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

[distressyincognito]

𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐑𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐟

Rusty x fem!reader (Ocean's Eleven, 2001)

18+ smut | word count: 3.9k | The Hotline Operator Series Part I.

“Can you help me relax…” Rusty asks after thinking it through, humor still laced within his vowels. “Please.”

Summary: When your favorite client, Rusty, calls your phone sex hotline while he’s having some trouble thinking through a job, you break your string of innocent conversations to offer him some stress relief. 

Warnings: Phone sex; sex work; mutual masturbation; slight edging; you teach Rusty how to give up some control; and Rusty is very vocal in return; it’s not explicitly said but there’s def some mutual pining vibes here so you can run with that if you’re a romantic like me lol; mdni!

Author's note: This is a week late and not what I planned on posting, but the dirty thoughts won. Forgive me (enjoy) <3 Check out my explanation of the above power scale here if you’re curious!

Update: This is now Part I of The Hotline Operator Series! Check out Part II here.

You let the phone on your bedside nightstand ring once, twice, three times, before picking up the receiver. 

“I’ve been waiting for your call,” you say breathlessly. “Tell me what I’ve gotta do to hear that handsome voice of yours.” 

There’s a pause—which isn’t uncommon. It’s the mark of a first timer, or a shy soul briefly overtaken by desire. You’ve learned how to view silence with patience. Pauses are only awkward when shame is allowed to creep in. 

“That’s a new opener,” the familiar voice says after a crinkle of static, smooth with a tired edge that makes his words rumble. “I like it. Pretty believable.” 

You smile as you press the phone between your ear and your shoulder, freeing up your hands for the never-ending pile of laundry stationed in front of you. Slow weeknights are great for chores, and sex hotline regulars are great for putting you at ease—especially this one. 

“Because it’s true, Rusty,” you say cheekily. “You’ve left me lonely for far too long.”

Another pause. You get more comfortable on the bed and reach for a shirt to fold. 

“I forgot how good you are,” he mumbles. 

You hum at his reply. “No you didn’t.” 

“No I didn’t,” Rusty says, and the smirk is evident beneath his words. 

“And yet, no calls,” you say dramatically. “No letters. No gifts.”

“I’ve been unkind,” he admits, playing along. 

“You’ve been cruel,” you say, sighing mournfully. “Is there someone else?” 

“There’s not many women reachable at 2am,” Rusty says. 

“Is that all I am to you?” 

“Of course not,” he says easily. “There’s also not many women who are obligated to pretend to like me.” 

You can’t help but laugh. “I’m sure it’s because the rest of them don’t have to pretend.” 

You don’t like to make assumptions about your clients—there are plenty of reasons to call a hotline and most of them aren’t inherently sexual—but Rusty is smart and kind with a little too much game. He doesn’t seem to be lacking in experience. 

“Well, I’ve been told I work too much,” Rusty says, vague as always. Which has always made you curious about his mysterious late night job. He calls when work is slow to pass the time, and you’ve come to appreciate your aimless chit-chats between your other more demanding clients. He makes for an excellent flirting partner, but you two have never dipped into anything sexual. 

“Overnight security has its cons, I guess,” you phish. 

Rusty chuckles. “Not even close.” 

You sigh as you finish up folding your first article of clothing. “What’s today’s snack then?” 

There’s another crackle on the line. “Chips: salt and vinegar.” 

“I guess your good taste starts and ends with me.” 

“Are you this judgmental toward all of your clients?” 

“Just the ones that chew in my ear.” 

A loud crunch follows, just to prove a point. You grin in the face of it.  

“What’s on today’s chore list?” Rusty asks in return. 

You frown at the still looming pile of clothes in front of you. “Laundry day—which I found out the hard way.” 

“Let me guess: mismatched socks?”

You look down at your feet. “One’s short and plain, the other’s blue and fluffy.” 

“Mmm,” he hums jokingly. “What else are you wearing?” 

“An oversized t-shirt covered in mysterious stains,” you say as you pull the fabric away from your skin. 

Rusty groans performatively. The bass in his voice sends an unfair ripple down your spine. “You’re killing me over here,” he rasps. 

You bite your lip in surprise. “Someone’s playful today.”

“More like restless,” he says with a sigh. “This job is…”

He doesn’t say anything else. And this time, it’s the kind of silence that puts the ball in your court. 

“Anything I can do to help?” You ask carefully. Because, well, you have one very specific way of helping out your clients and you’re toeing a very careful line here. But you’d be lying if you said you haven’t thought about the version of Rusty you might find once you cross it.

Rusty takes another pause. This one is full of calculation. You grab another article of clothing while you wait for him to measure the pros and cons of whatever outcomes he’s conjured up in his head. 

“I’m fine,” he says after a while, and it’s hardly convincing. “Just want to hear your voice. Distract me.” 

You swallow down your disappointment—and your guilt about being disappointed—as you finish folding your item. You’ve never wanted to do your job more, but boundaries are boundaries, and you always respect them. 

“Wanna hear about the dream I had last night?” You ask instead, pivoting as you shift the phone receiver to your other ear. 

“That depends,” Rusty drawls, back to smooth and cool. “Was I in it?” 

You purse your lips to drown your smile, even though you’re only hiding it from yourself. “You’re proud of that one, huh?” 

“Little bit,” he says, smiling through the words. “Go on.” 

Huffing, you reach for another article of clothing before launching into your story. “So I don’t remember all of it,” you warn. “But I’m pretty sure I was trying to convince my best friend to go on a road trip with me to a lake house…”

☏☏☏

It’s not until you’re on your last piece of laundry, that you notice the silence from Rusty’s end. To be fair, you fall into these comfortable grooves often—Rusty and you both working on different things in different places—but you’re more used to the sound of snacking and rhetorical questions as the night dwindles on. This is complete and total quiet. 

You peak over your piles of folded laundry to eye the timer next to your work phone. An hour has passed. Your boss doesn’t care about how you spend the time as long as your clients are spending, but that still doesn’t stop you from feeling like you’re getting away with something whenever Rusty calls—especially on a night like tonight. 

“Rusty?” You ask as you give your neck a break from the soreness of holding up the receiver, tilting your head from side to side and switching hands. 

“Mhm,” he responds immediately, but it doesn’t feel like he’s all the way there. 

“You know I love your company,” you say. “But so does my company.” 

That gets an amused huff out of him, at least. “I told you before,” Rusty says like he always does. “It’s no trouble for me if it’s no trouble for you.” 

“It’s not,” you say like you always do. “But you seem lost in your own thoughts tonight.” 

Rusty doesn’t say anything. You know you shouldn’t push, but you don’t like the sharp ache of concern that’s starting to poke at your side. 

So, sighing, you grip onto the receiver with both hands before asking, “What’s on your mind, baby?”

His breath hitches at your tone. It does wonders for your ego.

“This job…” Rusty explains. “There’s a lot riding on this one—a lot of people riding on this one. I’ve done all I can and now it’s all riding on luck. It’s a less than preferable position to be in.” 

You nod, even though he can’t see you. “It sounds like you’re responsible for a lot. It also sounds like a lot of people willingly put their trust in you.”

“That’s the job,” he says simply. 

“No,” you say, chuckling. “That’s probably just you having a big heart. You’re in a position like this because you care.” 

Rusty scoffs, but he doesn’t bother to deny it. In fact, he doesn’t say anything. A silence settles between you, and you know you should let it rest, but your mouth opens before your mind can catch up:

“But who takes care of you?” You ask before biting your lip at your own audacity. 

Silence. Deafening. And then—

“I know what you’re doing,” Rusty says weakly. 

You chuckle in relief. Pretending that this is more about your job instead of the fondness you’ve always had for him makes for an easy out, and you’re fine with taking it if it means you can help. 

“I’m serious, Rusty,” you say with still too much honesty. “You seem to take on a lot, and it seems… lonely.”

Rusty sighs. “In my line of work, it’s imperative that I’m not this easy to read.”

“Well in my line of work, it’s imperative that I can see right through you,” you point out. 

More silence. Anticipation swells in your chest. And then—

“I might have a problem with…” Rusty admits quietly. 

“…relinquishing control?” You finish for him, soft and open. “Yeah, I might’ve gathered that.” 

“It’s—

“The job. I know, baby,” you say in agreement. “But tonight, that could be my job,” you offer. “I could talk you through it… I could take care of you.” 

And just when you think you’ve gone a little overboard, Rusty meets your words with a resigned moan that makes it all worth it. 

“You’re way too good at this,” he mumbles. 

“Mhm,” you say, smiling to yourself. “Which is how I know I can help you turn that brain of yours off. All you gotta say is please.”

Rusty chuckles. “You’re gonna make me beg?”

He’s laughing now, but you doubt he’ll be laughing later. 

“Not yet,” you respond without skipping a beat. “Right now, I’m just looking for confirmation. Wanna make sure I can give you what you want, and I can’t do that until you ask me, loud and clear.”

Rusty takes a second to think. 

“Can you help me relax…” he asks shortly after, humor still laced within his vowels. “Please.”

A wave of giddiness washes over you. 

“Of course, Rusty,” you purr. “Anything for you.” 

His breath hitches. “That’s just… unfair.” 

Giggling, you sit up in your bed. “What am I taking off of you tonight?” 

“A suit,” he says quietly. “Light blue.” 

“Hmm,” you hum appreciatively. “Special occasion?” 

“No,” he says slyly. “I just live in them.” 

“That must mean you look good in them,” you say, unable to stop yourself from imagining him. The suits feel right, though—and not just because he can afford frequent hour long chit-chats about everything and nothing. 

“Still probably not as good as you,” Rusty says, as if it’s a fact. “Mismatched socks and all.” 

It trips you up. It shouldn’t, but it does. 

You hesitate, and you can almost hear him smile through the line. 

“Are you wearing a tie?” You ask, ignoring the flutter in your chest.

“Uh-huh.”

“Loosen it for me,” you direct. 

The line rustles.

“Lean back,” you say slowly. “Spread your legs. Get comfortable.” 

“I didn’t know you could be this demanding,” he says, but you hear the tell-tale signs of a creaking chair from a shift in weight. 

“And I didn’t know you could be this obedient,” you say, grinning. “Sounds good on you.” 

He grunts, but it’s more amused than displeased. 

“Have you been thinking about this?” You ask teasingly. “Me getting you out of your clothes, and talking dirty in your ear?”

Rusty doesn’t answer, but another creak of his chair tells you that your words have hit where it matters. 

“I’ve been thinking about it,” you admit. Because as much as the firm tone of his smooth voice is comforting, you’ve been wondering what it’d sound like when drenched in desire. “All the ways I can make you come… undone.” 

“Yeah?” Rusty asks, breath slightly hollow. “What did you come up with?” 

“It starts with me telling you that you’re doing a good job,” you say innocently. “Because I don’t think you hear that often enough.” 

He swallows hard. “I don’t need praise.” 

“But you like it, don’t you?” 

Rusty huffs. You grin wider. 

“You like being good for me. You like knowing that you’re pleasing me,” you say, pausing to let the words stew. “How hard are you right now?” 

Another creak. 

“Very,” Rusty says weakly. 

“And yet, you await fully clothed for my further instruction,” you hum with pride. “See how good you are? That’s why you’ve always been my favorite.” 

This time, Rusty groans. And it’s real, lacking all composure and constraint. He mumbles something to himself before asking, “What are you doing to me?” like an inside thought, words heavy and desperate with a disbelieving edge. 

And those words settle right between your thighs. 

You squeeze your legs together as your body grows warm, nerves starting to sing with their own arousal. Few calls on the job have turned you on like this—like a flame you can’t ignore. 

“Nothing yet,” you say while trying to keep your composure. Your mouth grows dry as you try to ignore the throbbing in your core. “You don’t have much of a tolerance for teasing, huh?” 

“I’m usually on the other side of it,” he admits. 

“So I’m the only one that gets to hear you like this?”

“Only you,” he promises, but it’s twinged with a shyness you’ve never heard from him before. “Only for you.” 

A pleased moan spills out of you. Your whole body starts to ache with need. 

“That voice of yours,” Rusty says with shaky breath. “I need…” 

And normally, you would drag this out just a little bit longer. But you don’t know how much longer you can keep your hands above your own waist either. 

“Belt?” You ask with new urgency. 

“Mhm.” 

“Off,” you command. “Let me hear it hit the floor.” 

Metallic clacking vibrates through the line before a heavy thump hits your ears. 

“You never asked me what I had on underneath the shirt,” you say as you lay back down on your bed. 

“I didn’t think I could handle the answer without us getting here,” he admits. 

A smile crosses your lips. “Unbutton. Unzip.” 

A quiet zing swims between you. 

“Ask me,” you say, but your words are so laced with desire that you might as well have replaced ‘ask’ with ‘fuck.’

Rusty takes a deep breath. “What’s hiding beneath your shirt?” 

“Let me check,” you say, before gliding your hand up your bare thigh, and pushing the fabric of your t-shirt up with each inch. You imagine your fingers are Rusty’s, and the thought makes your skin tingle with anticipation. 

“Oh yeah,” you say, feigning surprise once you spread your legs and reach the place where your underwear should be. “I’m not wearing anything.” 

Rusty whines. It’s a shy, clumsy sound that lights you from the inside out, and makes your clit spark with lust. 

“I can’t believe I fell for that,” he says incredulously. 

You giggle as you slide your fingers against your arousal. Wetness greets you in kind, and another moan spills out of you. 

“Need to get your dick as wet as I am,” you say breathlessly. “Place your fingers in your mouth, baby. Suck on ‘em for me.” 

Rusty’s obedience is immediate. His following hum is muffled by suction, and you can only imagine the mess he’s making. 

“I bet you’d look so pretty with my fingers down your throat,” you say, gasping as your fingers continue to brush and stroke against your sensitive flesh. “Forced to keep all your attention on me.” 

The next sound he makes is even more desperate—a guttural groan that vibrates through the line. 

You can’t take it anymore. 

“Rusty,” you pant as your thighs tense, just as desperate to end this self-denial. “Touch yourself. Imagine it’s me. Tell me how good I make you feel.” 

His chair creaks, and then a beautiful, indulgent moan follows. His breath is sharp and thin as he rasps, “So good.” 

The roughness of his voice makes your back arch off of the bed. Those two words send a jolt of electricity down your spine, and flick an insatiable switch in you. 

“You’re lucky you’re so cute,” you say, huffing as you apply painfully-awaited pressure to your throbbing clit. You’re met with a new wave of euphoria that makes your lips pout around a muffled whimper. “Next time I ask,” you say as evenly as you can, “you’ll need to be more specific.”

Rusty hums in agreement, and then he moans, resigned and overwhelmed. “I wish it was your hand wrapped around me, instead of mine,” he says breathily. 

You didn’t expect the small confession, but it only spurs you on. “Me too, baby,” you say, sighing in delight as you swirl your fingers. “But my hands are too busy dealing with how turned on you’ve got me.” 

His chair creaks again, mixed in with a low, rumbling groan. “You’re not just saying that?” 

You pull the receiver away and lower it to your sex. Your fingers play in the wetness pooling around your pussy—slick, loud, and unmistakable. “What do you think?” You ask after returning the phone back to your ear. 

Another beautiful moan greets you, and it’s even more broken than the last one. “I think you’re unbelievable,” he says in disbelief, words shaky and slurred.

“And I think you’re hot when you let me take control,” you say as your excitement continues to build. “Keep stroking for me, let me hear you.” 

And he does just that. His grunts and moans start to mix with the lewd smack of his self-pleasure and the insistent squeak of his chair. You play with yourself as he unravels, meeting the pace of his strokes with your own slick rhythm. Each of his steadily building whimpers lights you on fire. 

“I wish I could see you,” you breathe, already growing light-headed at the thought of release. “Wish I could see just how I managed to reduce ‘mister confident and composed’ into a loud, whiny wreck.” 

“Fuck,” Rusty cusses, dazed and overwhelmed. “I’m gonna—“

“Not yet,” you order calmly. But you’re almost there too, hips bucking and riding your own hand. 

Rusty covers up a whimper with a desperate groan, causing you to laugh. “What if I ask nicely?” 

“Worth a shot,” you say as fondness joins your attraction. 

“Can I come?” 

“Mmm,” you say, pretending to think it over. “No.” 

Rusty whines brokenly. “That was just mean.” 

You laugh again, mostly to release some of the tension from your own building bliss. “I just figured you would want to come with me instead.” 

“Yeah,” he pants desperately. “Yes.” 

You hum in approval. “Lucky for you, I’m close. Wanna help get me there faster?” 

“Mhm.” 

“Tell me a secret,” you say before you can think it through. You’re not even sure where you’re going with this, but your mind is too clouded by desire to care. 

Luckily, Rusty has the perfect answer. 

“You have the prettiest—" he huffs “—Sexiest—“ he growls “—most intoxicating voice I’ve ever heard in my life. I can’t get enough of it… I can’t get enough of you.” 

And well… that does it. 

Your muscles tense as you start your own ascent toward euphoria, climbing hard and fast with your head craned back and your lips parted. 

“I can’t,” he whines. 

“Not yet,” you squeak in between working yourself faster, vision growing dark at the corners. 

“Ugh,” Rusty rattles. “Please?” 

You’re almost there. So close. Right at the edge. 

“Ask me one more time,” your prompt, voice wobbling. 

“Please, can I come?” Rusty begs. 

Something in you snaps. 

“Yes baby, come for me,” you say, and it’s a miracle you can even get the words out. 

Rusty’s release is immediate. He cries out, beautiful and wrecked, and that’s all it takes for you to follow, reaching your peak with a tremor that takes over your whole body. 

Everything fades away except for the sound of Rusty’s grunts and whimpers. Your own moans mix with his as you shiver and shake, harmonizing into a song only you two can share.

“Good job, baby,” you praise in the throws of your ecstasy. You’re still floating, but Rusty’s voice manages to ground you. “You were so, so good for me.” 

It takes some time for both of you to come down. Heavy breath dominates the shared line until you can find enough of your bearings to form words.  

“Thank you for letting me take care of you,” you murmur as you place your hand over your heart. Your whole body is covered in a light layer of sweat, and the evidence of your satisfaction lies sticky and abundant between your legs. 

Guess you’ll have to wash the sheets too. 

Rusty says something incoherent. But then he tries again, maneuvering the phone with static. “I can’t believe I just...“ he says, elated, exhausted, and incredulous—all at the same time. 

“Oh no,” you say, giggling through the aftershock. “Don’t do that. You have nothing to be ashamed of. I could get drunk off of your orgasm.”

You hear a smack, and you can only imagine it’s his hand over his face. 

“Do you blush?” You tease. “You’re totally blushing.” 

“I’m…” he says hesitantly before mumbling, “that’s enough out of you.” 

A loud, indulgent laugh spills out of you instead. It’s riddled with all of the high of your simmering climax, and laced with all of the giddiness of your night with him.

“I’m usually way better at aftercare than this,” you say between your lingering chuckles. “I’ll stop making fun of you, I swear.” 

Rusty sucks his teeth. “No you won’t,” he says, back to his playful self. 

“No I won’t,” you say back, smiling all over again. 

“Did you really—“

“Oh, I came. I haven’t come that hard in—“

“Yeah,” Rusty agrees quietly. “I guess that means I really am your favorite.” 

“You are, whether we keep doing this or not,” you promise. “How do you feel?” 

“Pretty relaxed, actually…” he trails off. 

And this silence, you recognize too. Because it doesn’t take long before Rusty’s chair squeaks and its wheels roll across the floor. Scribbling follows like clockwork, scratchy and urgent. 

You smile at the familiar sound of Rusty in the zone. “See?” you tease. “All you needed was a little stress relief.” 

He grunts in distaste but doesn’t say anything else. You’ve lost him to his thoughts for real this time. 

Chuckling, you crane your neck to squint at the timer by your bedside again. “I’ll leave you to it then. You’ve indulged me enough for one night.” 

Rusty hums before the words actually register. Then the phone crackles. “Thank you,” he says softly. “I needed that.”

You grin as your own face warms. “Anything for you,” you say seriously. “Goodnight, Rusty. Good luck with the job and don’t be a stranger this time.” 

Rusty snorts. “I think we’re past that, sweetheart.” 

You ignore the way the term of endearment tickles your chest. “You’re right. We’re on a petname basis now.”

“Practically married,” he says smoothly. 

“Phone sex so good, I’ve got you thinking about marriage,” you say cheekily. 

You can practically hear him roll his eyes. 

“Goodnight,” Rusty says pointedly, but a chuckle slips through anyway. “Don’t have any more weird dreams without me.” 

And sure enough, after your shift ends in the early hours of morning and your freshly changed bedsheets greet you, you close your eyes and dream of dirty blond hair and brilliant blue eyes.

P.S. I tend to include bonus scenes in the DVD commentary recaps within a week after posting my fics. Thanks for reading!! <3

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 | 𝐃𝐕𝐃 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐲

[risingtripletaurus]

wow

[yespolkadotkitty]

Promised

This is a request from @radaofrivia​ - sorry love, your original ask got eaten! Stephen gets jealous and moody when a local Earl throws a party.

A sequel to Tryst

At dinner, all the conversation was geared around the local big landowner, an Earl, and the party most of the tenants were invited to, a few nights hence, on Midsummer’s Eve.

