. When you take a step closer, standing between his thighs, his expression blanks. And when you gently take hold of his chin between your forefinger and thumb to examine his face, his mind follows suit, whiting out into nothing.

You hum, giving him a good look before speaking casually. “Wha’chu want, then?” Your words take a moment to register as Arthur’s muddled head scrambles to take in anything going on outside of the fabric of your skirts brushing his thighs and the tip of your thumb grazing his lower lip. His voice lags, his gaze drifting about as you move his head left to right,

“A clean shave, I guess.”

Your nose scrunches as you look him in the eye, “You sure? I could have some real fun ‘n’ give you a little moustache.” You whisper the last words, leaning in a little closer. Arthur has to nod and chuckle to counteract every single signal in his body threatening to fizzle out entirely.

“Sure, sure. A ‘little moustache’ it is.”

You give a triumphant grin and straighten up with a soft sigh as you grab the necessary items from his cot. You hum gently as you lather his shaving brush with lye soap and Arthur quietly watches. The domesticity of the situation makes him shift atop the barrel, his lips pursing. After a moment, you step closer again.

“Sit up some more.” You say softly and he obeys, straightening up with a big breath. You place the fingertips of one hand against his cheek and bring the shaving brush up with the other.

Taking your time, you guide the lathered brush about, coating his bearded jaw with the cool soap. You concentrate on evenly coating Arthur’s face while he watches you. You place the brush down and pick up the straight razor, bringing it to his jaw and carefully starting to scrape away at his facial hair with rhythmic scratching sounds, holding the skin taut with your thumb.

“Thought you were going into town today?” He asks in a soft, low tone, watching your pupils grow larger as you lean close, into the shade of his tent.

“Mhm,” you nod, your nose scrunching a tad in annoyance, “Grimshaw had other plans. Or should I say, demands.”

Arthur huffs a chuckle through his nose as he sneaks in fond glances at your face, thinking you’re too busy scraping at the ridges of his jaw. Then he notices the subtle flutter of your lashes, the slight raise of your brow, the way your concentration becomes forced. His fingers fidget against his pants in quiet panic. His voice comes out almost comically casual,

“Well, I could take you in later on. If you’d like.”

You pull away to rinse the razor with a slosh and look him in the eye, your expression sincere, “You sure? I wouldn’t wanna disturb your day.”

“Naw, you ain’t disturbin’ nothin’. I’m goin’ in anyway.”

You return to shaving, cleaning up the right side of his jaw. “Well, if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Press your lips together,” you say quietly, and he follows your instruction. You use the pad of your thumb to pull the skin of his chin tight and carefully shave around the scarring there. Arthur can’t help but feel quite exposed in this moment, having someone acknowledge him so closely; no shadow, hat nor unfriendly grimace to protect him. You watch his eyes dart about and up. You hear his feet shuffle in the dirt either side of you. This reaction has you opting to not comment on his scars, though a slight pinch in your brow betrays your thoughts.

A lull forms between you again. You’re not quite sure what to say, and neither is Arthur. The two of you silently take one another in, having only been this close once when he untangled a branch from your hair. Sure, he’d done it out of courtesy as you’d had a bucket of water cradled in your arms, but despite his denial, it was also an urge of the heart. Thoughts of how satiny and warm your hair was in the spring sun weave through his nerves as you start to speak again.

“What’re you goin’ in to town for?”

A low, long and dumb hum vibrates his palette as he catches up to the moment, “M’gonna check in with the sheriff, see if he’s got any more bounties.”

You nod slowly in response, focused on his chin.

“I read about that man you caught for him last week. That death tonic slingin’ bastard. You did good catchin’ him.” As you speak, Arthur’s expression morphs with bemusement. He blinks, his lips pursing and he talks over you as you try to tell him to press his lips together again,

“Wha’chu mean read?”

“It was in the New Hanover Gazette,” You pause to look him in the eye, realising what his next question will be, “you weren’t mentioned. Was just a piece on the idiot you captured.” He visibly relaxes with a nod. You nudge his chin with your knuckle, guiding him to press his lips together again, which he does. You clean up his chin, your fingers nimble and wet against his now smooth skin.

“He was a bastard. A peculiar one, too.”

“Sure seemed it if his poster’s anythin’ to go by.” You move on to shaving the left side of his jaw. You pull away to cleanse the razor in water again before leaning back in. Gently, you place your free hand at the side of his neck, using your thumb to pull the skin taut, and you feel his throat undulate as he stifles a hitch in his breath. Months of lacking tender touch makes it feel as though you’d pressed a hot iron to his skin. Arthur feels a buzzing need to speak, to distract himself, so he speaks; his toes wiggling inside of his boots unbeknownst to you.

“What’s your business in town, then?” He glances up at you in time for your gaze to meet his, and you offer a warm smile to which he responds in kind. His toes curl in his boots. You tip his chin up to shave the middle section of his neck, hearing a silent sigh of thanks escape him for the relief in eye contact.

“I fancied myself a trip to the 50 cent show. I’ve heard it’s good.” You murmur with a tilt of your head as you focus. Arthur gives a silent “Oh?” and a raise of his brow,

“It’s interestin’, that’s for sure.”

“You’ve seen it?” You ask, moving to rinse the razor again, glancing at him as he rolls his shoulders a little.

“Mhm. I won’t spoil it for ya.”

“S’mighty kind of you, Mister Morgan.” You quip and he chuckles, watching as your playful snooty expression changes into something akin to mischief. “Now,” you grin, eyes glinting, “It’s moustache time.” You state with a shimmy of your shoulders.

Shock and felicity meld together at his seat and flood up through to his chest, shucking any previous coherence from him as you swoop in close. The sides of your skirts brush at his inner thighs and he swears he can vaguely feel the shape of your hips. His hands move to grasp his outer thighs, steadying himself, resisting the urge to pull back. When you press your thumb to his top lip and pull a little to shave the top edge of his moustache, the touch draws a shaky huff from him. You’re quick to look him straight in the eyes, your body frozen.

“Am I hurtin’ you?” You ask quietly.

The closeness. Your breath, laced with coffee. The musk of whatever homemade soap you use. The spring morning glowing behind you, setting the edges of your hair alight. Your pupils, enlarged from facing into the shade. His mind is already flooding with ways he would draw this moment, your ethereal beauty. And his body is simmering with thoughts of how you feel, whether the rest of you is as soft as your hair. He clears his throat, a tight, choked sound,

“No.”

You scan his face for a moment before continuing your ministrations. The longer you stay so close, the harder neglecting the quickening of your heart becomes. You find yourself taking slower, deeper breaths as you work, purposefully savouring the coalescing scents of Arthur’s shaving soap and skin. You keep the pad of your thumb against his lips, guiding his skin to move beneath it as you shape his moustache.

He notices the way your gaze flits about his face each time you pause to check the shape of the forming moustache - how you linger a little when his eyes meet yours. Each scrape of the razor, each shift of Arthur’s thighs, each sweet touch of your fingers to his skin is like a flint to steel, striking, igniting a fulsome blaze between the two of you. Yet only a moment later, your thumb leaves his lips, lagging in its descent, brushing, leaving a flaming yen behind which he swallows down. It sinks through him and swells warmly within his groin.

“You’re all done.” You say with a smile, washing the razor and wiping it down. You move away to place it on his cot with the rest of the things you’d moved earlier. Arthur takes a deep breath, loosening up his neck and brain with a shake of his head,

“Thank you, Miss.”

He rises from the barrel, not able to check himself in the mirror quite yet to review your work - too busy quelling his full body fluster. He flattens his thumb against a small bit of shaving foam collected on his shirt, scooping it from the fabric and flicking it onto the floor.

“S’my pleasure, Mister Morgan.” You reply, your expression as earnest as your tone as you turn to face him.