“His son is turning twenty-one, and rumour has it, wants to marry,” your mother twittered, all aflutter. She eyed you and your sister. “Perhaps one of you will catch his eye. New dresses for you both, I think.”

Your father looked up briefly, but didn’t protest. You all knew this was the best chance at “marrying up” you’d ever have, out here, anyway.

Your brother rolled his eyes. “Boring. Parties are boring when it’s all grown ups.”

“But just think of all the food!” your sister exclaimed, eyes round. “Pheasant and sweets and roast potatoes and baked fish!”

Beside you, you felt Stephen’s hand clench on your thigh.

Keep reading

[yespolkadotkitty]

bb I know you’re busy with other stories rn but if you ever get around to it can I request more Stephen smut from I Capture the Castle 🥺👉🏼👈🏼 cuz what you wrote was fire and I need more 😖

Tryst

a sort of sequel to Bluebells.

After breakfast, you waited until everyone had left the room and then dipped your hand into your pocket, smiling as your fingers brushed the soft petals of a bluebell.

Stephen had started making a habit of slipping one into your pocket during mealtimes - the one time you’d be together with everyone, where he could touch you casually without anyone noticing.

You’d only managed one tryst since your first time, the others being unwittingly thwarted by your brother and sister, or Stephen being summoned for one of his many labouring tasks.

Every time you saw him at lunch, breakfast or dinner, your face heated. On the occasions he sat next to you, he’d slide a hand up your thigh, his fingers circling on your skin, pushing the hem of your dress up. It was certainly a challenge to keep your face placid as he stroked you, touching near but not quite where you needed the pressure.

You gave the bluebell one last fond stroke and then bent to your chores. It was Sunday, so your brother would be at the next farm over with his friend, and your sister always spent Sunday reading her stories, dreaming and sketching. 

The laundry hung and the logs for the kitchen fire restocked, you hurried down to the bluebell field as fast as your legs could carry you, skidding on the loose gravel of the woody path. The sun shone down through the criss-crossing tree branches, casting dappled shade on to the little hideaway where the bluebells made a peacock-blue carpet.

You turned into the hollow to find Stephen sitting among the bluebells, leaning back on his forearms, wrist deep in bluebells. His braces hung loose down his arms, shirt unbuttoned at the neck. His hair was messy, ruffled, an errant curl brushing one eyebrow, and he was so beautiful that he stole your breath.

He called your name and sat up, opening his arms, and you crossed the bluebell carpet towards him, sinking into his lap and cupping his face. Half a day’s beard roughened his face and you welcomed the tiny hurt on your palms.

Stephen dipped his head and kissed you, and you parted your lips to give him easy access. He tasted of hot, sweet tea, and the richness of the roasted fish you’d had served at lunch.

“I missed you,” you whispered against his lips.

“I missed you, too.” He captured your mouth again, lifted your hips, encouraging you to hook your legs around his waist. Pressed this close, you felt his erection laying heavily against your stomach, and your inner muscles clenched.

“Stephen…”

“I want you,” he rasped, one hand flicking open the buttons of your simple linen shirt dress. “Say yes, say we can have each other.”

“Yes, a thousand times yes,” you whispered back. Stephen used both hands to support your back and lowered you gently, bending his head to suckle at your nipples one by one. You gasped, tunnelling a hand through his tumble of chocolate curls, grasping at the silk of his hair as he sucked, licked, and used his teeth. Each tug of your nipple was answered by a fluttering of your inner muscles. 

You used your free hand to pull at his shoulder and he overbalanced, both of you laughing as you sprawled the bluebells together. A bee buzzed lazily overhead as you opened your legs, Stephen settling easily between them. He pushed the hard ridge of his cock against you and you moaned, long and low, trailing your hand between your bodies to open the placket of his trousers.

Stephen let you a low groan as you palmed him greedily, then, remembering how he’d made you feel that first time, you pushed him on to his back, sending him a little grin as you moved down his body.

Stephen cupped your chin. “I didn’t - I don’t expect-”

“You’ll have to manage,” you teased, and started to lick him. You had no idea if he’d had it done to him before, no idea what really to do, but you let his little gasps and groans be your guide, flicking your tongue over the head of him, using your nails to scrape gently at the base of him. He bucked into your mouth, hands fisted in the grass, until finally he nudged your shoulder.

“I want to come inside you. Not like this.”

You gave him one last lick, feeling immensely powerful, and then lifted your skirts, climbing on top of him.

Stephen’s gaze went dark and hot as you took his hand and guided it to your entrance, letting your eyes drift closed as he teased you, finding the little hub of nerves and stroking it with just the right pressure. You pressed into his hand as he grasped his cock and guided it to you. Your orgasm hit just as he started to slide inside you, and you gasped, your heart skipping a beat at the blissfully full sensation.

“Christ,” Stephen groaned as he seated himself fully. You braced your hands on his chest, and he settled his hands on your hips, helping you set a rhythm. The forest twittered around you, birds singing and flowers dancing in the wind as you moved together. You bit your lip to stifle a cry as Stephen lifted a leg, changing the angle and hitting somewhere new, triggering a second climax.

“Oh, fuck-” he muttered, and then he spilled into you, and you slumped on to his chest, his heart thundering under your ear.

“Will it always be like this?” you asked, as he cuddled you close, the sun warming your back.

“I hope so.”

He sounded drowsy, and you leaned up to kiss the firm line of his jaw. In the distance, a dog barked, and the summer breeze teased at the hem of your skirts. It was a perfect afternoon. “I hope so, too. Keep leaving me the bluebells.”

Tagging folk who might like this: @spookyxpeach @iloveyouyen @ohjules @littlefreya @raspberrydreamclouds @andahugaroundtheneck @ly--canthrope @chamomilebottom @lilliannaansalla @henrythickcavill @owillofthewisps @promptandpros @penwieldingdreamer @asylummara  @dancingwendigo @constip8merm8 @thethirstyarchive @readings-of-a-cavill-lover @cavillhavoc @gazzan-a @peakygroupie @brexrif @townmoondaltwhistle @dr-kayleigh-dh

[yespolkadotkitty]

OK, so, @lokimostly​ and I thought that Henry’s character Stephen in I Capture the Castle got a raw deal and wanted to make it right. She beta’d this for me! You don’t need to have watched the film to enjoy this.

Porn without plot. 2,260 words. Warnings: Loss of virginity, M & F.

Leaning on the fence, you stared out at the field of cows. Your father had loaned a bull from a neighbouring farmer and the animals were…. Getting rather busy to say the least. You watched in astonishment as the piebald bull mounted the brown cow, penis snaking out to enter her. The cow’s eyes rolled and you wondered that she didn’t collapse under the enormous weight of the bull.

“He’s not hurting her.”

Your foot slipped on the fence and you turned to see Stephen Colley a few feet away, hefting a wheelbarrow full of picked crops.

“If you were worried about that,” he added in that soft country accent.

His tumble of hair, the colour of the chocolate you got to taste so rarely, living here in the sticks, curled boyishly over his forehead, his blue eyes the colour of the sky on a humid summer’s day. His shirt was unbuttoned to the top of his worn, tweed waistcoat. He was a few years older than you, had been working on your father’s estate since before you could remember.

You’d watched him grow from a boy into a man. Seen the small nicks on his jaw when he’d first learned to shave.

Keep reading

[gonewestward]

Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader

౨ৎ A Ribbon For Your Thoughts

"But even when I'm quiet / I love you, baby, I promise"

— Olivia Rodrigo / "honeybee"

Arthur photo cred ★ | other photos and dividers are from pinterest

⟢ pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

⟢ warnings: smut (18+, mdni), consensual sex, p in v, emotional smut, mutual pining, tenderness, YEARNING!!!, acts of service, Arthur Morgan fell first, awkward Arthur Morgan, emotional intimacy, reader caught snooping, Arthur hides little keepsakes of you

⟢ word count: ~2.1k

You hadn't meant to go rummaging through Arthur Morgan's things.

You're a curious girl; you couldn't help it. That's what you'd tell him if he caught you crouched beside his cot anyway, one hand buried in the old wooden chest he kept at his bedside.

Dutch had sent him out with Javier just before sunrise, and you thought Arthur left behind the book you'd been searching for—the one he swore he hadn't taken, despite seeing him with it tucked beneath his arm not two nights ago.

The book wasn't in the chest, but a small tin was. Hidden beneath an old shirt and tucked so far in the corner, you almost missed it at first glance.

You recognized it instantly. Arthur carried it everywhere he went, guarding it with the same quiet possessiveness as his journal and the guns at his hip. You never asked what was in it, and he never offered to tell you.

You knew better than to open it, better than to invade his privacy.

You did it anyway.

The lid gave way with a soft metallic click, and for a moment, all you could do was stare.

Curled inside was a faded ribbon, pale pink and fraying at the edges. Beneath it sat the wrapper from a piece of peppermint candy—your favorite. The kind you always liked to share with him when you could remember to buy them in town. There was also a pressed wildflower, one you'd given him well over a month prior, and the stub of a pencil you had lent him once that he'd never given back, namely cause you'd forgotten to ask.

Small, ordinary things. Your things.

Your fingers hovered over the ribbon, the tip of your forefinger running along its worn edge. You remembered wrapping it around his wrist one morning, just before he set off on a train robbery you thought might take him from you.

He complained about the sun beating down on the back of his neck as you tied it into place, and you laughed as he grumbled that he felt foolish wearing it. He tore it off just before leaving. You didn't think he'd kept it all this time.

"You got a good reason for diggin' through my belongings?" Arthur's voice sounded from behind you.

You froze, turning slowly toward him, the tin tucked behind your back.

"Hiya, darlin'," you said with a smile, but that waver in your voice gave you away. "What brings you back so soon?"

You hid the tin to little avail, and when he stepped in close, near pinning you to the post, you let him take it without a fuss.

He looked at it, flipped it open to see the contents—untouched, just as he left them—then tucked it into his pocket.

"You gonna explain yourself?" he asked, shifting on his feet and crossing his strong arms against his chest.

"I was just—" you stammered. "Didn't go lookin' for it. Reckon it found me instead."

He huffed. "You expect me to believe that?"

Seeing him like that, heckles raised, made something in you falter, and you gripped his forearms before you could think better of it.

"Oh, Arthur. Don't look at me like that," you implored, thumb smoothing along his skin. "Didn't mean no harm."

The tips of his ears were pink as daisies, his eyes downcast. He looked more like a scorned child than a grown man caught guarding his private affairs.

When he didn't speak, your mouth opened in his stead.

"...Why'd you keep 'em?" you asked, looking up at him with inquisitive eyes he couldn't quite look away from. "My things. Ain't nothin' special about 'em."

"Didn't seem right," he muttered.

"What?"

"Throwin' 'em out."

You stared at him then like he'd said something out of sorts. Such unimportant little things, and he was holding onto them like they were worth something all on their own.

After the silence grew uncomfortable, and he still looked awfully ashamed to have his secret uncovered, you stepped around him.

"Well," you said, hands clasped idly in front of you. "I oughta get back to work, else Miss Grimshaw will never let me hear the end of it."

He nodded. "Yeah."

You felt every bit as awful as he looked then, your mind scolding you for never knowing when to keep your hands to yourself. You wondered if you'd ruined the fragile thing between you as you went on to do the washing, his eyes never meeting yours for more than a second afterward.

It made your heart feel heavy as stone, made your eyes prick with an emotion you seldom thought to show.

When night came, the moon hanging its dreary head over camp, you waited for the rest of the gang to retire. You watched Arthur throw himself onto his cot, watched him drape an arm over his eyes, his chest rising and falling with slowing breaths.

You crept over to him after a while, careful not to make a sound, and sought to rouse him gently.

"Arthur." You whispered, giving his arm a careful shake. "Wake up."

He let out a low grunt as you nudged his shoulder.

"...Mm."

"Arthur."

He frowned, brows knitting together before one eye cracked open. "S'matter?"

His voice was thick with sleep, gravelly enough to sound almost unfamiliar to your ears. When he realized it was only you, kneeling beside his cot in your underclothes, the tension in his shoulders eased.

He ran a hand over your hair, seemingly forgetting that he hadn't spoken a word to you since mid-day. "You alright?"

"'M alright," you murmured, taking his hand from your hair and kissing his knuckles. "Gotta relieve myself. Didn't wanna go by my lonesome, 'case the wolves get me," you teased quietly. "Will you walk with me?"

He didn't say a word for a moment. Only grunted, pushed the blanket down his legs, then tugged on his boots.

"Which way we goin'?" he asked, doing up his belt.

"Whichever is fine," you answered in earnest.

Side by side, you headed in a direction you couldn't quite distinguish as being east or west, north or south. All you knew was that the camp was quiet, the fire nearly gone out, and the crickets sang louder the farther you went.

You wrung your fingers in front of you as you thought up what to say, shivering slightly from the wind in your chemise. Arthur draped his jacket over your shoulders without a word.

"Reckon we're far enough now."

He shifted his weight, turning away to give you privacy. Before he could take another step, you rose onto your toes, and your lips brushed his cheek. Quick as lightning in a passing storm, it was gone before he'd even realized what had happened.

Arthur froze, his shoulders going rigid in the moonlight.

"...What was that for?"

You were suddenly very interested in the toes of your boots, and the mud slick beneath them.

"I... just wanted to say I'm sorry. For snoopin'."

He frowned, and in his silence, you huffed. His jacket still hung from your shoulders, nearly swallowing you whole.

"Well? Say somethin'," you urged, still not looking up.

He rubbed at the back of his neck. "Wasn't nothin'."

Your brows shot up, gaze meeting his in surprise. "Oh, it was too. You ain't hardly looked at me since."

"I'm lookin' now."

"But you're angry with me," you chided, lips pulling into a pout.

"Wasn't nothin' you did," he said with a sigh, his thumbs hooked beneath his belt. "Foolish of me to be holdin' onto such things."

"Ain't foolish to care," you said then, lifting your chin high in defiance. "I thought it was awful sweet of you."

He scoffed. "I ain't a sweet man."

"Could'a fooled me."

He didn't argue, didn't utter a word in response. Only looked at the ground and scratched at his beard like he couldn't think of anything to say.

You reached up and smoothed the collar of his jacket, giving your fingers something to do when he asked, "You goin' or not?"

You shook your head. "Don't need to."

"...No?"

You shrugged, smiling sheepishly. "I lied."

"To make me come out here?"

You nodded slowly. He only sighed in return and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Come on then. Let's get back—"

Your fingers curled around his wrist just enough to stop him. "Don't wanna leave things the way they are," you murmured.

His shoulders dropped a little, and he turned his glance to your fingers against him. His thumb ran absent circles over the back of your hand for a moment.

"Neither do I," he said—so quietly, you could've mistaken his voice for the wind rustling the leaves.

Before the courage could leave you, you kissed him once. His lips were rough against yours, his stubble scraping your chin. He held his breath until your arms went round his neck. Then he let out a sharp breath, and his hands, which hovered awkwardly at his sides a moment prior, settled on the curve of your waist like it pained him.

You pulled back just enough to look at him when his lips stayed still against yours. "You gonna kiss me back?"

He blinked in confusion. "Thought I was."

"You ain't," you said, your amused breath ghosting across his mouth. "You're still as a deer that's 'boutta be made supper."

His fingers shifted against your waist, the tips of them slipping beneath the hem of your chemise and resting against your bare skin. The sensation drew a quiet gasp from your lips. He swallowed it a heartbeat later.

You gave ground without realizing it, one slow step at a time, until the rough bark of a tree caught against your back. He followed without meaning to, one hesitant step for every one you took, until there was nowhere left for either of you to go.

His lips had long since left yours, brushing along your cheek, your jaw, trailing down to your neck and collarbone just before the thin line of your chemise. He lingered there, breath warm against your skin, as though anticipating you telling him no.

When the word never came, and your fingers threaded gently through his hair, urging him lower, his hesitation began to leave him.

His hands lingered at your waist a moment longer, thumbs grazing the fabric gathered there. Slowly—as though giving you every possible chance to stop him—they bunched the cotton up.

What came next surprised you in its gentleness. His mouth descended upon your breast, his tongue working over the bud with the care of a man at risk of losing his composure.

Your heart beat quickly beneath his hand where it rested, and you felt him harden against your stomach.

"Arthur, please," you breathed, fingers curled tight around his shoulder, the others settled along his nape.

"You're alright," he mumbled, nipping lightly.

There was nothing hurried about the way he took you, there against the old oak.

He held your hips, helping you move against him as you found your rhythm. Your soft moans had his breath hitching in your ear, accompanied by low groans that betrayed his pleasure. The wetness between you had him hissing low through clenched teeth.

"Need more," you whined, arching into him for a better angle.

He shifted you onto him with a firm tug, hitting right where you needed him. He pressed kisses to your shoulder, hands settling against the tree to keep it from digging into your back. "I got you."

You buried your face in his neck, whimpering when his calloused fingers moved between your thighs to work you over. He didn't let up, rubbing tight circles against you that had your hips bucking against his palm, chasing the friction he provided.

He watched your face contort, watched your chest heave as your muscles drew up tight.

"That's it," he encouraged, voice raspy and thick. "Let it happen."

Your pleasure crested over you like harsh waves against a shore, your thighs trembling against his sides, slick with your arousal. You cried out against his shoulder, nails biting into his back.

He took it all in stride.

Just a couple more thrusts on his part and he went still, hips stuttering with a muffled groan as his forehead fell to yours. He hummed as he filled you, eyes blinking open to see yours staring right back.

"...You okay?" he asked, and you nodded.

"I'm right where I wanna be," you said, stifling a yawn.

He brushed your hair back after tucking himself away, pulled his jacket tighter around your shoulders when the wind picked up, then kissed your forehead in silence.

He didn't need to say another word. Somehow, you understood him all the same.

The tin would find its way back beneath Arthur's shirts before sunrise, nestled into the corner of the chest where it belonged.

In time, there'd be more ribbons.

More flowers.

More little things tucked away beside the rest.

a/n: i loved writing this sooooo much ♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧⋆⭒˚｡⋆ thank you to the lovely @risingtripletaurus for the request. you're the best ever and i hope i did your vision justice!

i've been writing a lot less than i expected so i hope you'll all forgive me. but thank you for trusting me to write Arthur; i adore him so much and i'm glad i get to bring him to life with my writing and share it with you. love you all sm!!! 🤍🤍🤍

[risingtripletaurus]

ILYYY SO CUTE !!!! xx 🍎

[maybestrid33]

After Hours

00s!Brad Pitt x reader - Sometime in the early 2000s

Summary: You weren’t supposed to leave with him. You did anyway.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT, absolute FILTH, sex, protected p in v, fingering, manhandling, big dick energy, crude language, one night stand, alcohol, club setting, a very expensive hotel room, age gap (non specified but think 20s x 40s)

A/N: i do not know what happened here. i think i was ovulating because this is the filthiest shit ive ever written and its not even done very well. you've been warned.

CURRENT WIPs - MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (open) - WC: 2.9k

The club is the kind of place that only exists in the early hours of the morning.

Everything is gold and blue and slightly blurred around the edges, cigarette smoke curling lazily through shafts of light while a remix of something you've heard a hundred times rattles through the speakers. The floor sticks faintly beneath your heels.

You should have gone home an hour ago.

Instead you're leaning against the bar, nursing a drink that's gone mostly untouched, listening to your friend tell a story you've already heard three times tonight. You're halfway through laughing at the punchline when she abruptly stops talking.

"Don't look now."

You obviously immediately look.

"Jesus Christ," she mutters.

Across the room, half-hidden in a darker corner of the VIP section, surrounded by people without seeming remotely interested in any of them.

Brad Pitt.

The name arrives in your head a second after the recognition.

You'd seen him before, everyone has. Magazine covers in grocery stores. Movie posters. Interviews that played on the television while your parents cooked dinner.

But those versions feel strangely unrelated to the man sitting twenty feet away.

This one is more tired, maybe. More handsome, definitely.

You force yourself to look away before it becomes obvious you're staring. "Okay," your friend says. "Now just act normal."

"I am acting normal."

You spend the next twenty minutes successfully pretending not to look at him. Then unsuccessfully. Then pretending again.

By the time your friend disappears toward the dance floor, you're ordering another drink and mentally preparing yourself to leave.

Which is exactly when someone slides onto the empty stool beside you.

One of his friends, maybe. An assistant? You have no idea.

"Hey."

You glance over and the mystery man smiles.

"My friend wants to know why you've been looking at him all night."

"What?"

"He says you've looked over seven times. He counted, apparently."

Mortification crashes through you and you bury your face briefly in one hand. "Oh my God."

The man laughs. "That's actually a much better reaction than most people."

When you finally look up, the friend is already gesturing toward the corner booth. Brad is watching openly now, amusement flickering across his face, clearly entertained.

You should say no.

Instead, a few minutes later, you're crossing the room.

When you reach the booth, he stands. The gesture catches you off guard.

"Hi," he says. His voice is lower than you expected, not the movie-star kind of smooth; it's rougher around the edges.

"Hi."

A smile tugs at one corner of his mouth. "I owe you an apology."

You blink. "For what?"

"For apparently making my friend embarrass you."

A laugh escapes before you can stop it, and his smile grows. And just like that, something settles. You sit, someone hands you a drink, the conversation starts and somehow an hour disappears.

Then another.

You talk about terrible music, favourite cities and the fact that he can't understand why anyone willingly stays awake until four in the morning. You discover he's surprisingly self-deprecating, surprisingly attentive, and annoyingly good at making you feel like you're the only person in the room worth listening to.

Every time you glance away, you find him already looking at you when you look back, and its obvious enough to make your heartbeat stumble.

By the time the club lights brighten slightly, the universal signal that the night's ending, you've forgotten about going home.

He leans back in his seat, studying you for a moment before asking, almost casually, "So what are you doing after this?"

For a second, neither of you says anything and the question lingers in the air, deceptively casual.

What are you doing after this? Not Do you want to come with me? Not Can I see you again?

You look down into your glass, watching the last melting ice cube drift lazily against the side. You could pretend not to understand. You could laugh it off, make an excuse, call a cab, go home and tell this story for the rest of your life. The night you met Brad Pitt in a club and spent hours talking before walking away.

You know it would be the sensible and safest ending to this night.

Instead, you lift your eyes back to his. "I don't know."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "No plans?"

"Not particularly."

Something passes between you then. Not a decision exactly. More an acknowledgement of one that's already been made. Around you, the club is beginning to empty. People are gathering coats, settling tabs, disappearing into the fading darkness before sunrise. Staff members weave between tables collecting abandoned glasses.

You find yourself smiling.

"So," you ask, "is this usually how you pick people up?"

His laugh catches you off guard, a real laugh. "You think this is working for me?"

"I think you had a friend publicly humiliate me."

"...Yeah."

"You literally sent a representative."

"I did."

The grin that follows transforms him completely, shaving years off his face. "To be fair," he says, "I was trying to avoid looking insane."

For a moment neither of you looks away. The noise of the room seems distant now, like everything is muted.

He glances toward the doors.

"You ready?" The words send a ridiculous flutter through your stomach.

You stand before you can overthink it, because you know you will.

His hand finds the small of your back as the two of you make your way through the crowd. The touch lasts barely a second, gone almost immediately, but it leaves a trail of warmth behind that you're absurdly conscious of.

The air is cooler than you expected. A line of black cars waits along the curb. For some reason that's when it finally hits you; not inside the club, not during the conversation, but as a driver steps forward and opens a rear door.

Holy shit.

You're leaving a club with Brad Pitt.

The car door closes behind you, shutting out the noise of the street and for the first few minutes neither of you speaks. The city slides past outside the windows in streaks of gold and white. Traffic lights glow against wet pavement.

At one point you catch him looking at you. You glance down first.

His smile is small but unmistakable.

By the time the car pulls beneath the covered entrance of some absurdly expensive hotel, your pulse is behaving like you've just sprinted several blocks.

The elevator arrives almost immediately.

Neither of you says much while it climbs because there's no need. The atmosphere between you has become something very tangible, stretched tight enough to hum. You can feel it every time your eyes meet.

When the elevator doors finally open the hallway beyond is silent. The carpet muffles your footsteps. Somewhere far away, a door closes.

He stops outside a suite near the end of the corridor and turns toward you as he reaches for the keycard.

The card slides through the reader and a soft green light appears.

The door clicks open.

You stand there in the quiet hallway, impossibly close now, the city still glittering somewhere far below.

And when he finally reaches up to brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture is so unexpectedly gentle that your breath catches. His hand lingers briefly near your face as his gaze drops to your mouth and then returns to your eyes.

He studies you, properly this time. “You sure?” he asks quietly.

You swallow once and take a small step forward. It seems to be all the answer he needs.

His hand lifts again, slower this time, brushing lightly at your jaw as if he’s still giving you every possible chance to change your mind. And when you don’t, his fingers settle there more firmly.

It feels claiming.

You lean in a little, just a fraction, and then suddenly his mouth is on yours, hungry and consuming, deepening even more when he realises neither of you will pull away.

His hand shifts slightly, moving from your cheek to your neck, and you feel the last thread of hesitation snap.

When you break apart, it’s only enough to breathe.

Then, very quietly, he opens the door wider and pulls you in with him.

The door clicks shut behind you, sealing out the muffled hum outside, and the air feels thicker, charged with the scent of his cologne; something woody and expensive that clings to his shirt as he pulls you closer to him.

The glow of the city lights filters through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting his face in sharp gold and shadow.

He’s taller than you registered earlier, solid muscle under that black button-down.

You’re still half-starstruck and reeling from the feeling of his kiss when his mouth finds your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear, but the feeling dissolves fast under the heat of his body pressing you back against the polished wood of the minibar.

“Been imagining this all night,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, palms sliding up under your dress. You see he's ordered champagne without asking, the glasses sit sweating on the marble counter.

Any remaining haze burns away into pure want.

He wastes no time, lifting you onto the counter with effortless strength and spreading your legs so the cool marble kisses the backs of your thighs.

His fingers hook into your panties, dragging them aside to stroke through your slick folds.

“Fuck, you’re wet already,” he groans, watching your face while he sinks one finger inside you, then two.

With his fingers still buried deep inside you, Brad reaches for one of the sweating champagne flutes on the counter, the liquid inside fizzing gently as he brings it to your lips.

“Drink,” he murmurs, the command soft but edged with that unmistakable authority that seems synonymous with him, "It's expensive champagne. Can't let it go to waste."

You part your mouth obediently, the cool bubbles sliding down your throat while his thumb circles your swollen clit and his two thick fingers pump harder, curling just right to make your thighs tremble.

Your hands grasp for anything solid, finding his shoulders.

The orgasm builds fast, embarrassingly so, under the dual assault of his fingers and the champagne warming your chest, hips rocking helplessly as he works you open.

“That’s it baby, come for me,” Brad urges, voice rough with his own evident arousal, which you can feel the growing evidence of throbbing against your thigh through his trousers.

The release crashes through you in a sharp wave, pulsing around his fingers, a broken cry escaping as your back arches off the marble and your vision whites out for a moment.

He doesn’t stop until you’re shuddering through the aftershocks, gently easing his hand free only when your breathing starts to slow and your hips twitch at every touch. Afterwards, he scoops you up like you weigh nothing, carrying you across the room to the wide king bed with its crisp white sheets.

The linen is a cool shock as he lays you down, giving you an excellent view as he strips off his shirt, revealing toned chest and faint scars.

Then he follows you down, weight settling over you.

Your thighs are still quivering slightly, but you're too distracted by broad shoulders flexing under tanned skin and the way he nips at your neck to care.

Your hands move without thought, fingers hooking into his waistband and shoving the expensive material down his hips.

He finally springs free, thick and veined, the flushed head already slick and smearing against your inner thigh. Brad groans low in his chest, a sound that vibrates through you as he kicks the trousers aside.

“That’s it, sweetheart, just relax for me,” he murmurs against your ear.

You feel the blunt press of his cock nudging you, parting your folds with deliberate slowness, and your hips tilt upward in a silent invitation, craving the stretch you know he'll provide.

His free hand grips your hip, anchoring you as he sinks in inch by inch, the burn and fullness making your breath hitch.

Then he's finally fully seated, every ridge pressing against you.

You wrap your legs around his waist to pull him deeper and his mouth finds yours again, tongue sliding deep in rhythm with his first slow thrust.

His hand siezes both your wrists in one powerful grip, pinning them above your head against the mattress.

“Stay still for me, sweetheart,” he growls against your lips as his stubble rasps your jaw. Sweat beads along his back, muscles flex, and his eyes lock on yours while he keeps rocking into you again and again and again.

His free hand slides down to hook under your knee, spreading you wider so he can watch the way you take him and the increasing mess that paints both your bodies and the sheets below. His hips snap faster, pleasure coiling low in your belly, building with every deliberate grind of his pelvis.

"Fuck, you're tight, baby," he grinds out through gritted teeth, "You feel perfect around me."

He shifts suddenly, the new depth drawing a broken moan from your throat. His grip on your wrists tightens, the pressure sending sparks straight to your core while his mouth claims your neck, teeth grazing the frantic pulse there.

The suite is full of the wet sounds of your bodies meeting, the scent of sex and sweat thickening the air as his thrusts grow more urgent, chasing the edge he’s been building since the first touch of his fingers.

Your body arches beneath him again as the coil in your belly snaps without warning. You clamp down hard around him as the orgasm rips through you.

Brad grunts in response, his thrusts slowing just enough to let you ride it out, his mouth hot against your ear, murmuring filth into your ear,

But he doesn’t stop.

The moment your tremors ease he releases your wrists and flips you onto your stomach, hauling your hips up and pressing your face into the cool silk.

His cock slides back inside you in one smooth thrust, deeper now. One large hand grips the back of your neck, holding you down while the other spreads you wider. His pace starts building again; hard, measured thrusts that make your body jolt forward with each slap of skin.

Your fingers twist in the sheets, another moan building low in your chest as the pleasure coils tighter once more, his body caging yours from behind while the city lights paint shifting patterns across your joined forms.

The coil snaps again, for the third time, with a shattering force.

Your cry muffles into the silk as your body convulses, thighs quaking and fresh slick gushing out to coat him completely, the pleasure so intense it borders on pain while his grip on your neck keeps you pinned and open for every relentless stroke.

Finally after what seems like an eternity his own rhythm falters, a guttural groan tearing from his chest as his hips slam forward one final time and bury deep, shuddering as he spills into you.

Silence follows, broken only by a faint siren and your deep breathing.

His weight eases down slowly, one arm sliding beneath you to hold you close even as he stays buried inside, his breath hot and ragged.

After a while he shifts, wincing as he pulls out.

"You okay?" His voice is rough around the edges, quieter than it's been all night, and when you turn your head to find him already looking at you.

You nod, unable to stop the small smile that appears. "Yeah."

"You sure?"

"I think so." A soft laugh escapes you. "I mean..." You glance toward the ceiling. "This wasn't exactly how I thought tonight was going to go."

"No?"

"I don't usually end up in hotel rooms with movie stars."

He exhales a laugh beside you, dropping an arm over his eyes for a moment.

"Yeah," he says dryly. "I try not to make a habit of it either."

His arm lowers just enough for him to look at you again. Silence settles over the room after that, but it's an easy one. The charged urgency from earlier has faded into something softer.

Eventually, he reaches over, brushing his fingertips lightly against the back of your hand where it rests on the sheets.

"You need anything?" he asks. "Water? Food? Me to stop talking?"

"I'm okay."

He gives your hand a small squeeze before letting his fingers linger next to them on the sheets. "I don't want you waking up tomorrow wishing you'd left an hour earlier," he says quietly.

You look at him for a moment. "I don't think that's going to be a problem."

Outside, the first hints of dawn are beginning to pull colour into the sky, but neither of you makes any move to get up. His hand finds yours again beneath the sheets, fingers threading through yours like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"You should get some sleep," he murmurs.

You shift a little closer in response, and he tips his head toward yours, pressing a soft kiss against your hair before settling back against the pillows. 

The last thing you remember before drifting off is the warmth of his body next to yours.

idk why i've never just written for... Brad. Like I've done so many of his characters but never the man himself??

[risingtripletaurus]

what my dreams look like a minute before my alarm

[dolliecowboys]

do you think arthur has any specific kinks? 👀

being loved unconditionally

[trulyessie]

Guardian Angel

aka the three times arthur morgan saves your life and the one time you (unintentionally) save his

pairing: arthur morgan x fem!reader

word count: 4.3k

warnings: angst, fluff, harsh language, blood, severe to minor injuries, reader being attacked multiple times (animals and humans alike), brief scene with a man trying to assault reader, the usual rdr2 violence, micah mention (puke)

a/n: thank you for all the support on my last fanfic!!! i seriously did not think it was gonna be seen loll. anyways, i revised this one a few times and i'm still a bit iffy about it soooo hope y’all enjoy

First Time: Pre-Blackwater Massacre

Arthur was aimlessly trotting in New Austin, fresh off robbing a rich man's stagecoach, when suddenly, he heard a piercing scream break the usual silence of the desert. 

As he halted his horse, which neighed at the loud noise, he took a suspicious look around. He cautiously placed a hand over his gun holster while he surveyed the vast rocky area.

Then again, another frightened screech echoed across the desert. Arthur swiftly whips his gun from its holster and moves his horse closer to the source of the noise. 

The screaming gets frequent the closer Arthur gets. He believes he hears a broken “Get off of me—!” before the voice is abruptly cut off, as if suddenly muffled by something.

Taking a sharp turn around a large cliff, he spots the source of the commotion. You face down on the ground with a fat, greasy-looking man on top of you, holding a knife to your throat. He seems to be desperately trying to rip your clothes off with his free hand but is unsuccessful when you throw a leg back to kick him.

“Stay still, bitch!” The unknown man says while holding the knife closer to your throat, causing a trickle of blood to flow. The rag stuffed in your mouth muffles your cry of pain. 

Wasting no time, Arthur kicks his horse into a sprint. He then halts right next to you and the man, gun pointed straight at his head. The greasy man barely has time to look up before a bullet is sent through his skull, which drops his heavy body onto you. 

Immediately, Arthur hops off his horse and grabs the man, lifting him off of you. He crouches to your level, takes the rag from your mouth, and surveys you for damage. You turn your head to look up at him, still stomach-down on the ground, with fear, believing it's just another bastard trying to harm you. 

Not noticing any major injuries, Arthur looks down to your fearful face, a feeling of dread setting in him once he realizes how bad he probably looks to you. He holds up both his hands so you can see them and reassuringly says, “I’m no harm to you, ma’am. Don’t know who that bastard was, but he’s gone now. You’re safe.”

Sitting up from the ground, you watch him cautiously, still unsure. The whole time you are doing so, Arthur is staying as still as possible so as to not startle you. Once you’ve settled down, still on the ground but sitting up properly now, Arthur introduces himself.

“Name’s Arthur, Arthur Cal–Morgan.” He interrupts himself, not seeing any use in lying to you about his name. He waits a moment for your response, not rushing you.

You speak up quietly, still a bit apprehensive as you give him your name. He softly nods before gently holding out a hand to help you up. For a long moment, you eye it before feebly placing your shaking palm into his still, grounded one. He helps you up with one strong, effortless pull, which slightly knocks you off balance. He grabs your waist to steady you as you grab onto his bicep. 

For a brief moment, you look into each other's eyes before he notices a bit of blood still dripping from the shallow cut on your neck. He breaks apart from you and moves to his horse. He digs through his saddlebag and pulls out a loose cloth, holding it out for you to take. You grab the cloth and hold it over the leaking cut on your neck. 

For a long moment, you curiously watch him, debating on telling him why you’re out here. He did save my life… shouldn’t hurt. You briefly think. 

“I—I was headin’ to Tumbleweed, lookin’ for work. My family kicked me out… said I was too much of a burden… ‘cause I wasn’t bein’ womanly. Couldn’t find a husband quick enough for ‘em.” You finish off softly, looking out to the vast desert. For a brief moment, Arthur stares at you, trying to find anything to say, but you speak up again. 

“Ain’t got nothin’ to my name now… never really did, I guess.” You pause for a moment. “No way to get anywhere, Mr. Morgan. The damn bastard killed my horse… well, she wasn’t mine. I picked her off some hitchin’ post.” Your eyes widen at what you just admitted. Shit, why did you say that? You just met the man! He could turn you in! Your thoughts begin to spiral as your heart rate kicks back up. 

But before you can continue overthinking, he speaks up. “Got a place you can go… uhm—we’re all outlaws. But don’t think you’d mind after that admission.” He slightly chuckles. A moment later, you nod in agreement with a soft smile on your face. Any place will be better than that wretched home.

Second Time: Blackwater Massacre

It’s a typical, relatively peaceful morning at the up-and-coming port town of Blackwater. Currently, you are in town by yourself shopping for a few supplies you need and pickpocketing unsuspecting civilians. 

A lot has happened since you and Arthur first met one another. You’re closer now and often spend your rare moments of free time together. A few of the camp members may say he’s sweet on you, but you don’t seem to believe so. He’s just acting as he always has.

You sneakily slip your hand into an unaware man’s pocket who is looking at a selection of farm supplies through the store window. Suddenly, a loud gunshot breaks the usual noise of the town. The entire place goes quiet before more shots begin to pop off like fireworks. The man, whom you just robbed of his pocket watch, bolts into the store he was looking into as the town descends into utter chaos. 

As people haphazardly bump into your still figure, you try to locate the source of the gunshots. Once the shots get closer, you bolt and take cover in a nearby alleyway, trying to think of the next plan of action. You’re about to make a move to another alleyway, closer to your horse, when you hear a very recognizable voice yelling. “Push in on them!” It’s Dutch. And you assume he’s shouting out to some of your fellow gang members. What the hell is he doing?

Racking your brain for a reason he’d be shooting up Blackwater, you suddenly remember a conversation Micah was having with Dutch. Micah was telling him about a relatively unguarded ferry they could rob for loads of cash. He told Dutch that it was enough to get the gang on their feet.

But… you’re confused. Dutch was still considering the ferry plan along with Hosea and Arthur’s (more reasonable and safer) real estate scam plan. Why the sudden change? You wonder…

As you try to think of a reason, you hear the rough sound of hooves stomping from the opposite side of the gun fire. Peeking your head from the alleyway, you see Hosea and Arthur hopping off their horses to take cover behind some crates, joining in to defend their gang. You decide that there is no better time than now to make a run for your horse and get the hell back to camp. 

Breaking into a sprint, Arthur shouts your name. He continuously bellows at you, saying something unidentifiable, but you don’t stop to figure it out. 

Reaching your startled horse, you forcefully throw yourself over into the saddle before snapping the reins hard. You sharply turn her toward Arthur when a deafening shot rings out, louder than any you’ve heard before.

You don’t initially feel the pain, just a strange burning sensation in your shoulder. Your grip on the reins loosens before you slide off and hit the ground hard. The air gets forcefully knocked from your lungs. Trying to catch your breath, you instinctively reach for your burning shoulder and see a load of blood come back on your hand. As you’re shakingly staring at your red-stained hand, a man in a black suit and brown bowler hat appears before you with a gun to your face. 

So much just happened, you can’t even process a thing. A thousand different questions race through your foggy brain. Why did I fall off my horse? Why is my shoulder burning so bad? Who is this man? What the hell is happening? Am I…dying?

Just when you hear his gun click back, the man suddenly jerks backward and roughly falls to the ground. You watch him go down with a furrow in your brow before someone grabs your arms and pulls you down an alleyway, making you yelp out in pain. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” You hear a rough, shaky voice swiftly spit out. Turning your spinning head to see who’s speaking, you see Arthur on his knees desperately digging through his satchel looking for something. 

“Arr–thur?” You slur as you try to figure out which of the three you're seeing is really him. His head snaps to you, eyes deep with a sense of urgency, before he pulls out a cloth bandage. You watch as he leans forward to gently but quickly wrap your now hurting shoulder up. You whimper in pain, to which he begins to profusely apologize. “I’m sorry, fuck, I’m sorry. I know, I know, darling… just hold still, alright? You’re gonna be fine. Gonna be okay. Gonna be just fine…” He trails off, seemingly trying to reassure himself more than you.

He finishes wrapping up your shoulder, sniffing slightly as he gently lifts you into his arms. Looking up into his beautiful blue-green eyes, you think you see a tear roll down his grimy face. He briskly walks down the alleyway to his startled horse. You softly ask with concern, “Why're you cryin’, Arthur?” before your vision begins to go black. 

Third Time: Hunting Trip

About a month after the whole Blackwater mess, the gang is set up in Horseshoe Overlook, a little secluded spot not too far away from the simple cattle town of Valentine. You have mostly healed up by now. Your shoulder is still a bit sore when you move it too fast, but you’re alive, thanks to Arthur Morgan once again. 

While the gang was hiding in the mountains, desperately trying to flee from the law and the Pinkertons, you were fighting for your life.

Arthur checked on you almost every hour when he wasn’t out doing things for the gang. You don't remember much of the early healing process since you were always passed out, resting. But more often than not, he was by your side. 

Now, he’s walking up to your side again at the girls’ tent with an inquisitive look on his face. At his approach, you look up from where you're sitting on your bedroll and give him a soft smile before asking, “Can I help you, Arthur?”

He watches you for a brief second, as if momentarily entranced, before breaking eye contact and looking down at his boots. He quickly speaks up, fumbling over his words. “You—do ya want to go out huntin’? Know you get tired of bein' locked up in this camp and all.” He gestures around said camp before looking back at you. 

Initially, you’re a bit shocked. Not because you never went hunting with him, but because he was the one who kept you locked up in camp while you healed from your injury. In fact… even after you were mostly healed.

“Uhm—“ you say as you watch him, trying to figure out if he’s being serious. After a moment, you stand up from your spot with a soft smile and say, “Sure, Arthur. Thank you.” 

He nods and gestures for you to follow him to the horses. You grab your bow from your storage chest and follow behind him. Once the both of you reach his horse, he hops on, then reaches down a strong hand to grab yours and pull you up behind him. You wrap your arms gently around his torso and he tenses a bit before setting the horse into a trot, exiting the camp. 

The ride is initially silent before you get curious and ask, “So where are we going?” He doesn’t respond for a long moment, but when he does, it’s a simple, short, “Big Valley.” 