Arthur lets out a strained sound when your hand moves to cup his face and the pad of your thumb rubs over the edge of his mouth. He can feel a glob of cool shaving soap mush under your thumb as you rub it away. He hopes that there is more somewhere, perhaps on his jaw, behind his ear, but you pull away again, wiping your hand on your apron. “You do look mighty handsome, especially all gussied up like that.” You murmur, grinning, and Arthur swears he’s heard you wrong.

Another lull begins to creep up between you before he shoos it away with a gentle catch of something trying to leave his throat. Whatever it is breaks down into a shocked, stuttering chuckle, his eyes closing, his head shaking.

“Don’t go startin’ that with me, Miss.” He mumbles, giving you a fond and sheepish expression, one hand swatting at you lazily.

“I’ll start whatever I like, thank you very much.” You snark, walking back to the basket you’d left at the entrance of his tent, bending over and hiking it up onto your hip. Arthur’s eyes snag on your rear, his hand coming up to push his hair back and then rub down his face, his palm grazing over his newly styled moustache as he sighs,

“I’m sure you will.” You turn to him and simper, swaying a little from side to side,

“Would you come to the 50 cent show with me before you meet with the sheriff?” You tilt your head.

Arthur’s breath escapes him yet again, his focus darting away, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror resting sideways on his cot. You’ve done a very good job, as good as you can do on a stretched and exhausted canvas such as him.

“Sure-” He nods, looking back to you, shifting his weight from one hip to the other, “Sure. I’ll join you, if that’s what you’d like.”

“I’d love it, Arthur.” You say, your smile only growing, a sweet sigh leaving you, “I’ll just finish this up-” You gesture with the basket, “And then I’ll get ready. I’ll meet you at the horses?”

“Okay then.” He nods again, a tad nervously now.

“See you soon, Arthur.” You say softly and ramble off to finish your chores across camp. Arthur reorganises his shaving supplies atop the barrel in an awkward and flustered manner. He curses quietly as he knocks and catches the small bottle of aftershave from the barrel before popping the stopper from the neck and pouring some onto his palm. He pats it about his face, and after glancing at you from across the way, pours a little extra into his palm and applies it.

He takes a moment to look at himself in the mirror again, seeing how neatly you’ve shaved his face. His gaze drifts about the parts of his face you’d touched so carefully; his jaw, his chin, his scars, his lips. For the first time in a while, self-loathing and shame aren’t the first things to rip through his head and pool heavily in his lungs. Instead, his thoughts stall long before that looming gate and distractedly wander towards you. How sweet you are towards him. How you called him handsome. How you asked him to the 50 cent show. How he really wants to go with you. How he might just buy you dinner.

Thank you for reading, dear hearts. I love sharing our love of rdr2 together <333 Tags for friends: @kayyqua

[morganbelles]

Hiii i hope you are having a great day/night! I have a request which i have no idea if you have ever done before but you are free to ignore! Can i get a oneshot of arthur w/ farmer's daughter reader? They are so inlove with eachother but reader's father literally hates this outlaw dude so arthur helps with reader sneaking out at night for a quiet date together. Idk i leave the rest to your imagination but i would love some sweet fluff!

eeeek this is so cute!!! i hope you're having a good day as well! anyways i lovedddd this request! it’s giving glenn x maggie from twd 🙂‍↕️ i hope you enjoy reading as much as i did writing it

Occulta Noctem

[lat.: hidden by the night]

plot: arthur helps reader sneak out to celebrate their anniversary

arthur morgan x f!reader, forbidden love, established relationship

warnings: none

wc: 1.4k

Arthur paced back and forth in front of his mirror as he tried on his third shirt of the evening. He usually wasn't one to dwell on his looks, but you made him want to bring out the best in him every time he was with you. He critically eyed himself in the reflection, a man with a freshly-trimmed beard and pomaded hair stared back at him. He was wearing his cleanest white shirt, a black vest and his work pants.

"Well, it ain't gonna get much better than this, old man." He muttered to himself as he stepped back.

He decided to abandon his holster today, a special occasion that required no weaponry. Just in case, though, his trusty Lancaster Repeater was stowed on his mare.

He left Clemens Point as the sun was setting on the horizon, a warm summer breeze that smelled of wildflowers accompanied him on his journey to you. The scent drew him to a meadow, and he decided to pick the most luscious looking blossoms for you. A mix of pink, blue and yellow firm in his grasp, Arthur smiled to himself.

One year. 365 days its been, since he first asked you to dance under the July moon. After longing glances and unfinished conversations under the watchful eye of your father, he resorted to visit you solely with the protection of the night.

Your old man was no fan of him, not that he could blame him. Arthur asked himself everyday how an angel like you would choose a man so clearly destined for worse.

On his way to you, he found himself reminiscing back to your first meeting. He had been working some gigs for your father, protecting his land from Lemoyne Raiders and the likes - he was a smart man, your pa. Quickly figured out that Arthur's marksmanship was not that of a simple cowboy, and just as quickly shooed him off his lands.

He understood. Arthur wasn't usually someone to look back on past jobs or heists, but there was something about the farmer's daughter that had him going back for more. He remembered not being able to get you in that ruby red dress out of his mind, twirling around the farm like no one's business. Ever since he caught himself smiling at the memories, Arthur knew he was done for.

He felt like one of these fools in Mary Beth's novels, throwing pebbles at your window in hopes to see your face. He laughed to himself at the memory of him helping you sneak out with him, like two teenagers in love. You made him feel like no one else in the world ever could, all giddy and flustered by just hearing you laugh at his dumb jokes.

"Easy, girl." He brought his horse to a halt at the fence surrounding your home. Giving the mare a comforting pat, Arthur hitched her to a tree. "I'll be back, I promise."

Quietly, he rustled through the thicket until he saw the farmhouse, a comforting glow emitting from your bedroom window. He took some deep breaths, trying to calm his nerves, before grabbing a handful of small rocks. It had almost become a routine by now, the way he was throwing them to gain your attention.

You jumped from your bed at the small taps on the glass, you had been waiting for his signal all day. As softly as you could, you opened it to find your Arthur standing below, looking up at you with a big smile on his face. You mirrored his expression.

One last time, you straightened your dress and fixed your hair until you silently stepped onto the roofed porch. You had become somewhat of an expert now, after a whole year of doing this. Your feet moved quickly as you climbed down onto the patio, and into Arthur's arms.

He held you tightly for only a moment, but both of you knew that you had to be gone before anyone noticed his presence, your absence. You took his hand into yours, and he led you to his horse without saying a word. Only when you reached the fences of your enclosure, and you heard the comforting whinny of his horse, did you dare to speak up.

"Hello, handsome." Your thumb stroked his hand. "I missed you."

He gave you a small smile, glad for the shadows of the night hiding his pink cheeks. "I missed ya too, darlin'. I prepared a little somethin' for the occasion."

You eyed him curiously when he mounted his mare and lifted you on its' back as well. The comforting feel of his chest against your back made you sink deeper into him, relishing in his warmth.

"Got a bit of a ride ahead of us, you comfortable?" You nodded an affirmative, and he spurred on,

Somewhere on your way to Ringneck Creek, you had fallen asleep to the soft rhythm of hooves and his breathing and only woke back up when you realised that you had stopped.

"Good mornin' sunshine." Arthur joked, the moon illuminating his face. "G'mornin'. You replied, rubbing the sleep from your eyes to take in your surroundings.

He helped you down from the horse and led you to a small pond formed by the stream. Nothing could be heard except for crickets and owls, and the soft running of water. You made your way to the shore, where a blanket was laid down, with a small basket and an oil lamp completing the setup.

Arthur stopped, letting you explore the surprise on your own. He nervously shifted from one foot to another when you opened the basket to find it filled with cheese, bread, wine, and berries.

"It ain't much, I know-" he began, but was quickly interrupted by you falling into his arms and kissing him.

"It's perfect, Arthur. Thank you." You reassured him, earnestly.

"I got a lil' somethin' for you..." He trailed off, struggling to find the right words, deciding to show you instead. Arthur took the flowers from his horse, along with a small box. He made his way over to you again, and sheepishly handed them to you.

"Happy anniversary, darlin'." He whispered, as he expectantly watched you open the package.

Your fingers clumsily fiddled with the bow, the tickle of your nerves spreading through your whole body. Carefully, you opened it to find a beautiful necklace; It was gold, and a single ruby was enveloped in its' flower-shaped charm. You gasped softly.

"Oh, Arthur." Your arms found his neck in a long, tight hug. He lifted you off the ground and spun you in the air, making you laugh.

"Thank you." You whispered in his ear as he put you down, his hands remaining on your waist. "Help me put it on, please?"

"Ya like it? I thought it might match that pretty dress of yours." He hadn't failed to notice that you wore that same one you did back then.

You shivered lightly as you felt his fingers caress your neck, finding the clasps of the necklace and lingering on your bare skin.

"I got something for you, too." You had long struggled to think of a gift for your lover. What does one gift a man like him? You doubted he'd appreciate a houseplant or the likes.

He peered at the gift you had produced from your bag, wrapped in brown paper to hide the surprise.

"You ain't have to, you know that." Arthur scratched his neck, nerves apparent in his demeanour. He took the gift nonetheless.

It was a picture of you, standing in front of the farmhouse. The frame was made of wood, with a meticulously carved pattern of vines and flowers. He looked at you smiling in the photograph, and back up at you in front of him, the same expression gracing your face.

"Turn it over." You urged softly. He did as he was told.

So you remember where to go if you feel lost. He read in your handwriting, signed below. He looked at the picture again, fingers caressing the glass over your face.

"I-" he found himself getting lost in your eyes - your real eyes in front of him. "I love you." His quiet words meant more to you than any other gift he could have gotten you.

"I love you too, Arthur." Your hands found the flower charm on your necklace and you leaned into his chest once again, never having felt safer in your life.

"I ain't ever gonna feel lost as long as I have you."

[all-my-love-for-harry]

Dangerous Chemistry

pairing; jake seresin x bradshaw fem!reader

summary; Jake finally meets someone who matches his freak... too bad it's Bradley Bradshaw's little sister.

word count; 9.3k

warnings; porn with very little plot!!!! SMUT, size kink, oral (fem and male receiving), overstimulation, fingering, mentions of bdsm (not used), dom!jake, switch!reader, jake becoming pussy whipped REAL FAST, dirty talk, nipple play, rough sex, choking, hair pulling, unprotected sex (don't do that!!), aftercare,

a/n; this is so nasty, i apologize in advance. i am, in fact, ovulating. also there are some songs references so let me know if you catch any!!

masterlist

For an event meant to celebrate excellence, the Navy’s annual gala was astonishingly dull. The ballroom shimmered with gold light and soft music, floral arrangements taller than your torso lined every table, and hundreds of uniforms moved through the space with effortless, rehearsed formality. It should have been glamorous. It should have felt elegant and exciting. But instead, it felt like you were trapped in the world’s most boring snow globe.

You sat alone at a round table dressed in navy blue, an empty champagne flute hooked loosely between your fingers as you turned it in slow circles. The stem clicked against your nail each time you rotated it, a quiet, repetitive tap that matched your boredom a little too perfectly. You’d taken your time getting ready, choosing the kind of dress that made you feel confident, powerful, almost luminous under the soft lights. Your hair fell just right. Your makeup was flawless. You looked like someone meant to be seen.

And Bradley Bradshaw had left you to collect dust approximately eleven minutes after escorting you inside.

He hadn’t meant to disappear, not originally. He’d walked you in, pointed out the layout of the room, found your table, and promised he’d be right back after grabbing you both drinks. Then a brunette at the bar turned toward him with a smile that could have been seen from space, and Bradley, predictable as the tide, drifted in her direction like a sailor following a siren’s song. That had been… forty minutes ago. Maybe more.

Now you were alone with your thoughts, your empty glass, and the sinking realization that bringing you as his date had been more of a technicality than an intention. Couples glided across the dance floor, command officers traded stories near the stage, and the clinking of silverware rose and fell like rainfall. Everyone seemed perfectly entertained except you.

You shifted in your seat, the satin of your dress whispering against the chair, and let your eyes wander out of sheer desperation. No one looked particularly interesting. No one looked at you at all, really. You could have been a statue planted there for decoration. You lifted your empty flute as if debating whether another drink would help or simply make the night feel longer, and you exhaled a small, frustrated breath that fogged the rim of the glass.

It was that quiet, irritated sigh that caught someone’s attention.

You weren’t aware of it, not at first. But across the ballroom, a pair of sharp green eyes had drifted lazily around the room in search of amusement and landed on you like they’d been pulled by gravity. Lt. Jake Seresin had been pretending to listen to a conversation he wasn’t truly invested in, nursing a half-finished drink and scanning the crowd for anything remotely interesting. And then he saw you — a stunning woman sitting alone, looking both dangerously pretty and dangerously bored — and he straightened a little, expression shifting from polite disinterest to something keen.

You didn’t see him move. He excused himself with practiced charm, rolled his shoulders once as if slipping into a different version of himself, and began making his way through the crowd toward you. His walk wasn’t rushed or obvious, but there was purpose in the way he cut across the room, weaving between officers with the effortless confidence of a man who never questioned whether he belonged somewhere. The lights caught the brass on his dress blues just enough to make him stand out, though he hardly needed help.

You remained blissfully unaware until his shadow stretched across your table and a smooth, warm drawl dipped into your evening like a drop of honey.

“Well now… leaving an empty glass in front of a woman that pretty ought to be considered a crime.”

Your head lifted, startled out of your boredom.

And Jake Seresin was standing there, smiling like meeting you had just become the best part of his night.

Up close, Jake Seresin looked like trouble wrapped in a uniform: all confident posture, golden hair, and a grin that said he’d been complimented his entire life and never once gotten tired of it. He lifted your empty flute between two fingers, inspecting it as if it offended him personally.

“Whoever let this happen,” he said, tilting the glass thoughtfully, “doesn’t deserve to be within ten feet of you.”

You arched a brow, letting your gaze sweep over him slowly, deliberately—just enough that his smile twitched. “Bold assumption,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “How do you know I wasn’t the one who did it?”

“Sweetheart,” he replied, bending slightly so he could speak just for you, “I don’t believe for a second you’d let yourself get bored.”

You hummed, amused, tapping a manicured finger against the tablecloth. “Maybe I was waiting for someone worth my time to show up.”

That earned you the kind of look men usually tried to hide—the quick, sharp flicker of interest that flashed behind Jake’s eyes before he settled back into that lazy confidence of his. He gestured toward the empty chair beside you.

“Mind if I fix your evening?”

You gave him a slow, knowing smile. “That depends. Are you any good at it?”

Jake laughed under his breath, the sound low and rich, before he pulled the chair out and sat without waiting for permission—because of course he didn’t. But the way he angled his body toward you, knees nearly brushing yours, made it clear he wasn’t here to waste time.

“I’m excellent at it,” he said simply.

You plucked the champagne flute from his hand and set it down. “That sounds like something a man would say before disappointing me.”

His grin widened, teeth bright, eyes sharp. “Darlin’, I don’t disappoint.”

You tilted your head, pretending to inspect him. “You sound very sure of yourself.”

“I am.”

You smiled, slow and feline. “Good. So am I.”

For a moment he just looked at you—really looked at you, like he was trying to figure out where exactly you’d come from and how the hell he’d gotten this lucky. Then he leaned back, draping an arm casually over the back of your chair, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his sleeve.

“So,” he began, voice dipping into something playful, “a woman like you didn’t show up to this thing alone.”

“Didn’t I?” you teased.

“Nope,” he said, too quickly. “Not buying that. Someone brought you. Question is: who’s the idiot that left you sitting by yourself?”

You shrugged, the movement making your dress catch the light in a way that momentarily stole his train of thought. “Maybe he got distracted.”