By the time you arrive, the sun is beginning to set. Arthur brings his horse to a halt near some trees and hops off to hitch her up. Before you can get off the horse, Arthur grabs you by the hips to help you down. You give him a grateful smile before grabbing both bows from the back of his horse and turn to hand him his.

Taking a deep breath, you examine your bow that you haven’t shot since before your injury. “Hope I still got it.” You softly say as you put your quiver on. 

Arthur looks over at you, a soft look set on his face before gruffly saying, “I bet ya do. You’re a smart girl.” 

You slightly blush and look away from him out to the open field, where you spot several pronghorns peacefully grazing on the tall green grass. He slowly begins to move forward, trying to not startle the creatures. You shortly begin to follow behind him and keep your footfalls silent.

Arthur crouches down behind a boulder near the winding river that cuts through the field. He carefully sets his bow and aims at an innocent pronghorn munching on a strand of grass about thirty feet away. You crouch down next to him, breathing slowly as you watch him release the arrow into the pronghorn's skull, which sends the nearby ones away in a panicked frenzy. He swiftly moves over to the pronghorn, lifts its corpse, and then brings it over to his nearby horse. 

Now, you scan the area, looking for something you can kill. You spot a bit of movement up the river and see a buck, drinking from the water. You slowly take an arrow from your quiver and lift your bow upward. Just when you’re aiming for the kill, something jumps out and knocks you on your back. 

Landing harshly onto your previously injured shoulder, you let out a head-splitting scream as you fight against what you now recognize as a cougar. It slashes at you with a clawed paw, but you block it with your bow before it snaps at the cougar's weight. 

You frantically try to hold it off by blocking it with your arms before a loud gunshot rings through the air. The heavy cougar lands harshly on top of you, but a terrified-looking Arthur quickly pulls it off. He swiftly examines you for injuries before grabbing you and pulling you into his arms, breathing heavily. You tightly reciprocate his hold, as the weight of the situation lands heavily on you. The both of you stay like that for quite a bit as you process the terrifying moment together.

After a moment, you slightly step back from him, still gripping his jacket, and look into his now calmer eyes. Your shaky voice speaks up. “T–thank you, Arthur… you’ve done saved my life a third time. Don’t know how I can repay you...” Both of you slightly chuckle at this.

Then he roughly says something that shocks you to your core. “You bein' alive is payment enough for me.”

At this admittance, your eyes widen and your jaw drops in surprise. You’re about to say something else, though you're not exactly sure what, when he steps back from you and kneels down to the cougar's carcass, beginning to skin it. For a long moment, you watch him, trying to figure the elusive man out.

Once he’s finished the general skinning, he grabs the cougar's paw and roughly cuts out one of its claws. Getting back to his feet, he moves over to you and holds out the claw for you to take. Your eyes dart down to the bloody claw and back up to him in confusion.

“Good luck charm for when I’m not around t’ save ya.” He says this with a sarcastic tone and sassy smile on his face.

“Alright, smart-ass…” You respond with a feigned annoyed grumble as you grab the sharp claw from his hand. He only laughs at your reply as he picks the cougar’s pelt off the ground and takes it to his horse.

Your eyes sharply follow him. You notice the way his hips slightly sway as he walks… and the way his back muscles flex when he stuffs the cougar pelt under the pronghorn… and the way… Damn, what the hell has this man done to you…

The one time you save his

It’s a warm, sunny morning in Horseshoe Overlook. After your most recent close call, which resulted in Arthur saving your life again, you both have gotten even closer than before. A few of your fellow gang members have even come up to you asking questions about your relationship with Arthur, to which you say a disappointed, “It’s complicated.” The tension between you two has become electrifying, especially after a couple of heated moments that almost led somewhere…

For instance, the night after Sean's rescue from the bounty hunters, there was a full-blown party happening in the camp. People were singing, dancing, drinking, and having an overall good time. Initially, Arthur and you were just having a couple of drinks together casually chatting, which led to a bit of dancing, which then led to you two sneaking off, which then led to him pushing you up against a tree, his lips so close to yours… before Bill stumbled by the both of you, puking in a nearby bush.

The second time… was a bit more private… but somehow even more disappointing than the first. You were out riding with Arthur in the vast field of the Heartlands, looking for a bunch of yarrow to pick. Finding some, the two of you got off his horse and began to collect. When you had about a handful, you turned to put it in his saddlebag before suddenly bumping into Arthur, who happened to be walking behind you. He grabbed your arm, steadying you, as all the yarrow fell from your hand. But you weren't paying attention to that. You were paying attention to the sharp, intense way his eyes were locked onto you. Sucking in a sharp breath, you slightly began to lean toward him. He seemed to be reciprocating when, as quick as lightning, he broke his hold on you and moved away, continuing to pick yarrow as if nothing had happened. Your eyebrows had furrowed in confusion and hurt. You wanted to ask him about it, but he seemed suddenly so closed off you don’t think he’d respond if you did.

A few days after that whole awkward situation, Arthur and you were a bit distanced. You’d actually been meaning to ask him exactly what the two of you are, but he kept intentionally avoiding you. Finally, you decided enough was enough, which is why you’re currently walking up to him at Strauss’s wagon. But, by the look on his face when he's talking to Strauss, he already seems very annoyed. Great.

He runs a hand down his face before harshly turning away from the man and toward your direction. He spots you but doesn’t say a word as he walks right by you toward his horse. 

Furrowing your eyebrows in irritation, you begin to follow after him, the annoyance evident in your voice as you call, “Arthur? Arthur!” He doesn’t say a word as he quickly hops onto his horse and turns to exit camp. 

“Arthur!” You call out after him again, but he still doesn’t stop, only flinches slightly at the hurt tone in your voice. 

Stubbornly deciding not to give up, you hop onto one of the other men’s horses and begin to follow him, quickly catching up with him just outside of camp. 

“Arthur! Will you stop for just a minute?!” You yell furiously, to which he brings his horse down to a trot, still not looking or talking to you. 

When your horse catches up with his, you slow him down a bit and watch his tense body language. Either he’s really bothered by your presence or by that conversation with Strauss.

“Arthur, I’ve been meaning to talk with you.” You speak firmly as you try to look into his downcast eyes.

He just slightly hums in response, like he’s too drained to properly answer.

Your face softens at this. Feeling a bit bad for him, you decide to ask, “What’s the matter, Arthur?”

“Just—Strauss and his damn debts he has me collectin’. Can’t seem to get no one else to do it. Guess the others ain’t scary-lookin’ enough.” He grumbles as the two of you continue to slowly ride toward Valentine. 

You don’t respond for a moment, just letting the silence resonate, before speaking up with a simple “You don’t have to do it, Arthur. Nobody’s forcing you—” 

“Then who else will?” He harshly cuts in as he snaps his head toward you, finally looking into your eyes with his fiery ones. You bring your horse to a stop in the middle of the trail, which results in him stopping too. 

He continues to stare at you, waiting for your response. Instead of giving him one, you pull your horse off to the side under a shaded tree. He watches you in confusion before doing the same. You hop off your horse, him following shortly after, and look up at the leaves as he approaches you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. It’s silent, save for the soft rustling of leaves and nearby birds chirping. 

You break the long silence first. “Been meanin’ to talk with you, Arthur.” You gently say when you turn toward him, your eyes locking fiercely onto his.

“Me, too.” He gruffly responds as he steps a bit closer to you, one hand delicately placed on his gun belt.

“Hmm…” You briefly hum before saying with a soft smile, “You go first.” He nervously shifts his weight as his hand tightens around the gunbelt and breaks eye contact. 

Clearing his throat, he looks back into your eyes, various emotions swimming through them before softly speaking up. “Been meanin’ to ask you, about—about… uhm…“ He nervously begins to stumble over his words. 

You watch him with a soft smile before curiously flicking up your brow. He roughly clears his throat once more, trying to keep some sort of composure. He’s about to speak again before you finish his sentence for him. “About us?” 

His eyes snap to your soft but fierce ones as his jaw slightly drops. “Yeah… I uh… I don’t know.” He pauses for a moment. By the look on his face, he seems to be debating something. He takes a sharp breath before saying, “I like ya…I really do…but I don’t think you should be tangled up with some bastard like me. You’re too damn good for me, darlin'.”

You stare at him for a long moment in shock, the look on your face making him even more nervous. “I—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ‘ve—” He’s suddenly cut off by your demanding voice.

“Shut up, Arthur.” You utter a bit harshly, but with good intention, as you break the distance between the both of you and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him toward you. He’s a bit thrown off balance before he grabs your hips and pulls you impossibly closer to him. You’re leaning toward each other, lips about to meet, when the loud, recognizable yell of a man makes the both of you jump. 

It’s Bill… again. “What the hell’ve you got my horse for?” He’s yowling out, ignoring the way you two are holding each other as he grabs his horse’s reins.

It seems Arthur has finally gotten fed up as he lets out a quick, “He ain’t ruinin’ shit again” before swiftly dropping his lips down onto yours. If Bill says anything, you don’t hear it as you passionately kiss him back. It’s a fiery moment, fueled by the sizzling tension that has been slowly growing between you both since your first meeting. All those times he’s saved your life… all those fleeting seconds of want come crashing down into one burning kiss.

When the two of you finally break apart, you're both breathing heavily, foreheads resting against each other as you soak in the moment. You softly chuckle as a warm feeling passes through your being. Arthur is about to say something when Bill’s husky voice breaks in, “Well, glad you two got that sorted out.” He says before walking off with his horse. 

Laughing together, he reaches down and grabs your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze as he leads you to the base of the tree. He pulls you down to sit on his lap with a soft, loving smile. 

“Glad you finally grew some balls.” You giggle as you place a soft hand on his face.

He sassily rolls his eyes before responding, “Bill’s second interruption was my last straw.”

“Had a lotta straws then! ‘Cause it took you long enough.” You cheekily reply. 

He pauses for a brief moment and watches you with soft eyes before saying, “Sorry, you just make me real nervous.”

“Well look, you didn’t have nothin’ to be nervous about. I like ya back.”

“Ya do? Well, shit, should've made that obvious.” He pertly responds with a sarcastic smirk on his face.

“Oh, shut up… ya smart ass.” You respond, leaning forward to kiss him again but softer this time.

When the kiss breaks, you both soak in the moment, eyes closed as your foreheads rest together. Neither of you speak another word, the peaceful silence under the rustling tree saying enough. At this point, you’ve both forgotten about the debt collection Arthur was initially so pissed about. And eventually, when he does remember, he decides to take your advice and chooses not to do it. Neither of you ever realized it, but you saved his life that day. You gave Arthur another chance at living, unbeknownst to the both of you.

[prcelainedoll-deactivated202607]

my body his choice

[nexamoon]

٠࣪⭑ Viva Voce ༉‧₊˚.

a Latin phrase literally meaning "with living voice" but most often translated as "by word of mouth."

pairing : husband!arthur morgan x fem!reader

summary : arthur doesn't usually do clean shaves; and when he decides to go against his habit, he finds himself apprehending your reaction. little did he know it would stir up this many emotions within you.

wc : 3.5 k words ⭑.ᐟ

tags : fluff, arthur morgan is an insecure man (poor baby, tell him he's handsome), established relationship, husband!arthur morgan, reader gets jealous

a/n : it's good to see me, isn't it? wink wink (did you get that reference?) anyway! i'm sorta back! ꉂ(˵˃ ᗜ ˂˵) i managed to write this in between my busy uni days and i'm really proud of it! so i hope you guys like it ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜ i'll update you more at the bottom of the post as i don't want to make this too long!! enjoy <𝟑 .ᐟ (for the people i tagged, check the end of the post mwah ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ )

arthur morgan wasn't a man who cared that much about his appearance. he tried to get baths whenever he could, made sure his clothes were somewhat clean (though it was hard, considering his job), and he cut his hair whenever it got a bit too long to avoid looking like a certain someone he despised. he also made sure to shave often so his beard didn't get too thick and bushy for comfort.

but now that he has you in his life, he started paying attention to his looks a little more.

he tried his best to coordinate his outfit colors, attempted to comb and even pomade his hair sometimes to look neater overall, and made sure he could always see his own reflection in his boots.

that was the wife effect for arthur: he wanted to make an effort for you. you had chosen to be with him till death did you part; and as much as he still struggled to believe that he was enough for you, that you didn't make the wrong choice by choosing to marry him... he still wanted to play the part, to pretend that he could be the sophisticated gentleman he thought you did merit.

so when he looked at his own reflection in the small mirror in his tent this morning, he decided that a shave was due.

he always remembered how in the beginning of your relationship, you'd always giggle whenever he nuzzled against your cheek or neck, because his facial hair would tickle you.

you got used to it now; you even grew the habit of scratching his beard whenever he laid down in bed with you, at night. it always managed to put him to rest so easily. and bonus points because he'd sleep like a baby after.

recently though, his beard did grow to be a bit too itchy than usual.

what to do, he wonders.

arthur usually wasn't one for bold ideas, especially when it came to his appearance. but he opted for a full-on clean shave this time.

it had been a while since his last one. he often avoided them because, for one, his face would feel far too exposed for his liking. at least with the beard, it felt like he was hidden, like people didn't instantly see through him. it acted like protection. a shield, if you will.

for second, going for a clean shave always meant he'd get teasing remarks about it from the others at camp, joking about how he must have some lady waiting for him in town, or that they could "finally see him"... which was precisely what he so desperately wanted to avoid.

and for third, the reason that scared him the most: he apprehended your reaction.

your opinion matters greatly to arthur. nonetheless, he knew that, deep down, you were nothing but kind with him. at worst, you'd sugarcoat it to spare his poor and pathetic self, because you knew how deep his insecurities run. still, he found himself wanting to please his wife. he wanted you to want him. to feel attracted to him like he did with you.

well, even if you did end up disliking it— which arthur internally hoped wouldn't be the case— his facial hair grows back quite quickly, so, it wasn't going to last for too long anyway. he just wants to give himself a fresh start.

regardless of whatever doubt still lingered in the back of his mind, it was inevitable now. he had already lathered his face with shaving cream and tried his best not to accidentally cut himself with his razor, which happened a bit too often to him.

a few minutes later, after rinsing off his face and drying it— there he was. a new man.

he kept scrutinizing himself through the mirror, almost glaring. he wasn't too sure how to feel about it. because in his mind, the lack of a beard wasn't the problem; it was his goddamn face.

he didn't realize how long he stood there having a staring contest with his reflection until he heard whatever new vinyl dutch bought from town being played on his gramophone.

you weren't currently with him in your shared tent. you had slipped away after a quiet good morning kiss to help around camp and make breakfast. you would probably be by the campfire now, waiting for him to bring you two some coffee, so you could sip it and spend some time together before he had to leave camp for the day. it was your little ritual; and right now, you must be wondering what could possible be taking him so long to join you.

so join you he did, without forgetting to bring along two steaming mugs of coffee.

he settles next to you, almost in a shy manner; like a young boy who doesn't quite yet know how to behave around his first love. it was strange, to see a tough burly man like that act with such clumsy hesitance; almost like the tall scrawny boy he once was all those years ago had never left at all. the same tall scrawny boy who had stole your breath away the moment you laid eyes on him, and whom, after years, eventually worked up the courage to confess, and then, to ask for your hand.

you had always found his timid mannerisms to be most endearing; as if he'd somehow forgotten for a moment that you two were quite literally married.

he scoots a little closer to you, his hand reaching to scratch the bottom of his face, which he always did when he struggled to start a conversation. though this time, his muscle memory failed him as he had forgotten his usual beard was gone now, so he quickly fumbled with his hand to rub the back of his neck instead.

the awkwardness of his movements made you chuckle. you took a sip of your coffee, and you watched him do the same, like he just remembered he brought himself a cup too.

"good morning arthur."

your voice was so soft, it felt like that nice morning breeze he's always loved.

"yeah, g'morning darlin'..."

he gives you a side-glance, before he settles on staring at the faint steam rising from his cup.

your gaze stays trained on his side profile, admiring his new look, taking in all the details it allowed you to make out. some moles you had never noticed appeared, and the clean shave made his freckles pop out more. you adored them, always joked about how the sun must be infatuated with him, for it to leave so many kisses on his face. but he always shrugged it off, said they all looked more like burns than kisses. and it always tugged at your heartstrings to hear him say that.

you watched how his fingertips nervously traced the rim of his mug, quietly asking and waiting for a reaction from you, anything; just adress the elephant in the room. why drag it on for so long? how cruel you were, to play with his heart like that. a heart he had so generously entrusted you with.

you knew he was aching for a response, but you enjoyed seeing him anxious over the tiniest things a little too much. and either way, arthur was too fun to tease.

your gaze shifts to the quiet morning scenery in front of you; nature was slowly waking up.

you can't help the smirk that forms on your face, even when you try to sound as nonchalant as you can manage.

"did we have a date today i happened to forget about, honey?"

arthur blinks and confusedly shakes his head.

"not that i recall... no."

"oh, how interesting. so,... maybe you have a romantic rendez-vous with some young maiden downtown?"

that earns you a scoff from him which could be translated to, *how dare you even entertain such a thought?*

"darlin', what are you on about?"

"oh, i don't know", you shrug innocently, "your unusual clean shave just got me wondering, is all."

he groans, and looks you in the eyes for the first time that morning. how they shined like two jewels adorning his face.

"that ain't why i shaved. it just started feeling a bit too itchy... figured i'd just regrow it."

a beat of silence. you keep your gaze trained on his face, a cryptic smile forming on yours.

"hmmm. i see."

it was your turn to scoot closer to him, your knees brushing against his thigh as you put your cup on the floor next to your feet.

"well, i think this look suits you. not more than the beard but, it does fit you well."

"...y'think so?" his eyes widen, and his defensive tone softens under your words. suddenly, he looked like a young child lighting up when getting praised.

"what? you don't believe me?"

"... just don't know if yer still making jokes about me or if yer being honest." he shyly admits, his eyes set on the cup once again.

you giggle and press a kiss on his cheek. it felt strange, not to feel his beard tickling your skin. but for arthur, this enabled him to fully feel the softness of your lips.

goddamn... he should definitely do clean shaves more often.

you nuzzle against his neck, laying your head on his shoulder and he wraps his strong arm around you, keeping you steady against his sturdy form.

"i mean it, arthur."

you look up at arthur and observe as his cheeks turn into a deep crimson. and you noticing it didn't help...

damn it. if he hadn't shaved, maybe his beard would've made it less obvious.

anytime now, you would make a comment about it in that sing-songy tone of yours he loves and hates at the same time. love, because, quite frankly, your voice was one of the most beautiful sounds that ever graced his ears. hate? well, now that he thinks about it, it was a word too strong; he just never knew what to expect with your ever-so witty mind.

"... for a rugged and tough cowboy, you sure can be adorable at times."

ah, there it is. he huffs in indignation.

"that ain't no such thing." he retorted a little too quickly. a blatant lie.

"it is! i managed to make the mean, cold-blooded outlaw blush like a schoolboy."

if your eyes didn't betray you, that made him redden even more.

he straightens his back and shifts a bit away from you on the log, hiding his face under the brim of his hat.

"i...! ain't blushing, yer just seein' things."

"your beard can't save you now~"

there is no denying that, is there? he sighs and grumbles something under his breath as he takes the last sip of his coffee.

his gaze meets yours for a moment, and finds it full of a mischeviousness he couldn't rival; not now, anyway. not when he feels so vulnerable under your lovingly teasing stare.

"... dammit, sweetheart. i can never win with you, can i?" he sighs as he gets up from the log, heading towards your shared tent.

you stay on his trail, almost skipping on the way behind him. "nope. never."

he smiles fondly, as he swiftly moves under the tent flap. you follow suit and sit on his weapon locker, watching as he gathered his flask, his journal, some food.

"you go around saying that and i'll have to silence you, woman." he mutters in a mock warning tone.

he stands in front of you, probably for him to get his weapons. but you don't budge, crossing your legs.

"oh yeah? and just how will you silence me?"

"you don't want to know."

"boohoo, i'm soooo scared." your words were punctuated by an eye roll.

arthur's hand settles on his gun belt as he stares you down. his gaze serious, almost as if he was considering something.

"you'd better be."

you gasp in mock offense. was that a threat? was he really threatening you right now? how could he say that to you? the sun of his days and the moon of his nights?

"arthur morgan, you would not hurt a woman, and especially not your wife." your tone is nearly reprimanding, as if you were admonishing a child for his bad behavior.

"i wasn't thinking of that", his eyebrows knitted in confusion because, how could you even envision a universe where he ever did that?

he cups your chin and tilts your head up to him, his rough thumb gently grazing your bottom lip. "i could shut that smart mouth of yours in tons of ways other than that."

your lips parted further under the touch of his thumb and for a moment it felt like he was casting a spell on you. the energy in the room had shifted, and it felt like you had lost the upper hand. his touch, considering how scarcely he initiated it, especially at the beginning of your relationship, never failed to make your stomach do flips, as if it was the first time all over again.

screw you, arthur morgan, you thought. you hated how he knew that his touch had that much of an effect on you, and what you hated even more, is how he always used that to his advantage.

you gulp and attempt to maintain the sly grin on your face regardless; just to see how far he is willing to go with his... dirty tricks.