“Then he’s dumber than I thought.” Jake lifted his glass, taking a slow sip while his gaze stayed firmly on you. “Should I be worried he’s coming back to claim you?”

You matched his easy tone with one of your own. “I don’t know. Should you?”

He set his drink down, leaning in with a confidence you recognized instantly—because it was the same brand you carried. “Depends,” he said. “If he’s the jealous type, I could be in trouble. But if he’s the blind type… then I think I’m doing him a favor.”

Your lips curved into a smirk. “You don’t even know who he is.”

“I don’t need to.” Jake’s gaze flicked over you, deliberate, appreciative, unhurried. “All I know is he’s not here. I am.”

You let that settle for a moment before raising a brow. “And what do you plan on doing with all that opportunity, Lieutenant?”

His eyes gleamed, and your heartbeat picked up just slightly—not that you’d ever let him see it.

“Well,” he said, voice warm enough to melt pearls, “I thought I’d start by making sure you never get bored again tonight.”

You lifted his champagne glass off the table, took a small, teasing sip, and set it back in front of him.

“That’s a big promise,” you said.

“And I’m a man who keeps his promises.”

You leaned closer, your lips a breath from his ear, voice sweet and wicked all at once. “I guess we’ll find out… won’t we, cowboy?”

Jake inhaled sharply, a tell you savored immediately. “You keep talkin’ like that,” he murmured, “and it won’t just be your glass I’m refilling tonight.”

“Good,” you said, settling back in your seat with a slow smile. “I like a man who follows through.”

And Jake Seresin—poor, clueless, very interested Jake—looked at you like he was already imagining following you anywhere.

—

Jake hadn’t even been sitting beside you for ten minutes, but the air between you already felt warmer, charged, like someone had turned the dimmer switch low and decided to simmer the two of you just for entertainment.

He said something smart-mouthed — something cocky and wicked and absolutely designed to get a rise out of you — and you laughed, slow and throaty. Then you let your hand fall casually onto his thigh, fingers resting just above the sharp line of his uniform crease, nails grazing fabric like you didn’t quite realize what you were doing.

Jake realized.

His breath hitched barely, but you caught it. You always caught things like that.

“So,” you murmured, letting your thumb sweep once along the inside of his leg, “you were saying, Lieutenant?”

Jake leaned closer, way too close, close enough that you felt the warmth of his breath at the hinge of your jaw. His voice dropped, honeyed and deliberate. “I was saying… I think you enjoy gettin’ yourself into trouble.”

You tilted your head slightly, playing innocent. “Me?” you whispered. “Not at all.”

“Liar,” he murmured, lips brushing just close enough to make your pulse jump. “You walked right into my evening like you were lookin’ for something to break.”

You leaned in too, matching his tone, your nose nearly brushing his. “Maybe I’m just looking for something fun.”

His eyes flicked to your mouth — quickly, hungrily — before returning to your gaze. “Darlin’, if you wanted fun, all you had to do was ask.”

You laughed softly, stood up without warning, and let your fingers trail along the length of his jaw as you whispered, “Come on then. Let’s see if you can keep up.”

Jake followed. Of course he did.

You led him out of the ballroom with the kind of confidence that made him swallow hard, weaving through the crowd until you found a quiet hallway dimly lit by gold sconces. It curved away from the main floor, shadowed, empty — forgotten.

You stopped beside a recessed bit of wall, turned, and before he could say a damn thing, you grabbed his dress blues by the front and pulled him into you.

Jake’s back hit the opposite wall first. Then he recovered. And when he did, he caged you in, reversing the entire situation in a heartbeat and pressing you back into the hidden corner like he’d been waiting to do it all night.

You looked up at him — forced to, with the height difference — tilting your chin just enough to meet his eyes. And then… you batted your lashes.

Soft. Sweet. Fake innocence painted over molten intent.

Jake’s breath left him in a quiet, reverent curse he didn’t even fully voice. His entire posture changed; his body hovered close, drawn like he physically couldn’t stop himself.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice rougher than before, “you keep lookin’ at me like that and I’m gonna forget we’re at a damn gala.”

“Maybe I want you to forget,” you whispered back.

He didn’t wait another second.

Jake’s mouth hit yours with the kind of heat that had been building since the moment he spotted you — firm, hungry, but controlled enough to show he knew exactly what he was doing. You kissed him back just as fiercely, your hand sliding up to his collar to pull him closer, your body arching against his in a challenge rather than surrender.

He pressed you harder into the wall; you nipped his bottom lip in retaliation. He growled softly — actually growled — and you smirked against his mouth, delighted.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet, it was a collision — two confident people testing who would give first.

Jake tried to deepen the kiss, trying to take control. You refused, kissing him back with equal claim, fingers threading into the hair at the back of his neck and tugging just enough to make him let out a low, startled sound he clearly hadn’t meant to give you.

His hand slid to your waist, firm, possessive without being presumptuous, and his other braced beside your head as if he needed the support. Your lips parted; his followed; your tongues brushed, and both of you inhaled sharply at the same time.

Jake pulled back just barely, panting softly, forehead pressing to yours. “You’re… somethin’ else,” he breathed, stunned and breathless in a way you doubted he even recognized.

You smiled, eyes half-lidded, lips swollen from kissing. “You started this,” you whispered.

“And you’re gonna finish me,” he muttered, almost dazed, eyes flicking down to your mouth again.

Your fingers slid down the front of his uniform deliberately slowly. “I might,” you said, playing with the fabric like a promise.

Jake’s hand tightened at your waist, his control hanging by a thread. “You’re dangerous,” he murmured.

“So are you.”

“You’re—” He cut himself off by kissing you again, harder, like whatever he was about to say slipped straight into action instead.

Jake broke the kiss with a sound you felt more than heard, breath hot against your lips as he dragged his mouth down your jaw and onto your neck. His lips brushed your pulse once—soft, fleeting—before he sank into you properly. He kissed the spot beneath your ear with slow, deliberate pressure, then nibbled gently, then sucked just hard enough to make your knees weaken.

Your fingers curled into the front of his uniform, and the tiniest sound slipped out of you—sweet, warm, embarrassingly inviting. Jake froze when he heard it, then exhaled a low curse against your skin before kissing you again, this time open-mouthed and hungry, like he was tasting dessert.

You tugged lightly at his jacket, a silent invitation, and Jake groaned into your throat as if that was the confirmation he’d been praying for.

He lifted his head, breathless, lips brushing your ear. “You wanna get outta here?” he asked, voice gravel low and desperate in a way that made your stomach flip.

You didn’t bother answering with words. You nodded once, slow and deliberate, and Jake’s hand closed around yours instantly—warm, firm, claiming without trapping—as he pulled you out of the hallway and back toward the gala entrance.

His stride was purposeful. You followed easily, almost floating as the two of you stepped out into the cool night air. Jake dropped your hand only long enough to hand a valet ticket to the young man in a crisp suit. The valet’s eyebrows lifted when he saw the number on it.

“Right away, sir.”

Moments later, the engine of a very expensive car purred before you even saw the headlights. A sleek Porsche 911 Cabriolet, black, polished to a mirror, glided to a stop in front of the two of you. Convertible top down. Impossibly sexy. Undeniably Jake.

He opened your door like a man who’d been raised right, offering his hand as you stepped in. His touch lingered just a little longer than necessary before he closed the door gently and circled around to the driver’s side.

The moment he settled into his seat, the car came alive with a deep, smooth roar. Jake’s hand gripped the wheel; the muscles in his forearm flexed; his jaw clenched slightly as he tore out of the valet lane with confidence he absolutely enjoyed showing off.

You reached over, plucked his phone from the console, and typed your address into the GPS with the ease of someone who’d already decided exactly how the night would end. Jake glanced your way, eyes flicking briefly from the road to your lips as you handed the phone back.

“Good girl,” he murmured, softer than he meant to.

You let your hand fall casually onto his thigh.

Jake tensed immediately. Not in fear. In anticipation.

You didn’t stop there. You let your palm drift higher, slow, teasing, wicked—your fingertips brushing closer and closer to the place he most definitely didn’t want touched if he planned on driving safely.

His breath stuttered. His grip on the wheel tightened. His jaw ticked.

“Sweetheart…” he warned, voice unsteady in a way that made you smile.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you leaned across the center console, lips finding his neck, and you began to kiss him—slow at first, then deeper, doing exactly what he’d done to you back in that dark hallway. You felt his pulse jump. Felt the way his breath caught. Felt the way his whole body reacted to the heat of your mouth.

“Darlin’, I’m drivin’,” he said through clenched teeth, trying and failing to sound unaffected.

“Are you?” you teased against his skin, your breath warm, your fingers slipping a little higher.

Jake inhaled sharply, the sound half-laugh, half-groan. “I swear,” he muttered, “you’re gonna get us pulled over.”

You giggled, brushing your lips higher along his jaw. “Maybe you should pull over yourself,” you whispered, voice dripping with mischief, “and we can… share one seat.”

Jake’s hand slipped off the wheel just long enough to grip the edge of your thigh, firm and possessive.

“Keep talkin’ like that,” he murmured, voice dark and wrecked, “and I just might.”

The Porsche surged forward, the engine growling as Jake accelerated—not reckless, but absolutely not calm.

He was drunk on you. Already. Entirely. And the night had barely begun.

Jake barely had time to suck in a breath before you reached out and toyed with the top button of his dress blues, your fingertip dragging just under the edge of the fabric like a dare. He let out the softest, roughest curse — the kind a man makes when he’s trying very, very hard not to lose the last shred of control he has.

He didn’t succeed.

He yanked the steering wheel to the right, pulling into the first empty patch of curb he saw. The car hadn’t even fully settled before he threw it into park and turned to you like he’d been starving for years.

His hands cupped your jaw immediately, warm and firm and hungry, guiding your mouth to his. The kiss hit like a spark to dry tinder — sudden, scorching, impossible to put out. Your hands fisted in the front of his jacket, dragging him closer even though there wasn’t an inch left between you.

“Jesus,” he muttered against your lips, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You didn’t give him time to think. You slid one knee over the console, then the other, letting him haul you the rest of the way until you were straddling him in the driver’s seat, your skirt riding scandalously high along your thighs. His hands were everywhere — over your hips, your waist, the curve of your back, memorizing every place he could touch and aching for the places he couldn’t yet.

The hood was still down. The cool night air kissed your bare skin while Jake’s much hotter hands moved over it, the contrast enough to pull a soft, involuntary sound from you. His answering groan was low and broken, like it punched straight out of him.

You rolled your hips without thinking, instinct meeting instinct. Jake’s breath stuttered; his hands tightened on your waist; his head tipped back like he was in pain from how good it felt.

“Fuck, I—” he murmured.

You cut him off by kissing him again, deeper, slower, deliberately ruining his sentence and his composure. Your arms looped around his broad shoulders, struggling to meet behind him — he really was that big — and the slight, helpless gasp he let out when your nails grazed his neck only fueled you more.

His fingers slid up your sides, tracing the shape of you through satin and skin, thumbs brushing just beneath the edge of your dress in a way that made your pulse spike wildly. Your own hands wandered too, exploring the hard lines of his chest, the strength under his uniform, the heat radiating off him in waves.

Every shift of your hips pulled another sound from him, another ragged exhale, another “sweetheart—” whispered like a warning he didn’t want you to listen to.

You didn’t.

You pressed closer, lips brushing his jaw, his throat, the sensitive place just beneath his ear. He shuddered hard enough that you felt it all the way through you, grip tightening on your waist like he needed something to hold onto.

Your voice was a slow, wicked whisper against his skin. “What’s wrong, Lieutenant? Thought you could handle me.”

His laugh came out strangled. “I can.” His mouth found yours again, fierce and breathless. “God help me, I definitely can.”

And with your body moving against his like you were made to fit there, with the night air cold on your back and him hot everywhere else, with the car rocking subtly under the two of you, it was very, very obvious that he meant it.

Eventually — eventually — you pull away from him in the front seat, both of you breathing like you’d just sprinted a mile uphill. Jake looks wrecked in the best possible way: hair messed from your fingers, lips swollen, pupils blown so wide they swallow the green. He takes a beat before he can even speak.

“We’re… we’re driving,” he mutters to himself, like a man repeating instructions in a crisis.

You slip back into the passenger seat, smoothing your dress as if you hadn’t just climbed across his lap and fried every one of his neurons. Your smirk is downright sinful. Jake’s stare lingers on you for a second too long — then he forces his eyes back to the road and shifts the car into drive.

His knuckles turn white around the steering wheel.

He’s trying so hard not to look at you. He fails every ten seconds.

The muscle in his jaw ticks as he clenches his teeth, and it’s almost funny how obvious the tension is — physical, coiled, demanding. He adjusts in his seat with a frustrated exhale. The evidence of how badly he wants you strains against his uniform pants, and the longer the drive goes on, the worse his restraint gets.

You don’t help, not even a little.

You trail your fingers along the inside of his forearm, featherlight, making him shiver. You let your heel tap against his thigh, just enough to remind him how close you are. How small you feel next to him. How big he is compared to you.

By the time he pulls up to your place — a small, one-story home tucked behind a fence — Jake doesn’t even glance at it. Not the neighborhood. Not the porch. He barely registers the curb.

He’s laser-focused on you.

You open your door and he’s there instantly, coming around the car with a purposeful, almost predatory step. His hands find your waist the moment you stand, bigger and hotter than you remembered. You swear his whole body aligns behind yours like instinct — broad chest pressed flush to your back, his breath warm against your ear.

“Open the door,” he murmurs, voice low, already kissing a path down your neck.

You fumble with your keys because he won’t stop. His hands bracket your hips, keeping you pinned against him, and the contrast of your height against his becomes its own kind of thrill. He’s massive around you — long limbs, wide shoulders, the whole of him boxing you in. You can practically feel the satisfaction rolling off him at the size difference.

“You’re killing me,” he says into your shoulder, and God, he sounds enchanted.

The lock finally clicks.

You push the door open.

Then you turn on him.

You fist a hand in the collar of his uniform and drag him inside with a force that knocks the breath out of him. For someone barely reaching his chest in heels, you move him like he weighs nothing.

Jake’s lips part — surprised, delighted.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he laughs under his breath, “you’re—”

You don’t let him finish. You pull him down to kiss you again, hard, hungry, claiming. He shuts the door behind him blindly, never taking his hands off you, only to find himself pressed back against it when you push him.

He laughs again — breathless this time — because he didn’t expect you to be this strong-willed, this bossy, this willing to take the lead.

He likes it way too much.

“Bedroom,” you say against his mouth.

And he doesn’t fight, not even a little. He lets you shove him off the door. Lets you take his wrist. Lets you drag him down the hallway as though he belongs to you already. And tonight he does.

He follows willingly, eagerly, eyes locked on your hips, your shoulders, the way your small frame commands the space.

You barely make it two steps into the room before your palm lands on his chest and you shove. Not hard enough to hurt him — just hard enough that he goes, landing on your bed with his back sinking into the mattress, arms flaring slightly in surprise.

Jake’s head lifts immediately, eyes dragging over you with a hunger that’s almost reverent.

You climb onto the bed after him, one knee sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips until you’re straddling him. Even now, even with you on top, he feels massive beneath you — long torso, broad chest, those strong hands already itching to touch.

You lean down first.

Your lips crush into his in a kiss that’s more a claim than a greeting. He answers with a low sound you feel all the way to your toes. You bite his bottom lip on purpose — slow, firm, deliberate — then tug it between your teeth. Jake’s breath stutters, and the second you release him, his hands slide up your back with a kind of desperation he tries (and fails) to hide.

He’s searching for something, you feel it in the way his fingers map your spine.

Then he finds the zipper.