"... oh, well. color me intrigued, mister morgan."

that earns you a chuckle from him, a slight darker, the type that made a shiver run down your spine.

he suddenly grabs your forearm, pulling you to your feet, and before you could register anything, you felt warm lips press on yours hungrily. your hands end up gripping his shirt for balance, which makes him place a steady hand on your lower back to prevent you from falling backwards.

this was the type of kiss that made your mind reel; because it felt like arthur was pouring all his love, emotion, and desire into it. the type of kiss that reminded you that, somehow, even after being with you for all this time, that he was still as enamored with you.

once he pulls away, you instantly lick your lips to taste his flavour just for another moment longer. arthur's lips curl up and he tucks a stray strand of your hair behind your ear.

he murmurs in that soft voice he reserves only for you. "'course i'd never hurt you, darlin'. i'd rather die than do that."

his lips press a soft kiss on your wrist before gently pushing you to the side so he could get his guns from his locker.

you were still in a haze from the kiss, a soft smile adorning your mouth when your brain finally registers his words.

"is it just me or did the shaved look bring forth your romantic side?"

arthur gets up and closes the locker with a thud, tucking his revolvers in his gun belt.

"ain't the shave. 's you." his words slip from his mouth so easily, just like the soft kiss he planted on your forehead.

"cheesy", you mumble, as you watch him move past you to take his satchel and slip out the tent.

you follow him only after seconds, your fuzzy mind still taking in everything that happened just now.

he was saddling up his horse, fixing his satchel and verifying everything was there.

but, still, a tinge of doubt and insecurity lingered in your heart. as much as arthur was oblivious about his good looks, you weren't; and by extension, other women weren't either. you never for a second doubted his faithfulness to you, but just the simple thought of another woman making advances or pushing her luck with him... you hated to say it made your blood boil and your jealousy flare dangerously.

just imagining that made your jaw tighten, and turned your expression sour. you couldn't help the bitter overtone of your mumbled words.

"you'd better turn down the offers you'll get from the women downtown."

he snorts at your words as he feeds his horse some oatcakes. he found it funny, how you were certain he would get hit on. maybe you liked the clean shave a little more than you let on.

your instance of possessiveness did tickle his pride, so he answers almost casually.

"darlin', y'don't have to tell me twice."

your brows furrow when he brushes off your concern like that. you're not joking anymore now, no; these are your real feelings on display. however horrible they make you feel for having them.

"it's just because i know they won't leave it." you mutter, crossing your arms.

"i'll take my gloves off then."

he rids himself of them, revealing his hands, rough and calloused from his daily labor, and on his ring finger, a gold band shone under the sunlight, matching yours.

a wedding ring yes, that should "normally" be enough to get others to back off. yet somehow, it wasn't. worse; the forbiddance of being with a married man only further drew in ladies. it supposedly "added to the thrill", or some half-assed justification along the lines of that.

you pout. "you know that won't be enough."

seeing your downcast expression genuinely tugged at his heart, nearly making him regret shaving altogether. and it also made him wonder how such insecure thoughts had even managed to implant themselves in your head?

you feel two large hands settle their comforting weight on your shoulders, and before you knew it, that made you lift your head to look at arthur. he leans impossibly closer to you, his words hushed, but they spoke volumes. the kind of words that hit you just as hard as a romantic poem made of thousands of verses. he speaks slowly so you can weigh in his words and understand them better.

"then, i'll kindly tell 'em that i'm happily married to the loveliest woman i've ever laid my eyes on... better?"

the wistfulness in his eyes told you he spoke truthfully; and the way he held your gaze for moments after, even in silence, said even more than that; after all, arthur was a man of a few words. so you knew to cherish his sparse attempts at verbally conveying how much you meant to him.

your lips trembled before curling up into a small wobbly smile.

"... better."

quite frankly, the man was skeptical of your answer. but he lacked the tactful elocution needed in these tricky situations, where emotions were at stake. especially yours. everything was clear to him in his heart though. but at every attempt, his words always get jumbled up and, suddenly, it feels like they're not making sense anymore. it feels like they're not even enough to translate how he feels in his flesh and bones when it comes to you. and so he grumbles about how he should just shut his trap altogether instead of even trying. thank god you had the patience of a saint with him though.

arthur makes a mental note to bring you something from town; a broach? a shawl? some hairpins?... maybe make you a wildflower bouquet; ah yes, seeing your eyes light up at the sight of the flowery set never failed to make him feel alive like he's never been before.

he just needs to bring you something meaningful, to prove to you that, although he isn't much vocal, his mind always finds a way to drift back to you during his waking hours.

for now, a soft kiss on your pretty lips would have to do.

he holds you close to him for a moment as quiet reassurance, and feels relieved to see your face slowly light up again; the clouds who had dimmed his sun were gradually disappearing.

"come back to me in one piece, my dear." you whisper, as you watch him mount his horse, reaching for his hand to squeeze. his thumb gently brushes over you ring; a quiet reminder that you're his, just as he's all yours.

"always."

you watch him trail away on his horse, giving a greeting to javier who was guarding camp before taking off to town. but your heart rested a little easier knowing that the man you cherish, that the man who loves you quietly, his affection hidden behind fond glances and whispered words reserved for you, intertwined with the graceful pencil strokes that were, according to him, "a mere attempt" at capturing your alluring radiance, can also be openly loud about you, about you and him. and the fact he found himself able to do that sometimes... that made everything all the more special to you.

a/n two : first off, thank you for reading! if you have been following me, you must've noticed that i haven't been active in over a month. mainly because of self-doubt and insecurity regarding my writing. it has truly been a thrill to write for arthur, and i've had the chance to meet and interact with many sweet people who have supported my craft and myself, and for that i am eternally grateful ♡︎ so for them, i dedicate this piece of writing. thank you for your words of concern and encouragement when i was in doubt. in no particular order, as i hold you all very dear in my heart : @dustyharlan , @stupidgaynerd , @ardeniaa , @d0lliesp1t and of course, @heartsickspider <333 thank you for the many messages and words i have gotten from you all and it is quite literally thanks to you that i find myself posting here today ₊˚⊹♡

[risingtripletaurus]

how have i not seen this before ?!!!

[cowboyskeletonworks]

For Your Eyes Only- Part 2

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader

Warnings: Nude photos (of reader and Arthur), a little fun at the end

Words: 1.5k

No use of Y/N

SMUT 18+ MDNI!

Divider credits: @cursed-carmine

Part 1

After your little surprise for Arthur went by, he took it upon himself to use the camera while you two had some fun. He was a little heated because the man in Saint Denis saw all of you in ways he never should have, but that was all the more fun. 

Arthur had been spending some time in West Elizabeth recently, and he had bumped into a man called Albert Mason. During his time helping the strange photographer, he asked if it would be possible to teach him how to develop photos. Albert happily showed Arthur how to develop the pictures of the wolves he took moments prior to almost becoming wolf supper. 

He told you he had gotten them developed, but they were for ‘his eyes only,’ which annoyed to to be quite honest. It was your body in those pictures, well both of your bodies, but you wanted to see how they turned out. 

The two of you were at a place called Dodd’s Bluff, per Arthur’s journal, lying on the old bed under a thin blanket. There were some blood stains on the floor, but you weren’t going to ask Arthur what or who it was from. From time to time he liked to whisk you to far away cabins, love up on you, and then go about business. 

Your head is resting on his shoulder, and your left hand is placed on the middle of his bare, firm chest that was rising and falling in a slow manner. Looking up at his face, you see his lips are parted slightly, and his face was relaxed as he slept next to you. 

The thought pops into your head that the pictures would be in his satchel. Pulling the blanket back, you slide out of bed and grab his button-down shirt that was tossed carelessly on the floor. Pulling it on, you pad quietly to his satchel. Undoing the buckles of his satchel, your hand flips the flap open revealing some interesting things in there. This thing was like a magicians bag of tricks; the amount of things in here is ridiculous. 

Your fingers brush something soft briefly, causing your face to twist for a second, before hitting the stack of photos; you don’t want to know what you touched that was soft in there. Pulling them out, you lean against the small table that was pushed against the corner of the cabin from you two the night before. 

These don’t start off sweet and innocent like Arthur had the first time where it was pictures of some landscapes. The top picture is of his hand cradling your jaw with his thumb pressing down on your bottom lip as your teeth hold the tip of his finger. Your chest teases in this picture, just barley in frame, but showing that there was nothing covering your torso. 

The second one was your legs spread open wide with this fingers buried deep inside you. His middle and ring finger were curled inside your cunt while his pointer and pinky spread you open. 

Your thighs clench slightly at the though of his thick fingers fucking you just the way you like. 

The next his fingers are pushed into your mouth. What wasn’t pressed into your mouth was still glistening with your arousal. Your eyes were closed as you sucked in his fingers. He has a thing for you tasting yourself no matter how much he denies that when you say something to him about it. He’s always stumbling over words when you say something about being able to taste yourself on his lips or dick. 

His hand is wrapped around your throat in the next; you can tell his fingers were flexing against your skin lightly. Your lips were parted in this one, and your head was thrown back slightly. He was fucking you in this one. There was some pictures missing between the third and fourth one, but you two were busy to say the least. 

You can remember the words he said while taking the next one, your cheeks getting warmer remembering the dirty words he said to you, “Look at you letting me touch you however I want, fucking you however I want, and taking pictures of you just taking it. Maybe I should as Châtenay to do another exhibit, but it’s just pictures of you being fucked or you fucking yourself.” His rough fingers were pulling your nipple as your other pebbled breast was on display in the picture.

At some point you were on top of him, and the next photo shows that. You were lowering yourself down on him. Half of his cock was sheathed in you, your arms were bracing yourself behind you on his thighs, and your breasts were pushed out. 

Arthur loves to watch you cum as you ride him. He loves to watch your face scrunch with pleasure as you cry out. He especially loves to feel you cum as you ride him. Which exactly was happening in the next picture. Your fingers were buried between your thighs rubbing your clit, your hips were blurred slightly as you could tell they were rutting against his as your walls spasmed around him. Your head was dropped forward, eyes squinted shut, mouth open as you cried out in pleasure. Your other hand was on his stomach; fingers biting into the fleshy area of his stomach. 

The next you were between his thighs. Your hand was gripping his erect cock, and your tongue was licking up the length of him. Lapping up the sweet taste of yourself. He was glistening with your wetness, spit, and his own precum. His tip was darken and dripping under your touch. 

He doesn’t admit it, but you know he likes when you suck his dick. In the next picture his fingers are threaded in your hair, pressing your head down. Your nose was buried in the thick patch of hair at the base of his cock. You were taking him fully; cheeks hollowed out as you suck him. The picture doesn’t show it, but your throat was bulging from him. 

The thought of him deep in your throat was making your mouth water slightly. Arthur stirs slightly in the bed, causing you to look up at him, and he continues to sleep as you flip through the rest of the pictures. There were five left to look at. 

He was fucking you doggy now. Your legs were spread wide to accommodate his body behind you. The bottom of his belly was slightly in this picture, but the main focus was his cock dragging out of your dripping cunt. Your body was tight around him as he pulled himself away from you.

The next, his hand was gripping the fat of your ass, pulling it to the side to expose all of you to the camera. Nothing was hidden in this one. Your pussy was full of him, and your other hole was on display. The sight makes you feel shameful. Of all the pictures this one makes you feel the most embarrassed for some reason. Just the thought of him displaying everything like that felt taboo. 

His hand was buried in your hair once again, but this time he was using it as leverage to fuck you. Pulling your hair, he was flush against your ass in this one. 

This one was of your glistening pussy. It was dripping his cum, and his cum was painting the backs of your thighs. Sometimes he has a lot of cum, and that night was one of them. He was able to fill you up, and get some on your legs. A string of his cum was falling out from you. 

The last one was downright filthy of Arthur’s fingers pushing his cum back inside of you. The tips of his fingers were pressing into you as his cum coated the rest of them. If only he could take a video of him finger fucking you with his own cum.  

You place the photos down and look over at Arthur. He was sleeping peacefully on his back at the moment, but you have other intentions now. Walking over to him, you pull the blanket down revealing his naked body. 

Swinging your leg over his body, you lower yourself down on top of his hips. Nestling on top of him just right, you trail your fingers up his torso. You feel his cock twitch underneath you and your smile lightly. 

Rolling your hips, a quite involuntarily moans comes from him in his sleep. “Baby,” you say quietly as you trail a finger along his cheek. 

His eyes flutter open slowly, and a soft smile ghosts over his lips. “What ‘ch doin,” he rumbles. His hands slide up underneath his unbuttoned shirt you were wearing, and you see his eyes flick over to the table where his satchel is open and pictures are on the table. “Couldn’t help yourself could you?” 

This was something he wants to take a picture of: you nestled against his hips, wearing his shirt, hair messy, breasts threatening to spill out at any second. 

You lean forward. “Well they are of me,” you say against his neck. Your nipples graze against his chest as his shirt opens fully. Pressing a kiss where his shoulder meets his neck, you roll your hips once again. This time you feel something hard press into you. 

His fingers tighten on your hips. A little more fun won’t hurt.

[risingtripletaurus]

IM SO HAPPY

[mishmasho]

Arthur Morgan NSFW

“Oh girl, what’d you do?” She asked, placing a hand on your shoulder, urging you to sit with her on one of the many tables around camp. 

“I read his journal…” You confessed, your chest feeling tight. 

“That boy.. if he don’t want anyone readin’ his journal, he should stop bein’ so careless with it!” 

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader

WC: 5,726

Additional Tags: sub!reader, thigh riding, fingering, p i v, creampie, outdoor sex, praise | MDNI

    No one was allowed to touch his Journal. He made that very clear. A few years ago, when John was younger and didn’t know any better, he took a peek. Arthur had left the journal in his tent while fishing with Hosea, not wanting to get it wet. When he came back to camp, John was all over him. 

     “Had fun fishing, loverboy?” John grinned, waving Arthur’s journal in his face. 

     “You give that back, Marston!” Arthur lunged at John, reaching for the journal. John jumped back, reading some of the entries out loud. 

     “Mary, I’m a fool. Maybe we both are. How someone like you could choose to love someone like me, I’ll never understand,” John snickered as he evaded Arthur’s attempts to retrieve the journal. 

     “You little shit,” Arthur grumbled, grabbing John’s collar. The commotion caused a few of the other gang members to turn heads. 

     “Let go of me!” John clawed at Arthur’s arm as he raised a fist, so close to punching the younger boy before Hosea interrupted. 

     “Now, Arthur let’s not resort to violence, keep in mind if Dutch finds out you punched a gang member he’ll have you shovelling horse shit,” Hosea scolded, not wanting to deal with bratty teenagers while brushing through his horse’s mane. Arthur reluctantly dropped John, taking the chance to snatch his journal out of his hands, brushing off any dirt and grime that may have stuck to the thing. John stood with a scowl on his face as he watched Arthur stomp off to his tent while muttering profanities under his breath. 

     Another instance was when poor Sean was seen picking up the journal when it lay fallen on the ground. Before even getting a chance to read the journal, Arthur had swung. 

     “Christ, Morgan! I was just picking the damn thing up!” Sean exclaimed, clutching the side of his face as he stumbled backward. 

     “Back off,” Arthur snapped. Normally he wouldn’t have jumped to conclusions like that but he had been in a dark place at the time and didn’t want anyone reading what he’d written. Just seeing anyone near his journal ticked him off. 

     Arthur calmed down in the following years. Even so, the Van der Linde gang knew not to mess with him and his journal—everyone except you. 

     You were new to the gang, having recently joined after Arthur ran into you running from lawmen in the back alleys of Saint Denis. He’d wanted to take a shortcut to get to the trapper in the market to sell some pelts when you had slammed face-first into Arthur’s chest. 

     “Easy there, madam,” Arthur chuckled, helping you stand up straight, “What’s the-,“ 

     !!!

     Arthur’s sentence got cut short by the sound of whistles. 

     “Ah shit, lawmen?” Arthur scoffed, not wanting to deal with the law. He was a wanted man after all. 

     “Fuck!” You winced, not wanting to get a random stranger caught up in your troubles. 

     “Come with me,” Arthur grabbed your hand, beginning to pull you along in the direction of his horse. 

     “Wait, what?” 

     “Do you want to get arrested or not?” Arthur muttered, picking up the pace of his footsteps. You followed behind quickly, thankful for the stranger helping you out. Once you both exited the alley and entered the busy streets of Saint Denis, Arthur jogged towards his horse, a big and beautiful Hungarian Halfbreed named Maverick. 

     “Get on,” Arthur told you, extending a hand outwards to help you up. You took his hand, moving to sit side saddle behind him. 

     “C’mon, boy!” Arthur commanded as his horse began trotting down the street. You wrapped your hands around his waist, holding on tightly as his horse sped up into a gallop. 

     “What’s your name, sir?” You questioned, wanting to know who the man helping you out was. 

     “Arthur. Arthur Morgan,” He responded, gruffly, “Yourself, madam?”

     “Um, ____ ____,” you replied, “thank you for… helping me. I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

     “Don’t thank me just yet, we haven’t left the city, the Lawmen could still be after us,” Arthur said, “So what’d you do anyway?”

     “I.. are you sure you wanna know? It's not very pleasant..” You mumbled, feeling guilty for your crime. 

     “Sweetheart, I assure you I’ve done my fair share of unpleasant things. Things that definitely didn’t go unnoticed by them lawmen,” Arthur tried reassuring. 

     “I killed my fiancé,” You said meekly, chewing on your lip. You hadn’t come to terms with what you did just yet. 

     “Did you now? Why’s that?” Arthur asked, an amused smirk on his face. 

     “He was a.. bad man. Never took no for an answer if you know what I mean..” You answered, your voice quiet.

     “Well, sweetheart, some people in this godforsaken world are just scumbags. So to that I say, good riddance. You did us all a favor,” He joked. 

     “Mr. Morgan!” You gasped, chuckling at his words. 

     It had been a few months since you’d joined the gang. After your encounter with Arthur, he decided to bring you back with him seeing as you had nowhere else to go. The women of the gang took a liking to you immediately, teasing you about coming from a rich family. Dutch was skeptical about you, not being very fond of rich folk. Hosea on the other hand was more welcoming, making sure you felt like you belonged. You liked Hosea. 

     Arthur spent the most time with you. You liked him the most. He would bring you flowers that he picked back from wherever he went during the day, and you’d tease him about going soft despite being an outlaw. Everyone in the gang knew you two had formed a special bond. Everyone in the gang had also forgotten to tell you about how sensitive Arthur was about his journal. 

     Arthur had asked you to fetch gun oil from his tent and as you were about to leave, your gaze drifted to his journal, lying open on his cot. Your interest was piqued. You knew you shouldn’t snoop but you couldn’t help it. You reached for the journal, inspecting the drawings on the pages. Your eyes widened in surprise. 

     “Is that.. me?” You muttered to yourself, bringing the journal closer to your face. Multiple sketches of your face were on the pages. Your facial features were captured beautifully, each drawing with its own caption underneath with the date he drew them. Your face flushed at a particular caption stating the words ‘Pretty ____’. 

     Before you could stop yourself, you were flipping to the next page, this time seeing writing. 

     I don’t know what it is about her. She makes me feel like a good man, I didn’t think that was possible. I’ve done terrible things. Killed, robbed, other shit I don’t even remember. She’s better than me. Way better. I told myself I wouldn’t allow myself to love again, but she made me break that promise. I think—

     “____?” Arthur opened the tent flap, walking in. You jumped, startled. The journal was still in your hand, and your face was absolutely flushed. 

     “You were takin’ too long so I came to check...” Arthur trailed off as his brow furrowed when he saw what you were holding. He was silent. He walked up to you, took the journal from your hands, closed it, and set it back on his cot. 

     “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go through my things, ____,” Arthur said, tone too serious. He turned to leave the tent, taking the gun oil which you had forgotten about when you grabbed his wrist. 

     “Arthur, wait. We should talk-“ You tried to say before he pulled his wrist away. 

     “I’ve nothin’ to say,” He walked out of the tent, going to sit by the main campfire to clean his guns. You left his tent as well, feeling guilty. He loved you and you just invaded his privacy. You felt horrible. Tilly, one of the girls at camp saw Arthur’s face as he left the tent and turned to you. 

     “Oh girl, what’d you do?” She asked, placing a hand on your shoulder, urging you to sit with her on one of the many tables around camp. 

     “I read his journal…” You confessed, your chest feeling tight. 

     “That boy.. if he don’t want anyone readin’ his journal, he should stop bein’ so careless with it!” Tilly noticed your face, you looked so confused. 

     “Tilly.. I think Arthur has feelings for me..” you said quietly, as if you were still processing the new information. 

     “Well ‘course he does! Everyone in this damn camp knows! About time you found out..” Tilly laughed. 

     “What do you mean everyone knows? He’s said it?” 

     “Well no, but you should see the way that boy looks at you. He looks like a teenager in love,” Tilly giggled, “And the fact that he didn’t lash out at you for touchin’ his journal says a lot.”

     “What do you mean by lash out? He’s done that before?” You asked.

     “Yeah. Now I wasn’t around back then but I heard from Ms. Grimshaw that when Arthur was foolin’ around with that Mary girl back then, John read his journal and Mr. Morgan tried swingin’ at him,” Tilly spoke in a hushed voice. 

     “Mary?” You didn’t want to be jealous of a woman you’d never met. Especially not after seeing how much Arthur liked you. 