You hear it before you feel it, that soft, slow whisper of fabric giving way. His eyes stay locked on your face the whole time as he drags it down… down… down… and the dress loosens around your shoulders. He nudges it off with his fingertips, following the cascade of fabric as it falls to your hips, then off completely.

You’re left in nothing but black lace.

Jake makes a sound — not a groan, not a curse, something deeper, something that comes from the bottom of his chest. His head falls back for a second like looking at you actually takes him out.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice rough, “you’re—”

You cut him off with a smug roll of your hips that earns you another breathy, helpless exhale.

He helps you kick the rest of the dress away, hands warm on your thighs, greedy in the way they travel your skin. You sit up straighter, letting him look — because you want him to. Because the way he stares at you makes your pussy wetter by the second

Then you lean down again, but this time your lips find his ear. Your voice drops to a whisper soft enough to make goosebumps rise along his neck.

“Not fair you’re still wearing all that.”

He smiles — slow, dangerous, unbearably cocky — his head turning just enough that his nose brushes your cheek.

“Well,” he drawls, arrogant and inviting all at once, “sounds like you’ve got a problem to solve, darlin’.”

His hands settle on your hips, fingers flexing, “Go on,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded as he looks up at you, “fix it.”

You accept his challenge with a slow, knowing smile. Then you start undoing his uniform.

The first button pops open beneath your fingers, and you lean down to kiss the newly exposed skin — warm, taut, already tense with anticipation. Another button. Another kiss. You work your way down the crisp fabric, your mouth following the trail your hands create, and Jake melts back into the mattress with a soft, low sound that’s dangerously close to a groan.

Piece by piece, the layers come off.

His jacket, his shirt, his undershirt. They land somewhere on your floor, forgotten the second they leave his body.

By the time you’re done, he’s down to nothing but his boxers — and every inch of him on display looks like something carved out of pure ego and muscle. His chest is broad and golden under your bedroom’s soft light, his abs tight and defined like they’d been sculpted rather than grown. He’s breathing harder than he should be, muscles moving beneath his skin like they’re alive.

You stare, of course you stare. And Jake notices instantly, of course he notices.

“You see something you like, sweetheart?” he asks, and then — because he’s him — he subtly flexes. His arms, his chest, the cut of his abs, everything hardens under your gaze, and it’s such a shameless show-off move that you actually laugh under your breath.

You’re kneeling between his legs by then, small and wicked and absolutely in control. When you look up at him, lashes lowered, lips parted, expression soft and sinful — Jake’s breath visibly catches.

You nod. Slowly, teasingly. Then you lean in.

Your hands glide up his thighs first, just enough pressure to make him inhale sharply. Then your mouth follows — pressing kisses to his hipbone, then higher, over the ridges of his stomach. His skin jumps beneath your lips, muscles twitching like your touch is too much and not enough at the same time.

You take your time.

Open-mouthed kisses along the line of his abs, a playful nibble beneath his ribs that makes him hiss through his teeth, another kiss right over his sternum.

He props himself up on his elbows, eyes locked on you, chest rising and falling like he can’t get enough air. His gaze is sharp, hungry, watchful in a way that makes heat coil deep in your stomach. He tracks every shift of your body, every dip of your head, every place your mouth lands like he’s memorizing it.

Your lips move higher, dragging a slow, teasing kiss right over his heart. His hand lifts like he means to touch your face, but he stops himself — barely — fingers curling into the sheets instead.

“Careful,” he warns, though his voice is already fraying at the edges, “you keep worshipping me like that, I’m gonna start thinkin’ you’re tryin’ to ruin me.”

You smile against his skin, wicked and sweet.

If only he knew.

Jake holds it together longer than any sane man would, but the second your mouth trails too close to where he’s already aching for you, something in him snaps.

His hands close around your waist — strong, decisive, claiming — and before you can react he flips you onto your back like you weigh nothing. Air leaves your lungs in a startled gasp, your hair fanning across the sheets, your small frame suddenly under him instead of over.

He braces himself above you, one hand beside your head, the other still warm on your hip. His smirk is devastating.

“My turn,” he murmurs, eyes dragging over you like he’s about to devour you whole.

You bite your lip, smiling up at him with lazy challenge. “Be my guest, handsome.”

Jake’s pupils darken so fast it steals a low sound out of him. You arch your back just enough to make his breath catch, your chest lifting toward him. He follows the motion instinctively, sliding his hands beneath you to find the clasp of your bra.

The hook gives with a soft click.

He pulls the straps down your arms, slow, almost reverent, and tosses the last piece of lace aside. The moment you’re bare beneath him, he goes still — eyes sweeping over your body like he’s seeing something he knows he’ll crave for a long, long time.

“God,” he says under his breath, voice roughened, “you’re… unreal.”

Then he lowers himself.

He starts at your collarbone, lips warm and open against your skin. He kisses down your chest with a patience that feels almost torturous, every inch of his mouth a promise. His hands slide along your ribs, his thumbs brushing your sides as he moves lower. You feel the heat of his breath, the slow drag of his lips, the occasional scrape of his teeth that makes your stomach clench.

You suck in a shaky breath when he reaches the curve of your waist. Your hips twitch — his smirk deepens.

He keeps going. Wet, deliberate kisses down the slope of your stomach. One just above your hipbone, another just below your navel.

Your breath hitches the moment his mouth hovers near the top of your panties — so close you can feel the warmth of him, so close you swear he can hear your pulse.

He doesn’t touch you where you want him. No, the teasing bastard skips right over it.

Instead, he kisses the inside of your hip, slow and maddening, before sliding back up your body in a torturous trail of heat and lips and tongue.

By the time he reaches your mouth again, you’re breathless.

He kisses you deep, slow, claiming — like he wants you to taste exactly what he’s been doing to you. His hand cups your jaw, tilting you up into him, and you swear he’s smiling against your lips.

“Think you can handle it?,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheekbone, throwing your words back you.

You lie sprawled out beneath Jake's massive frame, your body humming with need, those thin panties clinging to your soaked pussy like a second skin. The air in the room hangs heavy with the sharp tang of your arousal, mixing with the faint musk of his sweat as he hovers over you, eyes dark and predatory. His rough hands grip the edges of your panties, yanking hard until the fabric tears with a sharp rip, exposing your dripping folds to the cool air.

You gasp, the sudden exposure sending a jolt straight to your core, but before you can snap at him for ruining them, he's already shifting down your body, his strong fingers digging into your hips.

Jake doesn't waste a second. He drags you closer by your thighs, spreading them wide, and buries his face right into your pussy. His hot mouth latches on, tongue lashing out to lick a broad stripe up your slit, tasting every bit of your wetness. You buck instinctively, trying to grind against him for more, but his grip tightens, one massive arm pinning your lower stomach down flat against the mattress.

“Greedy little thing,” he growls against your skin, the vibration making your clit throb. “I'm gonna eat this pussy until you're screaming.”

His lips seal around your clit, sucking hard, tongue flicking relentlessly while he devours you like he's been starving for days. The wet sounds of his mouth working you fill the room, sloppy and obscene, your juices smearing across his chin.

Your hands fly to his hair, fingers tangling in the thick strands, tugging hard to keep him right there. He groans into you, the sound rumbling through your pussy, and it only makes you wetter. God, his tongue feels like fire, swirling and probing, dipping inside your entrance before sucking your clit again. You whine, hips twitching under his iron hold, the pressure building fast and fierce.

Then his free hand slides up, a thick finger pressing against your hole. He pushes it in slow at first, stretching your tight walls around his girth—his hands are so fucking big, one finger alone feels like it might split you open. You gasp loud, back arching as he starts pumping it in and out, curling it just right to hit that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes.

“Fuck, you're so tight,” Jake mutters, voice muffled against your pussy. He adds a second finger without warning, scissoring them wide, thrusting deeper while his mouth never lets up, lips sucking your clit like it's his lifeline. The stretch burns so good, your pussy clenching around him, sucking his fingers in deeper.

You cry out, “Oh my god, Jake!” as the coil in your belly snaps. Your orgasm crashes over you hard, walls pulsing, gushing all over his hand and face. Your legs shake uncontrollably, thighs clamping around his head, but he doesn't stop—keeps fingering you through it, tongue lapping up every drop like it's the sweetest nectar.

You scream again as a second wave hits, even stronger, your body convulsing under him. “Too much—Jake, fuck!” you gasp, oversensitive nerves firing wildly, but he just growls and drinks you down, his hips grinding against the sheets, his cock straining hard against his boxers.

The friction must be killing him, but he's focused on you, sucking until you're a trembling mess. Finally, you can't take it anymore—you yank at his hair, pulling him up your body. His face glistens with your cum, lips swollen and smug.

“Need you inside me” you beg, voice hoarse, hands shoving at his boxers.

They slide down, and his thick cock springs free, slapping heavy against his ripped abs. It's massive—veiny, flushed red, pre-cum beading at the tip, making your mouth water.

You wrap your hand around it, squeezing the hot, throbbing length, feeling it twitch in your grip.

Jake moans deep, head falling back. “Shit, baby, I'm not gonna last if you keep jerking my cock like that.”

He swats your hand away roughly, positioning himself between your legs. The blunt head of his dick nudges your soaked entrance, rubbing up and down your slit, coating himself in your slick.

You moan, thrusting your hips up to take him in, desperate for the stretch. “Fuck me,” you whimper, and that's all he needs.

Jake slams forward, burying his cock inch by thick inch into your pussy, stretching you wider than ever before. It burns, the fullness overwhelming, your walls fluttering around him as he bottoms out, balls pressed tight against your ass.

“So fucking tight for me,” he grunts, holding still just long enough for you to adjust, your nails raking down his broad shoulders, leaving red crescents on his skin.

Then he pulls back and thrusts in hard, setting a brutal pace—hips snapping against yours, cock pounding deep with every stroke. The slap of skin on skin echoes loud, mixing with your desperate moans and his ragged breaths. “Not so chatty now. Eh, sweetheart?”

You open your mouth to answer, but all that comes out is another gasp when he buries his face in your chest, mouth latching onto one nipple, sucking it hard between his teeth before biting down. The sharp sting shoots straight to your clit, making you clench around his pistoning cock.

“You like that, huh? Dirty little thing,” he rasps, switching to the other nipple, tongue swirling before nipping again. You arch into him, head thrown back, exposing your neck. He takes the invitation, lips trailing hot kisses up to your throat, sucking marks into the skin while he fucks you relentlessly, cock dragging against your walls, hitting that spot over and over.

“Harder, Jake—fuck my pussy harder,” you gasp, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. He obliges, thrusts turning savage, the bed creaking under the force. Your bodies slick with sweat, his massive frame dominating yours completely, every slam pushing you closer to the edge again.

But he's not done yet—his hand slides between you, thumb finding your clit, rubbing circles as he pounds away, drawing out more filthy sounds from your lips.

Your body tightens like a vice around Jake's pounding cock, the relentless rub of his thumb on your swollen clit sending you spiraling. The third orgasm rips through you without mercy, your pussy clenching hard, milking his thick shaft as waves of pleasure crash over you.

You scream his name, vision blurring, every nerve ending on fire while your juices soak his balls and the sheets below.

“Fuck, yes—cum on my cock,” Jake growls, his thrusts never slowing, slamming deeper through your spasms. He thinks he's got you broken, fucked so stupid you can't even string words together without gasping, your mind a haze of bliss.

But your ego flares hot—fuck that, you're not done fighting for control.

With your legs still locked around his waist, you summon every ounce of strength, twisting your hips sharply. The momentum rolls you both over, his massive body flipping beneath you with a surprised grunt, his cock staying buried deep inside your dripping pussy.

You land straddling him, thighs clamping his hips, and you grab his wrists, pinning them down on either side of his head against the mattress. His eyes widen in shock, dark and hungry, not expecting you to turn the tables like this.

Realistically, you know you couldn't overpower him if he fought back—he's bigger, stronger, built like a goddamn tank—but he lets you, his muscles flexing under your grip, a smirk tugging at his cum-smeared lips.

“Surprised, big boy?” you taunt, voice breathy but defiant, as you start riding him hard. Your hips roll in a punishing grind, soaked pussy sliding up and down his veiny length, using his cock like your personal toy to chase another high. The stretch feels obscene, his girth splitting you open with every drop, your clit grinding against his pelvis.

Wet squelches fill the room, your arousal dripping down his balls. You release his wrists, hands sliding up to his neck, fingers wrapping around his throat in a light choke—just enough pressure to make his breath hitch, his eyes flashing with raw lust.

“You like that? Me taking what's mine?” you whisper, squeezing a bit harder, feeling his pulse race under your palms.

Jake gasps, the sound rough and needy, but he doesn't stay passive. His huge hands clamp onto your hips, fingers digging bruises into your skin as he yanks you down harder, slamming you onto his cock with brutal force.

“Oh, you're playing dirty now,” he rasps, voice strained from your hold. One hand releases your hip, shooting up to wrap around your throat in retaliation—his grip firmer, possessive, cutting off just enough air to make your head spin in the best way.

You'd wear his hand like a fucking necklace, the pressure making your pussy flutter around him. His other hand tangles in your hair, yanking back sharply to expose your neck, your tits bouncing with the force.

He surges up, back slamming against the headboard, pulling you with him so you're chest to chest, his cock driving even deeper.

“Aren't you sneaky? Might have to tie you up, baby, keep that wild ass in check,” he snarls, eyes locked on yours, thumb pressing into your windpipe just right. The threat sends a thrill straight to your core, your walls clenching him tight.

Despite the slight burn in your lungs, you smirk down at him, grinding slower to tease.

"Good thing chains and whips excite me," you shoot back, voice husky, nails scraping his chest as you pick up the pace again, riding him like you own him.

That flips a switch. Jake plants both feet on the bed, knees bending for leverage, and thrusts up savagely, his hips bucking to meet yours. His cock spears into you over and over, balls slapping your ass, the fight for dominance electric—neither of you yielding an inch.

You choke him tighter; he squeezes your throat harder, hair-pulling yanking your head back as he bites your collarbone, marking you. Sweat slicks your bodies, the room reeking of sex, your moans turning to guttural cries with each punishing stroke.

But he's had enough of your rebellion. With a feral growl, he surges forward, flipping you onto your back again—your head now dangling off the foot of the bed, the world upside down in a dizzying rush. His hand stays locked on your throat, pinning you down, while the other roams your body greedily.

Fingers pinch your nipples hard, twisting the sensitive peaks until you yelp, the pain sparking straight to your throbbing clit.

“My turn to fuck you senseless,” he grunts, cock plunging back in, pounding your pussy with renewed fury. His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing rough circles, while his mouth descends to suck a nipple into his hot mouth, teeth grazing the bud.

You writhe under him, legs spreading wider, nails raking his arms. “Yes—harder, harder,” you gasp, the choke making every word a desperate plea. His thrusts turn erratic, cock swelling thicker inside you, veins pulsing against your walls.

Jake's obsessed—your tight, defiant pussy gripping him like a vice, so different from the submissive girls he usually breaks. You want to break him, and fuck, it's driving him wild.

“Shit—gonna cum, baby, gonna fill this pussy,” he warns, voice breaking, hips snapping faster, the bedframe rattling.

But you shove at his chest with all your might, pushing him off and onto his back. Dropping to your knees between his legs, you grab his slick cock—coated in your cream—and shove it into your mouth. The salty tang of your mixed juices floods your tongue as you bob deep, throat relaxing to take as much as you can.

Your hand pumps the base, twisting, while you hollow your cheeks, sucking hard. Looking up through your lashes, you see his head thrown back, abs clenching.

“Fuck—yes, swallow my cock,” he groans, hands fisting your hair, twisting it into a ponytail to guide your head. You gag as he thrusts shallowly, saliva dripping down your chin, mixing with pre-cum.