     “Mhm. You don’t need to worry ‘bout her though, I know he’s only got you in his mind,” Tilly teased. You playfully hit her shoulder, a grin making its way on your face. 

     “He draws me.. in his journal.. I saw so many pictures. He wrote that I’m pretty,” Your face was still flushed, “What do I do, Tilly? He’s… he’s mad at me.”

     “I think you should wait a bit, give him space. Let him cool off. He’s prolly more scared of your reaction to his feelings rather than bein’ mad at you for touchin’ his journal,” Tilly said, carressing your hand to calm you down. 

     You thanked Tilly for her help and walked to your own tent, glancing at Arthur on the way who paid no attention to you. He looked almost nervous. Maybe Tilly was right, you thought. 

     That night, neither you nor Arthur got any sleep. You were trying to figure out a way to approach him and Arthur was bracing himself for your reaction. You had feelings for Arthur as well, strong ones. Ever since he brought you that first flower, the look on his face made you fall instantly. He was so awkward, completely out of character for a tough outlaw. You felt a small smile make its way onto your face at the memory. 

     The next morning, Arthur avoided you. Anytime you even looked at him he turned away. At one point, when you had tried waving to him, he dragged poor Lenny away to go hunting. You frowned, upset that he was trying so hard to avoid you. 

     “This is hilarious,” you heard Javier say from where he was strumming idly on his guitar while leaning on a tree. You narrowed your eyes at him, not appreciating his amusement at your situation. 

     “He keeps avoiding me,” you huffed, walking closer to the man, not wanting the entire camp to hear about your business even if you were sure they already knew.

     “Yeah well, Morgan ain’t exactly a ladies' man,” Javier chuckled.

     “What, like you are?” You teased, crossing your arms before walking away to busy yourself. You heard a scoff behind you, pleasant guitar chords following behind. 

     Once Arthur returned, he made a beeline for Pearson’s wagon. He emptied his satchel, dropping off all the meat he and Lenny had collected, who speaking of which, looked exhausted. 

     You peeked your head out from your tent when you heard Ms. Grimshaw scolding Arthur. 

     “Look at the boy, Mr. Morgan! He looks exhausted! What were you boys up to?” She was loud, the entire camp could hear their conversation. Arthur only chuckled in response.

     “Lenny’s fine, Ms. Grimshaw,” He said, swinging his satchel over his shoulder. 

     “He sure don’t look fine. Well anyway, you better make up with ____, the girls been poutin’ all day—“

     “Ms. Grimshaw, I appreciate the concern, but it ain’t any of your business,” Arthur interrupted. He hadn’t thought of how to handle interacting with you yet. He tipped his hat to the woman before walking away to the edge of Horshoe Overlook, sitting on the rock Strauss normally sat at during the day. Most of the gang members had gathered near the main campfire, eager to enjoy the feast Pearson was preparing with the meat Lenny and Arthur had brought back. 

     Noticing Arthur was finally alone, you slowly approached the man. You were thankful it was dark, you and Arthur wouldn’t draw too much attention should anything happen. 

     Before you could so much as get near the man, Dutch slipped beside him. You groaned, shoulders slumping as you retreated, going to join the rest of the gang at the campfire. 

     The night continued just as you’d expected. Arthur stayed far away from you while you kept trying to get near him. Once you felt the night had stretched out for far too long, you bid farewell to the ladies, thanked Pearson for the meal, and headed back to your tent. 

     “Tomorrow.. I’ll sort this out tomorrow..” You muttered to yourself as you drifted off to sleep. 

     When morning came, rays of sunlight squeezed through the gap in the tent flaps, hitting your resting face. Your eyes fluttered open as you lay, your eyes adjusting to the small amount of light. 

     You stretched, slipping out of your chemise and into your day clothes, ready to start your day. You headed toward Pearson’s wagon to get yourself some breakfast, feeling absolutely famished. 

     “Mornin’, ____!” Mary-Beth greeted. You smiled at her in return as she poured herself a cup of coffee. 

     “Now, the girls and I, or, well I suppose just me and Karen, were wonderin’ if you wanted to come with us down to Valentine. We tried asking Tilly as well but lord knows what Ms. Grimshaw has her doin’ today.” 

     Well shit. You’d wanted to fix things with Arthur today. 

     “Mr. Morgan is taking us,” Mary-Beth added on, as if she knew what you were thinking. You felt flustered, heat creeping up your neck. 

     “Ah well, either way I’d be happy to go.. It’s been a while since I left the camp anyhow.” Mary-Beth was delighted with your answer, even though she knew it was mainly because of Arthur. 

     “Mr. Morgan! ____’s comin’ with us!” Mary-Beth called out, taking your hand in hers as she led you over to the wagon. Arthur didn’t respond, only giving Mary-Beth a curt nod as he stood atop the wagon, extending a hand to help her up. The wagon shook slightly as she sat across from Karen who was eyeing you and Arthur. 

     You looked up at Arthur and watched as he sighed. He swallowed his nerves and helped you up as well, letting you sit beside the other two girls while he sat in the driver's seat, holding the reins in his hand. Karen let out a laugh at the awkward exchange, nudging you in the shoulder as Arthur began leading the horses to Valentine. 

     The short trip from Horshoe Overlook to Valentine was bumpy. Once Arthur parked the wagon, he helped you and the girls get down safely. You had to turn your face away immediately to hide how red your face was. 

     “I’mma head over to the gunsmith, you ladies better stay outta trouble,” Arthur said as he began walking away. You were tempted to follow him but chose to stay with the others. 

     Karen had dragged both you and Mary-Beth over to the saloon for drinks, claiming that you and she needed to have more fun. 

     “Hey Mister, three beers,” Karen ordered, a grin on her face. 

     “You sure, Karen? You get kinda wild when you drink,” Mary-Beth chuckled. The bartender slid three bottles over to you and the girls, each of you taking one. 

     “Oh what the hell,” you muttered, taking a swig. The girls cheered, laughing at the face you made at the beer’s taste. 

     As the day went on, you and the girls got yourselves a table in the corner of the Saloon to privately chat. Arthur had busied himself with some errands and hadn’t spoken to you all day. You frowned at the thought, just wanting a chance to be with him in private for a moment. 

     “So, ____, what’s goin’ on with you and Arthur?” Karen asked you, her beer bottle clanking against the table as she set it down. 

     “It’s… complicated,” you answered, not wanting to get into it. 

     “Is it? ‘Cuz y’all look like idiots in love to me. He needs to grow a pair already,” she scoffed, Mary-Beth nodding in agreement. 

     Just as you were about to speak, a gruff voice interrupted. 

     “Can I buy you a drink, madam?” You turned to look at the man talking to you—he looked to be quite old. The two girls looked amused as they waited for your answer. 

     “No thank you, I’ve had far too many tonight,” you tried your best to be polite. 

     “Oh don’t be like that, how ‘bout just one, hm?” The girls picked up on your discomfort and stepped in. 

     “Sir, she said no, thank you for the offer,” Karen said in a stern voice. 

     “I ain’t talkin’ to you, woman,” the man snapped. As soon as he tried stepping closer to your table, his body got pulled back. 

     “You heard the lady. Now get,” Arthur’s gaze was locked onto the man, almost daring him to continue. The man stuttered, muttering an apology as he stumbled out of the saloon. 

     “Oh my, Mr. Morgan, look at ya swoopin’ in to save your girl,” Karen teased. Arthur ignored her words, shifting his gaze to you. 

     “You okay?” He asked, the concern in his voice evident. 

     “I’m okay. Thank you,” Arthur nodded. 

     “Good. I think you ladies have had enough for today,” he said, leading you and the girls out of the saloon and back to the wagon. 

     The ride back to camp was silent, none of you uttering a word. The tension between you and Arthur was thick, the girls easily picking up on it. Arthur parked the wagon on the side of the trail leading to camp, helping Karen and Mary-Beth down. 

     “Hey, uh.. do you wanna maybe go for a ride?” The words just tumbled out of your mouth before you could decide if asking that was a good idea or not. Arthur looked a bit surprised while you silently hoped he was ready to talk about whatever was going on between the two of you instead of avoiding you. 

     You noticed Karen making vulgar thrusting motions from the corner of your eye, glaring at her before turning your gaze back to Arthur. He exhaled sharply through his nose before answering.

     “Sure,” he grabbed the side of the wagon and pulled himself back up to the driver's seat. You chuckled awkwardly and pulled yourself up next to him. Arthur turned the wagon around, heading back down the trail, away from camp. 

     The two of you sat in silence, the only sounds being the leaves rustling in the wind and the horses trotting. The awkwardness was killing you, wanting nothing more than to just blurt out your feelings. 

     “Lovely…uh, weather we’re having, no?” You cringed at your own question. Arthur didn’t respond verbally, only grunting. 

     “Could I try driving?” You asked, knowing he’d have to respond in some way now. 

     “Really?” Arthur raised a brow in amusement. You weren’t the best driver by any means, having almost crashed a wagon or two the last few times you tried, “Alright, sure.”

     You took the reins from Arthur, the ghost of a grin on your face as you mentally celebrated the small victory. Now that you had the reins you felt it was the right time to talk. You led the wagon off the path and into a trail leading to he forest. Arthur glanced at you from the corner of his eye in confusion but chose not to say anything. 

     “Um, okay, now that we’re alone and you can’t avoid me, let’s talk,” you said, looking around you to make sure you both truly were alone. When the coast was clear you dropped the reins and turned to face him. 

     “Talk?” Arthur could sense where this conversation was leading, his shirt collar suddenly feeling too tight. 

     “I should start by apologizing…” You began, “I shouldn’t have gone through your journal. It was an invasion of privacy, and not okay.” 

     Arthur didn’t say anything. You were chewing your lip, nervous. You were about to say something else before he spoke up. 

     “S’alright.”

     ‘That’s good! He responded, We’re getting somewhere!’ You internally celebrated. 

     “Okay, I uh.. I guess we should talk about.. what I saw,” you said cautiously. You felt Arthur go stiff beside you. 

     “Yeah?” He was playing dumb. 

     “I feel the same,” You blurted out. ‘Shit, was that too straightforward?’ You didn’t wait for him to respond, instead continuing to speak, “I mean, unless I assumed wrong-“ 

     Arthur was speechless. Was he hearing things? He couldn’t believe that you wanted him too.

     “Are you serious?” He asked, looking at you in the eyes for the first time. 

     “Yeah. I’ve been trying to talk to you for the past couple of days to try and figure out how you felt. I wanted to see if you were actually mad at me or if it was something else…” You said, fidgeting with the fabric of your dress. 

     “I ain’t mad at you,” Arthur began, “I was.. I s’pose scared. It’s been a while since I’ve felt like this. I was afraid of how you’d react to what you read.”

     You swore your stomach just did a backflip. Arthur took your hands in his, almost chuckling at the differences. His were much larger and calloused, while yours were smaller, softer. 

     “I wanna be with you, ____. If you’ll have me,” Arthur said, feeling vulnerable. Confessing his feelings for you was hard for him but he was trying his best. You deserved the best.

     “Of course I’ll have you… I wanna be yours, Arthur,” You smiled, one of your hands cupping the side of his face. He leaned into the warmth of your palm, in awe at how he got so lucky. 

     “Are you sure you want someone like me, sweetheart? I ain’t a good man,” Arthur muttered, his tone filled with self-deprecation. 

     Having had enough of him constantly putting himself down, you gripped his shirt collar tight in one hand and pulled him forward. Arthur’s eyes widened as he felt your lips on his. He let his hands rest on your waist, pulling you closer gently, handling you oh so carefully. 

     Kissing Arthur felt heavenly, you felt warmth in your chest from just how gentle he was being, holding you so lovingly. You almost whined when he pulled away, forgetting that if you wanted to continue you both would need air. 

     You noticed that the tips of his ears had turned red, making you try your hardest to bite back a giggle. Arthur didn’t know what about that moment made him snap, but all of a sudden he was all over you. 

     Your amusement got cut short by his lips crashing onto yours, the only difference this time was that you felt his pure need for you. One hand tugged on his hair while the other gripped his shoulder tighter. Both of his hands were on the sides of your face, pulling you impossibly closer as he kissed you like you were the only thing that mattered. And you were, right now, the only thing that mattered to him was making sure you knew just how badly he wanted you; how much he craved you. 

     “You sure you want this?” Arthur pulled away, muttered against your kiss-swollen lips. You reached up, taking his hat off and running your hand through his hair. 

     “I want this. I want you,” Arthur swore he could feel butterflies at how sure you sounded. At that, Arthur crawled into the wagon, his body leaning against the back wall as he pulled you on top of him. Your dress became bunched up around your waist as you moved to straddle him properly, caging his legs with your own. 

     Arthur tangled his hand in your hair, pulling you in for another kiss, groaning into your mouth when he felt your hand trailing down his torso. You felt the heat radiating from his body through his shirt, making your hips subconsciously roll against his. Arthur’s breath hitched, trailing his kisses along your jaw and then down your neck. Every few kisses he’d stop to suck, searching for your sweet spot. 

     You giggled at the feeling of his stubble tickling your neck, feeling him smirk against your skin. He nipped at one spot in particular which earned him a gasp, one of your hands fisting the hem of his shirt. Arthur placed his hands on your waist, moving you to straddle his thigh as he experimentally rocked you against him. 

     “Fuck-“ you let out a shaky exhale, gripping his shoulders as you let him grind you against his thigh. Arthur watched your face, eyes glued to the way your cunt was leaving a wet spot on his pants. It was like he was pussydrunk without having even touched you properly. 

     “Arthur..” You sounded so needy, the sound of your voice going straight to his core. The friction between your clothed cunt and his thigh was too good yet not enough at the same time. You were slightly embarrassed at how lewd you were acting, grinding yourself against his thigh. 

     “I got you. Jus’ like that, doin’ so good f’me,” Arthur praised, one of his hands coming up to tug the neckline of your dress down. Arthur sucked at your collarbone, leaving small marks which he knew you’d scold him about later. 

     “Please.. I need more..” you weakly pleaded. Arthur’s cock throbbed in his pants, obsessed with the way you were begging for him. 

     “Look at you, first makin’ a mess on me then beggin’ for more. Dirty girl,” He chuckled lowly. Arthur leaned back and brought one of his hands between your legs, running his fingers over the damp fabric covering your cunt. 

     Arthur smirked when he heard your quiet whimper as he tugged your underwear to the side. Arthur looked at your face, waiting for confirmation to continue or not. Once you nodded, he brought his thumb to your clit, pressing down gently before rubbing in slow circles. 

     “This okay?” He asked, checking your body language for any signs of discomfort as he slowly slipped one finger into your entrance. You nodded eagerly, your nails digging into the fabric of his shirt. 

     “I need words, pretty girl,” Arthur said, moving his finger in and out at a frustrating pace. 

     “It’s good- I.. I n-need more..” You were trying so hard to keep yourself together; it was like you were putty in his hands. 

     “Where’d your manners go? No please?” He teased, slipping in one more finger as he began to move his fingers at a faster speed, “You’re grippin’ me so tight.. fuck.”

     You began to grind your cunt against his hand, his palm grazing your clit with each roll of your hips. 

     “Yeah, jus’ like that, ride my fingers. You’re doin’ so good, sweetheart,” Arthur murmured. He curled his fingers inside you, causing your back to arch, pushing your tits in his face. 

     “Oh, fuck!” You cried out. Arthur reached his free hand behind you, unzipping your dress and pulling it down far enough to reveal your brassiere. 

     “You’re such a pretty lil’ thing..” he whispered as he unfastened your bra, your breasts now exposed to him. He cupped one of them in his hands, a shiver running down your spine when his thumb ran across your nipple. You whimpered when he brought his mouth to your nipple, sucking gently, gaze locked on your expression.

     “Ah- mmh- I’m close, Arthur-“ He swore he felt his cock twitch in his pants at the sound of you whining his name. He left your nipple with a wet pop, bringing his hand back down to rub faster circles on your swollen nub. 

     “Yeah? You’re gonna cum? Good girl,” Arthur doubled down on his efforts, pinching your clit to finally push you over the edge. 

     You bit down harshly on his shoulder, trying your hardest to conceal your moan, knowing it would be far too loud. Arthur continued moving his fingers inside you, letting your orgasm draw out. He removed his hand from underneath you, the lewd squelch making you feel flushed. 

     You rested your forehead on his shoulder, breathing heavy as you came down from your high. Arthur rubbed your back soothingly with his clean hand, licking your juices off the other. 

     “You did so good, sweetheart. Taste good too,” Arthur grinned. Although you had just come all over his hand, you weren’t done yet. And from the way Arthur’s erection was poking your thigh, you had a feeling he wasn’t either. You sat back on his thighs, tugging on his shirt, indicating you wanted it off. 

     “Yeah? My needy girl still wants more?” Arthur gently flipped the two of you over, making it so you lay resting on the floor of the wagon as he kneeled in between your legs. You propped yourself up on your elbows, bottom lip in between your teeth as you watched him undress. 

     Arthur smirked as your eyes followed his hands as they carefully unbuttoned his shirt. Carefully, he lifted your head and placed his bunched-up shirt underneath to make you slightly more comfortable. Your heart fluttered at his thoughtfulness, pulling him down to kiss him. 

     Arthur helped you fully out of your dress, taking a moment to fully appreciate your beauty. You felt vulnerable under his gaze, but at the same time so loved. Arthur gently picked up your left leg, placing it over his shoulder while pressing chaste kisses onto your skin. His fingers fumbled with his belt, tugging it off and setting it behind him. 

     He pulled out his cock, his angry tip leaking shiny droplets of precum. You swallowed down your nervousness and wrapped your hand around the base, watching Arthur’s face as he threw his head back with a groan. You gave his cock a few experimental pumps, your thumb rubbing over his slit, spreading his precum around. 

     “Fuck, baby.. no more teasing…” Arthur murmured, wrapping his hand around the one stroking him, stopping you. He leaned forward, arms on either side of your head as he guided his length to your entrance. You bit down on your lip in anticipation, your legs spread wide open for him.

     “Tell me if it hurts, yeah?” Arthur kissed your cheek before slowly pushing in, groaning at the way your cunt was squeezing him. Your jaw fell slack, eyebrows furrowing as you clawed at his back. 

     “Ah shit, sweetheart, you’re squeezin’ the life outta me,” He grunted, pulling his hips back slightly then pushing all the way. 

     “F-fuck, Arthur!” You felt tears cloud your vision at the intrusion. 

     “Greedy pussy’s suckin’ me in, you’ve been wantin’ this all day haven’t you?” Arthur spoke lowly, pushing in and out of you at a slow pace, letting you adjust to his size. 

     “Y-yes,” you dumbly agreed, “faster- please..”

     “Yeah? My needy baby wants me to go faster?” Arthur chuckled, snapping his hips into you sharply. You cried out, leaving crescent shapes on his shoulders from your nails, “You still needa be punished for touchin’ my journal without my permission, don’t you, sweetheart?”

     “I-I apologized,” you struggled to speak as he maintained a fast pace, the leg on his shoulder allowing him to reach much deeper. 

     “You did, but I find forgivin’ you this way more fun,” he teased. He kept up a mean pace, making sure you’ll be bruised enough to remember this for a few days at least. 

     “Ah- mmh- hah- Arth-Arthur.. please-“ you didn’t even know what you were pleading for. 

     “Please? Please what, baby? My girl’s cockdrunk already?” His words made you clench down on him, making him shudder, “perfect. You’re so perfect.” 

     He muttered praises under his breath, bringing one hand to your clit, rubbing quick circles. You were seeing stars, your hips bucking as you felt the coil in your stomach close to snapping. 

     “Gonna- ‘m gonna cum,” you warned. 

     “Do it, sweetheart, cum for me, I got you,” Arthur’s pace faltered slightly as he felt his orgasm nearing as well, “Shit I’m close too, where d’you want it, baby-“

     “I-inside, please- mmh,” You wrapped your other leg around his waist, pulling him closer. 

     “F-fuck, you can’t just.. you sure, baby?” Arthur leaned down, pecking your lips. You finally felt the coil snap, your back arching as you gushed over his cock. 

     Seeing your face as you climaxed was all it took for Arthur to reach his as well, holding your hand in his as he came in you. 

     “You did so good, darling. Beautiful, I’m a lucky bastard,” Arthur peppered kisses all over your face as you came down from your high, breathing heavy. He let your leg down from his shoulder and grabbed a cloth from his satchel, using it to clean you up. He gently cleaned you combined juices off your thighs, smirking at your fucked out state. 

     You lay on the floor of the wagon, staring up at the sky, watching birds fly through the deep orange. You doubted Arthur dealt with people touching his Journal like the way he dealt with you, but you’d never been happier. 

     Once you both got dressed, Arthur turned the wagon around, leading you both back to camp. A content smile on his face while you leaned your head on his shoulder, your eyes fluttering shut from exhaustion. Arthur pressed a kiss onto the side of your head, feeling at peace for the first time in a long while. Although he was overjoyed with the outcome, he’d definitely learned to be more careful with his journal.

crossposted on ao3 under @mishmasho

divider credit to @cafekitsune

[gonewestward]

Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader

★ The Making of a Gentleman

"You're just too good to be true / can't take my eyes off of you"

— Frankie Valli / "Can't Take My Eyes off You"

★ pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader / reader POV

★ tags/warnings: romantic tension, so much tension, compliments, Arthur Morgan is weak for praise, and touch-starved, mayor's party, Arthur Morgan in a suit, BARK BARK BARK, mutual pining, idiots in love, flirting, devoted Arthur Morgan, man is fighting for his life, mirror scene, tie fixing, Arthur Morgan has terrible self-esteem, neck kisses, Hosea being Hosea, YEARNING!!!