Then he explodes—hot ropes of cum shooting down your throat, thick and endless. You swallow every drop, moaning around his pulsing length, the taste bitter and addictive making your pussy clench emptily.

Jake's groans echo loud, body shuddering as he holds you in place, fucking your mouth through his release. When he's spent, you pull back slowly, tongue lapping the underside, cleaning every inch. He hisses at the overstimulation, cock twitching sensitive in your grip.

Your lips still tingle from Jake's thick cock, the salty tang of his cum coating your tongue as you savor the last drops. You're kneeling between his spread legs on the rumpled sheets, your knees digging into the mattress, heart pounding from the way he just exploded down your throat.

His chest heaves with ragged breaths, sweat glistening on his broad, muscular frame, that cocky grin already creeping back onto his face despite the exhaustion.

Jake props himself up on one elbow, his green eyes locking onto yours with that playful spark. He lets out a breathy laugh, wiping a hand over his stubbled jaw. "Fuck, doll, and here I thought I was gonna rock your world tonight."

His voice is rough, laced with amusement, but you can see the heat lingering in his gaze, the way his cock twitches slightly against his thigh, not fully soft yet.

You giggle, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly, your body still buzzing from the intensity. Crawling up, you flop down beside him, your naked skin sticking to the damp sheets.

"Guess you're not that good at thinking then, huh?" you tease, turning your head to meet his eyes, your pussy throbbing and slick between your thighs, untouched but aching from the buildup.

He mocks a gasp, clutching his chest dramatically, but it dissolves into another low chuckle that vibrates through the bed. His eyes drop then, roaming down your body without shame—over your flushed tits, the curve of your hips, straight to your pussy.

It's a mess, lips swollen and glistening with your own arousal, juices smeared on your inner thighs from grinding against nothing while you sucked him off. Jake's cock gives another visible twitch, thickening just a bit at the sight, and you feel a fresh pulse of heat low in your belly.

Before you can say anything, he swings his legs off the bed and stands, giving you a full view of his tight ass flexing as he moves. Muscles ripple under his skin, that confident stride taking him toward the bathroom.

You can't help it—a sharp whistle escapes your lips, playful and hungry. "Damn, look at that ass," you call out, biting your lip as you watch him go.

Jake glances over his shoulder, shaking his head with a smirk, but you catch the way his cock bobs with the motion, half-hard again already. "Keep whistling like that, and I'll come back and fuck that mouth quiet," he shoots back, his voice dripping with that dominant edge that makes your clit throb.

“Promises, promises.”

He disappears for a moment, the sound of running water faint in the background, and returns with a warm, damp cloth in his big hand. Without a word, he climbs back onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. His hands are firm as he rolls you onto your back, your legs falling open instinctively. "Spread 'em," he murmurs, his tone casual but commanding, eyes fixed on your dripping pussy.

You comply, parting your thighs wide, exposing the slick folds to the cool air. The warmth of the cloth hits first, Jake's touch gentle but thorough as he wipes away the mess—your arousal, the faint traces of his earlier precum that might have dripped.

It's intimate, this aftercare, his broad chest hovering close, the scent of his sweat and cum still heavy in the air. You hiss softly when the fabric grazes your sensitive clit, but you relax into it, your body melting under his care.

"If you wanted to touch me again, you could've just asked," you tease, your voice breathy, a giggle threatening to spill out as his hand lingers a second too long on your inner thigh.

Jake's eyes flick up to yours, that smirk widening into something wicked. Before you can react, his finger—thick and calloused—slides right into your soaked pussy, no warning, no buildup. It stretches you just enough, curling slightly inside your tight heat, and a sharp moan rips from your throat, swallowing your teasing words whole. Your walls clench around him instinctively, greedy for more, the sudden intrusion sending sparks up your spine.

"Who said I needed permission?" he growls low, pumping that finger once, twice, feeling how you drip around it, your juices coating his skin. His thumb brushes your clit in a lazy circle, making your hips buck up off the bed. Fuck, he's good at this—teasing you right to the edge without mercy, his cock hardening fully now against your leg as he watches your face contort in pleasure.

You gasp, grabbing at his wrist, but not to stop him—hell no, you want him deeper, rougher. "Jake... shit, don't stop," you whine, your voice turning slutty and desperate, pussy fluttering around his invading finger.

He chuckles darkly, adding a second finger without hesitation, scissoring them inside you, stretching your walls while his free hand pins your hip down.

"Look at you, so fucking wet for me already. Sucked my cock like a good girl, and now this pussy's begging for it."

His dirty talk hits like a drug, words rough and urgent, his breath hot against your neck as he leans in closer. The wet sounds of his fingers fucking into you fill the room, obscene and loud, your arousal slicking his hand all the way to his wrist.

Your tits heave with each thrust of his fingers, nipples hard peaks begging for attention, but Jake's focused lower, twisting his digits to hit that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. You moan louder, thighs trembling, the afterglow twisting into something raw and urgent again.

His cock presses insistent against your side, leaking precum onto your skin, and you know he's not done — not by a long shot.

He pulls his fingers out abruptly, leaving you clenching around nothing, a frustrated whimper escaping your lips. Licking them clean with a deliberate slowness, he meets your hazy gaze.

"Taste like you need more than a tease," he says, voice gravelly, tossing the cloth aside and settling his body over yours, his hard length nudging your thigh promisingly.

—

Jake woke with the kind of bone-deep ache he usually associated with a brutal training day, except this time it had nothing to do with dogfighting and everything to do with you.

Every muscle in his body reminded him, pleasantly and a little sharply, of the night before—your hands clawing at him, your legs locked around his waist, the way you’d begged and taunted and pulled him back for more until neither of you could remember if the number was two rounds or three or four.

You were still asleep beside him, sprawled in the sheets like you’d been poured there. The thin blanket barely covered you, falling low enough that he could see the faint marks he’d left on your collarbone and the curve of your breast, along with the deeper ones he could swear matched the shape of his teeth.

He smirked at that, then felt the sting on his own back when he moved. God, you’d scratched him to hell. And he’d loved every second of it.

For a moment, he just sat there, feet on the floor, running a hand over his face as he let the quiet settle. Sunlight crept through the blinds, warm and soft, catching on the mess of clothes scattered from the door to the bed. His underwear ended up half under your dress. He stepped into them, stretching slowly, shoulders rolling, the long line of his back flexing as everything in him protested in a good, satisfied way.

Coffee. That seemed like the smart next move. Something normal, something grounding while he waited for you to wake up all lazy and smug, probably planning to tease him for how wrecked he currently felt.

He eased the bedroom door open, careful not to wake you, and padded into the hallway. Last night had been too dark, too frantic, too much of your mouth and your hands and your laugh echoing in his head for him to notice anything beyond you.

Now he actually saw your space—pictures lining the walls, framed moments of your life. You with friends, you alone with a bright smile, you as a kid missing a front tooth, and a teenage boy who had to be your brother or some cousin because the resemblance was there but not copy-paste.

He kept walking, still half-distracted by how good he felt and how much he wanted to crawl back into bed with you. Then he passed the large frame hanging dead-center on the next wall.

Your degree.

His steps faltered, then stopped completely.

His vision did not betray him. He blinked anyway, once, twice, then leaned in as if getting closer would somehow change the letters staring him straight in the face.

Bradshaw.

The name punched the air right out of his lungs.

For a second, Jake didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Everything in him went cold, then hot, then cold again. All of last night replayed in his head at warp speed—your laugh, your mouth, the way you’d moaned his name, the way he’d bitten down on your throat because you’d told him to.

He ran a hand through his hair, stared at the degree like it might start explaining itself, and felt the full weight of the situation crash over him.

He had just spent the night doing every filthy, hungry thing he’d ever fantasized about to a woman who might as well have been crafted for him… with Bradley Bradshaw’s sister.

He was so dead.

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[fcrtna]

dear santa,

arthur morgan,

thanks.