★ word count: ~1.8k

Trust Dutch and Hosea to be up to no good, and rope you and Arthur straight into it.

They didn't say much, didn't give you any details. Just pressed a wad of bills into your palm and told you to head into town.

"Make yourself look proper," Dutch said. That was all.

And with money in your hand and the big city at your feet, who are you to argue?

You're certain the dress hugging your figure is something the women in higher places wear to just about any old party. Near enough to silk for the sort of men Dutch means to fool.

But to you? It's a marvel.

Satin that sits just right, stays that cradle instead of poke, petticoats that whisper with every step.

You look like a thousand dollars and some change.

Least, that's what Mary-Beth says.

All Tilly and Karen can muster are jaws on the floor, eyes all but falling from their sockets.

"Arthur sees you, he ain't gonna make it," Tilly utters, fanning herself.

Molly just rolls her eyes. She always was a woman of few words.

Even still, she mutters a quiet, "Guess it ain't half bad," before turning her attention elsewhere.

The girls are fussing over you—fixing an errant curl into place, straightening your gloves, adjusting a ribbon—when a familiar voice cuts in.

"Ladies."

You glance up, and there stands Hosea—hands tucked easy into his vest pockets, looking you over with quiet approval.

He nods, then asks, "Mind stealin' a minute?"

Your eyes narrow immediately.

"That depends. What you need?" you ask, tilting your head. Curious, cautious.

Hosea's always had a way of convincing you to do things, and it almost always has to do with—

"Arthur's havin' himself a little crisis."

Karen snorts. You don't so much as blink as you glance behind him toward the house.

"That so?"

"Mm," he hums, rocking back on his heels.

"Claims he looks ridiculous."

Your face softens despite yourself.

Hosea notices—of course he does. Everyone knows as much as the two of you butt heads, you can't help yourself where Arthur's concerned.

Apparently, neither can he.

"Thought maybe someone might talk sense into him."

You don't budge, huffing indignantly.

"Why me?"

A moment passes, the girls watching on as it stretches in the air between you. Then—

"Because you're his date, aren't you?"

Mary-Beth's hand claps over her mouth, and Tilly? Well, she looks like the cat that got the cream.

"Oh, I knew it!" she exclaims. "How sweet."

You make an attempt to catch your bearings, but all your thoughts fall apart like a wagon wheel come undone.

"I ain't his—"

"For appearances," Hosea says innocently.

Whatever he finds in your expression, it's enough to make him pause, sighing fondly.

"Though I suspect Arthur may disagree."

With that, he wanders off, leaving you staring after him, lips parting like a fish out of water.

Now what the hell are you meant to do with that?

"Well?" says Mary-Beth, staring at you expectantly. "Ain't you gonna check on him?"

You huff, drop your arms to your sides. "Yeah, yeah. I'm goin'."

Javier gives you a whistle as you pass, saying something about you holding out on them. Rolling your eyes, you grin, passing him by with a thump to the back of the head.

"Where you goin'?" he calls out, rubbing where your hand connected with his hair.

"Gotta see about a man in a suit."

You round the corner, take the stairs two at a time, holding up your skirts as you go.

Doesn't take you long to find him. Could've picked the right door blind, with the way your heart's carrying on.

Without a word, you slip inside, shut it gently at your back.

And good grief, the sight of him stops you in your tracks, kills every quip you were holding on the tip of your tongue.

There he stands—tailored suit, bowtie undone, hair fixed up like you've never seen before.

A sight for sore eyes.

Reckon you've been parched for quite some time, the way you're drinking him in like water in a barren desert.

When his gaze finds yours in the mirror, you both freeze at once.

But you see it.

The way his eyes drop to the dress clinging to you in all the right places—lingering at the neckline long enough to make your pulse jump—before jerking forward once more.

You don't miss the way his jaw tightens, wrought with tension.

Taking a deep breath, you cross the room slowly, heels clicking with every step.

"...You alright?" you ask quietly, watching him shift on his feet, discomfort on his face plain as day.

He snorts, looking back to his reflection, fingers yanking at his tie.

"Look a damn fool," he mutters.

"Oh, hush," you chide, inching closer. "Let me—"

"Naw." He bats the offer away before you can finish. "I got it. Don't worry none—"

But you're already there, hands sliding beneath his, easing them down.

Your fingers brush the warm skin at his throat as you take hold of the bowtie at both ends, doing it up easy.

"Mm," you hum, fighting a smile. "Makin' a right mess of it."

A quiet little laugh escapes your nose. Arthur watches closely as you fix the knot into place—not too loose, not too tight.

Just right.

You smooth your hands along his jacket—adjust his lapels like they aren't sitting fine already, brush away imaginary dust from his shoulders, fingers taking their time running down his arms.

"There. All done," you murmur, eyes on his mouth.

He doesn't look at you. Not until your finger hooks beneath his chin, angling his head until he can't avoid it any longer.

"Nervous?"

He swallows, the sound loud in the quiet room.

"I look nervous?" he asks, voice low.

The laugh you give him is soft, a smile curling your lips before you think better of it.

"Your tie sure did."

He stares so long, your cheeks start to burn beneath the rouge dusted over them. But you don't look away. Even as his eyes flick down to the fabric draped along your body once more before returning to meet yours.

"New dress?"

His fingers brush the fabric, curiosity getting the best of him, his hand settling at your waist. When he's certain you won't shy away, his fingers curl around your hip—steady now, no hesitation left in him.

You nod, bite the inside of your cheek before asking what's been on your mind since you walked through the door.

"You like it?"

He glances at you once—quick, like looking too long might lead to him doing something he can't take back.

"Looks nice."

He pauses.

"Real nice."

Your hand rises to rest on his chest—unmoving, just feeling—before slipping beneath his jacket to feel the heat of him through his underclothes.

"I like the suit... Looks good on you," you murmur.

His lips twitch—almost a grin, but not quite enough.

"Ain't nothin' special."

You frown at the way he shifts, looking at himself in the mirror like the man staring back just ain't quite right.

"What are you on about?"

He shrugs, rolls his shoulders. His hand finds yours, covering it on his chest, holding it there.

As if you'd ever dream of pulling away.

"Arthur—"

"Just ain't much to look at is all," he mutters.

You blink, a couple times, half-convinced he's lost his damn mind.

He's looking at the floor now, touch going slack against yours. You turn your hand, lacing your fingers, press the back of it flat to your chest where your heart thuds a rapid pace.

"That what you think?" you breathe, letting him feel it.

How he affects you.

How the sight of him now is doing little good to your composure.

How his touch, and the weight of those eyes on you, shakes you to the core.

His jaw loosens at your whispered words.

"Don't look myself," he says quietly.

"It's just a suit," you reassure him. "Same man wearin' it."

He doesn't believe it—not even close. But you won't leave it there.

"Arthur Morgan, have you looked at yourself?"

He scoffs, shakes his head.

"Every damn day."

"Then I reckon you ain't lookin' hard enough."

Cupping his face, your thumb grazes his cheek.

"I'm s'posed to find somethin' wrong with this?"

"Don't you start—"

Before he can protest, you're on your toes, pressing a kiss to his lips that lasts longer than it needs to. Enough for you to feel the hitch in his breath, his fingers tightening where they hold you still.

"What kinda woman you take me for?" you whisper against his mouth. "Think I don't know what I got?"

You trail kisses to his cheeks—the left, then the right, a firm press of your lips to his skin.

"Think I don't love the man beneath all this?"

You move along the strong line of his jaw, down his neck to where his pulse flutters relentlessly beneath the hot press of your tongue.

"Darlin', ain't a thing about you that doesn't drive me wild," you murmur, nipping lightly at the space beneath his ear.

"Christ," he mutters. "The hell you doin' to me, woman."

He rubs at his jaw, all flustered and red. You'll never tire of seeing him like this—not for a second.

"We got places t'be."

"Don't you preach at me. We ain't in no rush," you say, watching him sigh when his fingers find the scar on his chin.

You notice—ain't a thing about the man that slips past you.

"Almost forgot," you say suddenly, rising again to press a slow kiss to the mark. Long enough to remind him it's just another thing about him you can't help but love.

His brows draw tight, watching you in surprise, reverence taking its place soon after.

Stepping back with a playful grin, you adjust his collar and make your way to the door.

"Go on and finish up, cowboy."

Then, tossing his words right back, you say, "'We got places to be,' after all."

He doesn't get a word in before you're gone, slipping out of the room, the smell of your perfume lingering long after.

Out front, you nearly collide head first with Hosea where he leans against a railing, watching you with thinly-veiled amusement.

He knows too much. Old man's got eyes in the back of his head.

"He alright in there?"

You pause, the memory of what you just did flashing in your mind, and cast a brief glance back at the house.

"He's just fine," you say, a lilt in your voice you couldn't hide if you tried.

Hosea studies your face a beat too long.

The pleased little curl of your mouth, the way you won't quite meet his gaze, cheeks a touch too flushed.

His lips twitch.

"Thought as much."

a/n: ohhhhhh, this is a buzzy one SORRYYYY! this is for this request i received with some creative liberties taken, as i had a specific vision in mind for how it would go. anon, i hope you love it sm!!!!!! i'm still working through requests. rest assured, i'll get to the ones still waiting soon ♡ as always, likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated, and thank you sm for reading! mwah mwah ilysm

[risingtripletaurus]

hosea match maker

[bonnieknowsbest]

──── ݁ arthur morgan x bonnie ray (fem!oc)

a/n: I wrote this a while ago and I really hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I’d also been wanting to write about how Mary would react if she saw Arthur with Bonnie. I tried to stay as true to Mary as possible and also give her a less tragic and slightly kinder ending.

wc: 11,7k ⊱┊ summary: Arthur Morgan invents a reason to take his girl away from camp for a few days, steering their horses toward Valentine. What begins as a simple ride quickly turns into something more as the journey itself forces him to confront how deeply he loves her. warnings/tags: 18+ smut & fluff • established relationship • emotional intimacy • marriage proposal thoughts • fear of loss / grief (mention of eliza and isaac) • brief gun violence (road ambush) • domestic moments • found family • mary linton’s POV (minor) • closure for past relationship • storm sex • cabin sex • cowgirl position • hat kink • dirty talk • body worship • dom arthur • protective arthur • rough kissing • half-on clothes • begging • marking • hair pulling • praise kink • creampie • possessive behavior • after care • domestic fluff

The air at Shady Belle was thick with the scent of damp earth and magnolia blossoms. The old plantation house loomed, its grandeur gone to rot, but it was shelter, and for now, that was enough. Arthur found Bonnie by the crumbling stone well, running an oiled rag along the leather of her chaps. His chaps. He’d bought them for her in a little saddlery outside of Strawberry a month back, tossing them to her with a gruff, “For the long rides. Keep your legs from gettin’ scraped to hell.” She’d taken them, run her hands over the fine-stitched leather, and looked up at him with a spark in her green eyes. “Oh, I’ll put ‘em to good use, cowboy. For all kinds of rides.” He’d flushed clear to the roots of his hair, and she’d laughed, the sound like sunshine. Now, she wore them like a second skin. The dark leather was already molded to her shape from weeks in the saddle, and a few memorable hours out of it. Seeing her in them did something to him, every damn time. It was his quiet, feral secret.

—Admirin’ your handiwork, pretty boy? —she asked without looking up, a smirk in her voice. She knew he was watching. —Just checkin’ my investment —he grumbled, leaning against the column— You ready? Or you gonna polish that leather ‘til it blinds me?

She stood, the chaps creaking softly, a sound that went straight to his gut. She fixed him with a look.

—Someone’s eager to get me out on the road. —Just eager to get away from Pearson’s errands. Town’s quiet. We’ll get the list, get some air that don’t smell like regret. A few days out. Call it a… tactical respite.

Bonnie laughed, grabbing her hat.

—A date, bear. The word is ‘date —She stepped close, straightening his bandana— But your tactical morale secret is safe with me.

They walked to the hitching post where their horses waited. Bonnie’s gentle mare, May, whickered softly. Arthur’s stallion, Boy, stamped a hoof, but it was the sleek, dark bay mare tied next to him that drew Bonnie’s eye. Bonnie. The horse he’d bought and named after her, a fact he’d revealed only after she’d caught him murmuring to it one evening. He’d been mortified. She’d kissed him senseless.

—You takin’ the lady today, or the gentleman? —Bonnie asked, nodding between the two horses that bore their names. —Boy’s feisty. Needs the run —Arthur said, patting the stallion’s neck— You know the lady prefers a gentle ride… most of the time.

The look he gave her was warm and loaded. She shook her head, smiling, and mounted May with that easy grace that made the chaps flex just so. As they turned the horses toward the north road, Hosea watched from the porch, a knowing smile on his face.

—Try not to acquire any unnecessary attention in Valentine! —No promises! —Bonnie called back.

From the upstairs window, Sadie’s voice followed them out: “Have fun, you two! Don’t do anything too illegal!” Which, coming from Sadie Adler, meant absolutely nothing. Arthur nudged Boy into a walk beside May.

—C’mon, cowgirl. Before Dutch finds a philosophical crisis that needs solvin’ right this minute.

The heavy air of Lemoyne began to thin as they left the swamp’s grasp, the land rising slowly into the wooded hills that marked the border with New Hanover. Boy and May walked side-by-side, their riders falling into a comfortable silence, broken only by the creak of saddle leather and the steady rhythm of hooves on the dirt track. Arthur was the one who broke the quiet, his voice a low rumble.

—You thinkin’ about Pearson’s errands back there? ‘Cause I sure am. The other day, a goddamn alligator nearly had us for dinner just 'cause he wanted them eggs for his new recipe. Tactical respite was the right call.

Bonnie smiled, shifting in the saddle, the chaps whispering.

—I was thinkin’ how you look almost peaceful when you ain’t got Dutch in one ear and Micah in the other. —Don’t go gettin’ sentimental on me, sunshine —he grumbled, but the corner of his mouth twitched— Peaceful ain’t a word that gets thrown my way much. —It should be —she said simply.

They rode on, the conversation ebbing and flowing with the landscape. She told him about finding a nest of baby possums near the outhouse, and how she’d spent an hour keeping the Cain away. He told her about a stubborn bull in Emerald Ranch that had reminded him of Bill. It was easy. It was light. Then, a sound. A high, pained whinny, sharp as a knife, followed by the gruff, angry shout of a man. It came from a small clearing just off the road, where a dilapidated cart sat with a broken wheel. Arthur’s hand went to his rifle stock instinctively, his eyes scanning. Bonnie was already urging May off the path, her face set in a hard line.

—Bonnie, hold on… —He started, but she was already moving.

In the clearing, a scrawny mule was harnessed to the cart. A man in filthy overalls, red-faced and sweating, was yanking savagely on the bit, trying to force the trembling animal to pull the laden cart with its wheel half-off its axle.

—Goddamn stupid beast! MOVE! —He raised a short whip. —HEY!

Bonnie’s voice cracked through the air like a gunshot. She swung down from May before the horse had fully stopped, landing in a crouch and striding forward. Arthur dismounted more slowly, his hand resting near his sidearm, his eyes on the man. The man whirled, the whip still raised.

—This ain’t your concern, lady! This animal’s lazy!

Bonnie didn’t even look at him. Her eyes were on the mule. It was lathered in fear, its sides heaving, eyes rolling white. She saw the raw sores on its shoulders from the ill-fitting harness. She saw the way its legs shook. Arthur saw something else. He saw the way all the color drained from Bonnie’s face, the way her hands, usually so steady, clenched into white-knuckled fists at her sides. He saw the shadow that passed behind her green eyes, not just anger, but a deep, personal flash of terror and rage. It was the look of someone remembering what it felt to be powerless under someone else’s cruelty.

—The hell it ain’t! —she said, her voice dangerously quiet. She walked right up to the mule, ignoring the man completely, and placed a gentle hand on its sweat-damp neck. The animal flinched, then stilled, a shudder running through it— Easy, girl. Easy now. You’re alright.

The man sputtered.

—Now you listen here… —No —Arthur said. He didn’t shout. He just took two steps forward, his full height and breadth suddenly looming between the man and Bonnie. His expression was calm, but his eyes were the cold, flat blue of a winter lake— You listen. The lady’s talkin’ to the mule. You keep your mouth shut, or I’ll shut it for you.

The man’s bluster died in his throat, his eyes darting from Arthur’s face to the gun on his hip. Bonnie murmured to the mule, her fingers working quickly to unbuckle the cruel harness.

—There you go. That’s it. No more pullin’ today.

As the straps fell away, the mule let out a shuddering sigh, its head drooping. Bonnie turned her head, her gaze finally landing on the man. The fire in her eyes could have set the grass alight.

—She’s exhausted. She’s hurt. You’re a weak, sorry piece of shit who gets his kicks from bein’ stronger than somethin’ that can’t fight back —Her voice trembled, not with fear, but with a fury so pure it was almost holy— Get out of my sight. Walk to wherever you’re goin’. If I see you touch another animal again, I won’t stop at words.

The man looked to Arthur, hoping for reason. Arthur just stared back, unmoving. With a final, terrified glance, the man turned and scurried down the road, abandoning his cart. The silence that followed was thick. Bonnie leaned her forehead against the mule’s neck, her shoulders tight. Arthur walked over to her, his boots silent on the grass. He didn’t touch her. He just stood close, a solid presence at her back.

—You alright, darlin’? —he asked, his voice softer than he used with anyone else in the world.

She took a deep, shaky breath.

—I hate men like that. —I know.

She finally looked up at him, her eyes glistening but fierce.

—He reminded me of… of him. That same… meanness in his eyes.

Arthur’s jaw tightened. He’d heard about her previous husband. Enough to paint a picture that made him want to dig the man up and kill him all over again. He reached out, not to pull her to him, but to gently brush a stray tear from her cheek with his thumb.

—He’s gone. And that bastard’s runnin’. And this girl? —he nodded to the mule, who was now lipping gently at Bonnie’s sleeve— She’s safe ‘cause of you.

Bonnie leaned into his touch for a second, drawing strength from it. Then she straightened, wiping her face with the back of her hand. The vulnerability was tucked away, replaced by practical resolve.

—We can’t leave her here. She’ll get picked off by wolves or worse.

Arthur looked at the mule, then at their two horses. He let out a long-suffering sigh that was entirely for show.

—Alright. But she’s your responsibility.

A real smile, small but genuine, broke through on Bonnie’s face. She looked at the mule.

—Her name’s Daisy —She turned the smile on him, and it was like the sun coming out after the storm— Thank you, bear.

He grunted, but the warmth in his eyes betrayed him.

—C’mon, Daisy. Let’s get you some water and grass that ain’t next to a fool’s broken cart.

As they led the three animals back to the road —Arthur on Boy, Bonnie walking beside May with Daisy’s lead rope in hand— the dynamic had shifted. The easy banter was replaced by a deeper, quieter understanding. He’d seen the wound her past had left, and she’d seen him stand as her unwavering shield without a moment’s hesitation. They continued north, their little caravan now one member larger.

They made camp that night in a pine grove west of Rhodes. Daisy, after a long drink from a stream and a generous portion of oats from Arthur’s supply bag, seemed to regain some spirit, sticking close to May as if she’d found a new mother. Arthur tended to the horses while Bonnie moved around their little clearing with that easy, unhurried grace that always made something in his chest go tight, the leather creaking softly with every step, the way they hugged the curve of her hips and thighs a constant, maddening reminder of what he couldn’t touch while they were on the road. He’d been half-hard since the moment she’d dismounted back at that broken cart, her voice cracking like thunder as she tore into that worthless bastard. Seeing her stand up for something helpless, seeing that fire in her green eyes, the way she’d trembled not with fear but with righteous fury, it had done something to him. It always did. His cowgirl. His wild pretty girl.

Bonnie was crouched by the fire now, feeding it another stick, when Arthur finally couldn’t take it anymore. He crossed the clearing in three strides, his shadow falling over her. She looked up, and the heat in his gaze made her breath catch.

—...Arthur?

He didn’t answer with words. He pulled her up and into him, his mouth crashing down on hers with a hunger that had been building all damn day. She melted into it, her hands fisting in his shirt, the taste of her —woodsmoke and that stubborn streak of peppermint— flooding his senses.

—Couldn’t wait another second —he growled against her lips, his hands already working at the buttons of her shirt— Watchin’ you in these chaps, watchin’ you tear that son of a bitch apart… Christ, Bonnie. You got no idea what you do to me.

She laughed, low and breathless, as he backed her toward their bedrolls.

—Then show me, pretty boy.

He laid her down on the blanket, the stars wheeling overhead in the darkening sky. The fire crackled nearby, casting flickering shadows across her skin as he stripped her bare, leaving only the chaps. The sight of her like that —naked except for the leather he’d given her— nearly undid him. He shed his own clothes with impatient hands, then lowered himself over her, his weight a familiar, welcome pressure.

—Mine —he murmured, his mouth tracing a path down her throat, across the swell of her breast— My wild girl. My sunshine. —Yours —she breathed, arching into him, her fingers threading through his hair— Always.

When he pushed into her, slow and deep, she gasped his name like a prayer. They moved together under the open sky, the night air cool on their heated skin, the only sounds the crackle of the fire, the distant hoot of an owl, and the soft, desperate sounds they made for each other. He took his time, savoring every inch of her, every gasp and moan, until she was trembling beneath him, her release washing over her in waves that pulled him under with her. Afterward, they lay tangled together, her head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy circles on her bare shoulder, hers tracing circles in the thick hair on his chest.

—You know —Bonnie said softly, her voice drowsy with satisfaction— I think Daisy’s gonna be alright.

Arthur pressed a kiss to her hair, his arm tightening around her.

—Reckon she will. You got a way with broken things.

She tilted her head up to look at him, her green eyes soft in the firelight.

—Maybe ‘cause I know what it feels like to be put back together.

He didn’t have words for that, so he just kissed her again, slow and deep, the taste of her mingling with the night air and the promise of the road ahead. They fell asleep like that, wrapped in each other, the stars watching over them, the world outside their little clearing fading into nothing. The next morning, they approached the outskirts of Rhodes. The town’s red clay streets and sleepy, sun-baked atmosphere were a world away from the damp tension of Lemoyne. Bonnie was leading Daisy, her brow furrowed.

—We can’t take her all the way to Valentine —she said, more to herself than to Arthur. —Could sell her to the stable here —Arthur offered, though his tone suggested he knew her answer.

Bonnie shot him a look.

—To someone who might treat her just the same? No.

As if summoned by the very thought, they passed a small, well-kept homestead just off the main road. An elderly man with a kind, weathered face was struggling to haul a sack of feed from his porch to a small barn, his movements slow and pained. Bonnie didn’t hesitate. She handed Daisy’s lead to Arthur.

—Hold this.

She walked over, her boots kicking up little puffs of red dust.

—Need a hand with that, sir?

The old man, Mr. Dobbs as he introduced himself, was grateful. Between the two of them, they got the sack into the barn. His eyes, sharp and blue despite his age, lingered on Daisy.

—Fine lookin’ mule you got there, miss. Strong back. Just what I been needin’ since my old girl passed. Can’t manage the heavy liftin’ like I used to.

Bonnie and Arthur shared a glance. It was a silent conversation. Arthur gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Bonnie walked back, took the lead rope, and placed it firmly in Mr. Dobbs’s hands.

—She’s yours.

The old man blinked.

—Now, hold on. I ain’t a rich man, but I can pay a fair price… —No price —Bonnie said, her voice firm but kind— Her name’s Daisy. She’s had a rough time. She needs a patient hand and a light load. Looks to me like you can provide both.

Mr. Dobbs’s eyes grew suspiciously bright. He looked from Bonnie’s earnest face to Arthur’s quiet, approving one.

—Well, I’ll be… God bless you, child. Both of you.

He insisted they stay for lunch, refusing to take no for an answer.

—My Martha’ll have my hide if I let such kindness ride off without a proper thank you.

Martha Dobbs was a plump, cheerful woman with flour on her apron and a smile that filled her whole face. Their small home was clean and cozy, smelling of baking bread and stewed apples. It was a picture of simple, hard-won peace, the kind of life Arthur had long ago accepted was not for him. Over a hearty stew and fresh cornbread, Martha chattered away, her eyes twinkling as they darted between her two guests. Arthur, acutely aware of his size and roughness in the delicate space, was on his best behavior, his hat in his hands, his “thank you, ma’am”s soft and sincere.

—So, —Martha said, pouring them more tea, her gaze landing on the way Arthur’s chair was subtly angled toward Bonnie, on the easy way Bonnie passed him the salt before he asked— You two been married long?

Arthur choked on his tea. Bonnie reached over and thumped him gently on the back, her own cheeks turning pink.

—Oh, no, ma’am. We’re not… we ain’t married.

Martha’s eyebrows shot up.

—Travelin’ together? All this way? My, my —There was no judgment in her voice, only warm, grandmotherly curiosity— Well, you sure have the look of it. The comfortable quiet. My Henry and I had that same look ‘fore we even stepped foot in a church.

Arthur couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. He stared fixedly at a knot in the wooden table, feeling a heat that had nothing to do with the stove. The word ‘married’ sat in the room like a physical object. It wasn’t a word that belonged to him. It was a word from Mary’s letters, from a dream that had curdled into obligation. Hearing it here, in this warm kitchen, attached to Bonnie… it didn’t feel like a cage. It felt like a distant, impossible meadow he suddenly realized he was staring at. Bonnie saved him, her voice gentle.

—We’re partners, ma’am. In every way that counts.

Martha smiled, a knowing, soft smile.

—I see that, dear. I surely do —She patted Bonnie’s hand— That counts for more than a piece of paper most days.

When they left an hour later, with a bundle of fresh cookies pressed into Bonnie’s hands and Daisy happily munching hay in the Dobbs’s paddock, a new kind of quiet settled between them. It wasn’t awkward, but it was charged. The old woman’s innocent assumption had hung a lantern on something they both felt but had never named. They rode in a companionable silence for a long while, the only sounds the steady clop-clop of hooves and the creak of leather. Bonnie was the one to speak first, her voice soft, almost hesitant.

—She was sweet.

Arthur grunted in agreement; his eyes fixed on the horizon.

—Kind folks.

Another stretch of quiet passed. Boy and May walked so close their riders’ legs nearly brushed.

—Awkward question, though —Bonnie said, a small, nervous laugh in her voice— Caught you off guard, didn’t it?

Arthur shifted in the saddle, the leather groaning under his weight. He still couldn’t quite look at her.

—Wasn’t expectin’ it—He cleared his throat— Felt… strange. Hearin’ that word. Attached to us.

Bonnie’s gaze was gentle on his profile. She knew his history, the ghost of Mary that still sometimes lingered in the corners of his mind, though it was growing fainter by the day. She knew that for a man like Arthur, the word “married” was a heavy thing, weighted with old failures and the fear of being caged.

—It don’t have to be a chain, you know —she said quietly— Not if it’s the right person.

He finally glanced at her. The sunlight caught in her green eyes, turning them the color of new leaves. There was no pressure there, no demand. Just the same steady, accepting warmth she always offered him. It was the same look she’d given the mule, the same look she gave the world when it showed her its better side. He felt that familiar, twisting warmth in his chest, the one that had been growing steadily since the day he’d realized he was in love with her. The one that made him feel both stronger and more vulnerable than he’d ever been.

—Reckon it ain’t a chain if you don’t feel it pullin’ —he said, his voice rough— Reckon it’s more like… a lead rope. Somethin’ you hold onto. Not somethin’ that holds you.

Bonnie’s smile was slow and radiant. She didn’t push. She just let the words settle between them like a promise made in the open air. They made camp that evening in a shallow draw, sheltered from the wind by a stand of cottonwoods. The sky was a vast, bruised purple, streaked with orange. While Arthur tended to the horses, Bonnie gathered wood and started the fire. It was a practiced dance, each knowing their part without needing to speak. As the fire crackled to life, Arthur settled down beside her, pulling his journal from his satchel. He didn’t open it right away. Instead, he watched her as she poked at the logs with a stick, her profile sharp against the flames. The chaps creaked as she moved, and he felt that familiar, helpless pull in his gut.

—You know —he said, his voice low —when I bought those for you… I didn’t think they’d look quite so… right.

Bonnie looked over, a mischievous glint in her eye.

—Oh? And how do they look, pretty boy?

He met her gaze, the firelight dancing in his own blue eyes.

—Like they belong. Like you belong in ‘em. And out of ‘em.

Her laugh was a low, warm thing. She leaned over and kissed him, slow and deep, tasting of woodsmoke and the peppermint she’d been sucking on.

—Careful, cowboy. We’re supposed to be gettin’ an early start tomorrow. —Valentine ain’t goin’ nowhere —he murmured against her lips, his hand coming up to cup the back of her neck, his thumb brushing the soft skin there.

Later, as they lay in their bedrolls, pulled close together against the chill of the night, Bonnie rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart. Arthur stared up at the stars, his arm wrapped around her, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her back. He thought about the old woman’s question. About the way it had felt, not like a trap, but like a door he’d never thought to open. He thought about the life he’d almost had, the one Mary had offered, the one that had always felt like a performance he could never quite get right. This, right here, with the smell of woodsmoke in his hair and Bonnie’s steady breathing against his bare chest, felt like the only truth he’d ever known. It wasn’t a cage. It was a home. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his voice a whisper in the dark.

—G’night, sunshine. —G’night, cowboy —she murmured sleepily.

And as the fire burned down to embers, Arthur Morgan, the man who had lost so much, held onto the one thing he was certain he would never let go.

The morning came soft and gold, the pine grove waking slowly under a sky the color of watered milk. Arthur was up first, coaxing the fire back to life while the horses stamped and blew in the cool air. May stood nearby, ears flicking, already saddled and ready. Bonnie emerged from the bedrolls with her hair loose and her shirt half-buttoned, the chaps already strapped on, and the sight of her —sleep-soft and sunlit— made something in Arthur’s chest go warm and tight all over again. They ate sitting cross-legged on the blanket, the tin cups of coffee steaming between their knees. The beans were simple, the pan bread a little scorched on one edge, but it tasted like luxury after yesterday’s long miles. Bonnie blew across her cup, eyes bright with a memory.

—You should’ve seen Jack yesterday before we left. He was tryin’ to teach Cain to ‘shake hands.’ Kept holdin’ out a bit of biscuit and sayin’, ‘Gimme paw, Cain, gimme paw.’ Cain just stared at him like he’d lost his mind, then sat on the biscuit. Jack looked so betrayed I thought he was gonna cry.

Arthur chuckled, the sound low and rough.

—That dog’s got more sense than half the camp. Probably figured the biscuit was safer under his ass than in Jack’s hand.

Bonnie laughed with him, the sound clear and easy in the morning quiet. They fell into a comfortable rhythm after that: small talk, easy silences, the kind of conversation that didn’t need to go anywhere. Arthur mentioned a bird he’d spotted near the river the evening before, something small and bright with a tail like a little fan, flashing blue when it darted between the trees.

—Never seen one like it —he said, scraping the last of the beans from his cup— Kept thinkin’ it was a scrap of sky that got loose.

Bonnie smiled at that, the private, fond smile she saved just for him.

—You and your birds. One of these days you’re gonna fill that whole journal with nothin’ but feathers and leaves.

Arthur didn’t answer, just gave her a look that said he already had. They packed up slow, the horses watered and fed, the fire doused and scattered. By the time they mounted the sun was climbing and the air had lost its edge. They rode north at an easy pace, the land opening up around them in long, rolling swells of grass. The river they’d been following wound closer, its banks lined with cottonwoods that whispered in the breeze. When they reached a shaded bend, Bonnie swung down first, leading the animals to drink. Arthur followed, stretching the stiffness from his back before settling on a flat rock with his journal open across his knees. The water moved steady and clear, catching the light in shifting patterns that danced across the surface.

Bonnie didn’t speak. She just found a comfortable spot against the trunk of a cottonwood, her legs stretched out in front of her, the chaps creaking softly as she settled. Her head tipped back against the bark, eyes half-closed, watching the river with that quiet. Arthur watched her for a long moment, the pencil resting idle between his fingers. Then he began to draw. Not the landscape. Not the river or the trees or the horses drinking at the edge. Just her. The line of her throat as it met the open collar of her shirt. The way a single strand of hair had escaped her braid and curled against her cheek. The soft shadow her lashes cast across her skin, the faint furrow between her brows that only appeared when she was thinking about nothing at all. He sketched the curve of her mouth, the way it relaxed when she was at peace, the way it had looked the night before when she’d whispered his name under the stars. The pencil moved in sure, careful strokes, capturing something the world couldn’t see: his cowgirl, his wild pretty girl, the woman who had walked into his life and made it feel like something worth keeping.

The rain found them an hour later, sweeping across the open grassland in a sudden, silver curtain that turned the world to mist and roar. Arthur swore, pulling his hat low, but it was useless; the water poured off the brim in sheets, soaking through his coat and shirt until the fabric clung to his skin like a second, colder layer.

—Shit… there! —Bonnie shouted over the downpour, pointing toward a dark shape half-hidden in the trees ahead.

A derelict trapper’s cabin, its roof sagging but still intact, the door hanging crooked on one hinge. They urged the horses into a gallop, the animals’ hooves throwing up mud as they raced for cover. By the time they reached the cabin and dismounted, they were both shivering, water streaming from their clothes and hair. Arthur led Boy and May under the partial shelter of the leaning porch while Bonnie pushed the door open with her shoulder, the wood groaning in protest. Inside, the single room was dim and musty, smelling of old hides and damp earth, but it was dry. A stone hearth sat cold and empty against one wall. Arthur followed her in, shaking water from his hat.

—Hell of a spring —he muttered, his voice rough with cold. Bonnie laughed, though her teeth were chattering. She wrung out her braid, water splattering on the wooden floor— You look like a drowned rat, princess.

She shot him a look, water dripping from her lashes.

—Speak for yourself. Your mustache is droopin’.

He touched his face instinctively, feeling the wet, limp ends, and huffed a laugh.

—Fair enough.

They moved quickly, the cold biting deeper now that they’d stopped moving. Arthur found a stack of half-rotted firewood in one corner —miraculously dry enough to catch— and set to work building a fire in the hearth while Bonnie stripped off her soaked outer layers, hanging them on a rusted nail by the door. The chaps were the worst, the leather dark and heavy with water. Arthur got the fire going, the flames licking up through the kindling with a hiss and crackle that filled the cabin with warmth and light. He shrugged out of his wet coat and shirt, hanging them beside hers, then pulled a dry blanket from his saddlebag and draped it over her shoulders without a word.

—Arthur, you’ll freeze… —I’ll manage —he said, settling beside her on the floor in front of the fire— You’re shakin’ harder than a leaf in a windstorm.

She pulled the blanket tighter around herself, then reached for the saddlebag and pulled out the battered tin of coffee they’d packed that morning. There wasn’t much left, but she poured the last of it into their two cups, the liquid still warm from the morning’s fire. She handed him one without speaking, their fingers brushing. They sat in silence for a while, listening to the rain hammer on the roof, the fire popping and spitting as it fought the damp. The warmth began to seep back into their bones, slow and steady, but the space between them felt charged, the way it always did when they were alone like this: close, quiet, the world shut out by weather and walls. Bonnie looked over at him, her green eyes reflecting the firelight, her hair curling in damp tendrils around her face.

—You always take care of me —she said softly.

Arthur met her gaze, his own blue eyes dark with something deeper than warmth.

—You take care of me right back, sunshine.

Bonnie didn’t answer with words. She set her cup aside and rose to her knees, the blanket slipping from her shoulders. The firelight painted her in gold and shadow as she reached for the wet laces of her shirt, but Arthur was already there. His big hands caught her wrists gently, then moved past them, unfastening each button with a patience that belied the hunger in his eyes. He peeled the soaked fabric away from her skin, slow and deliberate, until her breasts were bare to the warm air. Then he worked at the chaps, unbuckling the straps with practiced fingers, sliding the heavy leather down her hips and legs until she was left in nothing but her underthings. He took those too, tugging the last damp layers away until she knelt before him completely bare, the firelight catching on the soft curves of her body, the faint freckles across her shoulders, the small, healed scars that told stories only he was allowed to read. His breath hitched. He loved this—loved seeing her like this, soft and strong and his, every inch of her skin glowing in the fire’s glow.

—Christ, Bonnie —he murmured, his voice rough. His hands traced up her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts, savoring the warmth of her— So damn beautiful.

She smiled, slow and knowing, then reached for him. Her fingers found the buttons of his wet shirt, working them open one by one. She pushed the fabric from his shoulders, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, the old bullet scars, the knife wounds, the faded rope burns that marked a life lived hard. She didn’t flinch from any of it. Instead, she leaned in and pressed her lips to each one.

—This one, —she whispered against a puckered scar near his collarbone— from that ambush in Cumberland. You came back to me bleeding and still wouldn’t let anyone else patch you up —Another kiss, lower, over a jagged line across his ribs— This from the river job. You nearly drowned, but you got the gold and the men out —Her mouth moved across his stomach, reverent, adoring— And this… this is from before I knew you. From a life that tried to break you. But it didn’t. You’re still here. Still mine.

Arthur’s breath came ragged, his hands fisting in the blanket as she kissed every mark, every reminder of the outlaw he’d been and the man he was trying to become. She looked up at him between kisses, her green eyes fierce with love.

—You’re the strongest man I know, Arthur Morgan. The kindest. The bravest. You carry the weight of the whole damn world and still find room for me. I see you. All of you. The cowboy who buys chaps for his girl and the outlaw who’d burn the world down to keep her safe. And I love every piece.

She tugged at his belt, working it free, then pushed his trousers down his hips. Her hands roamed over him as she stripped away the last of his clothes, her touch both gentle and possessive. When he was bare before her, she pressed closer, her body flush against his, skin to skin, the fire’s heat nothing compared to the fire between them. Arthur’s control frayed at the edges. He pulled her into his lap, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and desperate need. His hands gripped her hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, the way she liked it: rough, claiming, the outlaw in him rising to meet the wild in her. His voice came out low, rough, almost a command.

—Ride me, cowgirl.

Bonnie’s lips curved into a wicked little smile. She shifted in his lap, the heat of her brushing against the hard length of him, teasing, testing. But she wasn’t done yet. Her gaze flicked upward, catching on the dark leather of his hat still sitting low on his brow, rain-darkened and heavy with the storm. Without a word, she reached up, plucked it off his head, and settled it onto her own; tilting it just so, the brim shadowing her eyes. A feral sound tore from his throat and his hands clamped down harder on her hips, dragging her down against him with desperate force.

—Fuck, Bonnie…

She rolled her hips, slow and deliberate, grinding against the thick, aching length of him, the head of his cock sliding through her slick heat. The hat stayed perched on her head, the brim trembling with every movement, and Arthur couldn’t look away. His chest heaved, his control hanging by a thread as she lifted herself just enough to line him up, then sank down in one smooth, devastating motion. He filled her completely, stretching her, and they both groaned at the perfect, tight fit. Bonnie’s head tipped back, the hat tilting with it, her hands braced on his broad chest for balance. Arthur’s grip was bruising now, holding her down, keeping her seated fully on him as he fought the urge to thrust up into her like a man possessed.

—Move —he rasped, his voice wrecked— Ride me, my rodeo girl. Show me how bad you want it.

Bonnie leaned forward, the hat’s brim casting a shadow over both their faces, and began to move. She rolled her hips in slow, deep circles, grinding down on him, savoring every inch as she lifted and sank, again and again.

—Oh, Arthur… you’re so big… Look what you’re doin' to me, honey, you got me drippin'.

Arthur’s control shattered like glass. His hands clamped around her waist, fingers digging bruises into soft skin as he slammed her down onto him, forcing every thick inch deeper, harder. The sound that ripped out of him was animal: low, guttural, desperate.

—Fuck… Bonnie… goddamn it!

She gasped, the brim of his hat bouncing with every brutal thrust, her nails raking red lines down his chest. He didn’t give her time to adjust. He used her, lifted and dropped her, fucked up into her like he was trying to brand himself inside her forever. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed through the tiny cabin, mixing with the storm outside and the crackle of the fire.

—Arthur… Arthur! —Take it —he snarled, voice wrecked— Take every fuckin’ inch, cowgirl. Look at you… wearin’ my hat while you ride my cock like a goddamn dream. My pretty little outlaw.

Bonnie moaned, loud and shameless, her head tipping back so the hat nearly fell off. Arthur caught it, shoved it back down, then grabbed a fistful of her wet hair and yanked her forward until their mouths crashed together—teeth, tongue, spit, all of it. He bit her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, then licked it away like he owned it.

—Mine —he growled against her mouth— This cunt’s mine. This body’s mine. Say it. —Yours —she gasped, voice shaking as he pounded up into her, the head of his cock slamming against that spot that made her see stars— Fuck… Arthur…. it’s yours… always…

He flipped them without warning, pinning her beneath him on the rough wooden floor. One hand shoved her thighs wider, the other braced beside her head as he drove into her like a man possessed: hard, fast, relentless. The hat stayed on her head, crooked now, the brim brushing his forehead every time he leaned down to bite at her throat, her collarbone, the soft swell of her breast.

—Gonna fill you up, darlin’ —he panted, sweat dripping from his temple onto her chest— Gonna pump you so full you’ll be leakin’ me for days. Want that, princess? Want my cum drippin’ down your thighs while we ride into Valentine? —Yes… fuck… yes! —Bonnie’s back arched off the floor, her legs locking around his waist, heels digging into his ass to pull him deeper— Come in me, Arthur. Please…

He snarled, hips snapping faster, the wet squelch of her cunt taking him obscene in the firelight. His balls slapped against her with every thrust, heavy and aching, and he could feel it building—tight, hot, inevitable.

—Gonna… fuck… gonna come —His voice broke.

He buried his face in her neck, teeth sinking into the junction of her shoulder as his rhythm stuttered, then slammed deep one final time, grinding against her as he came hard, pulse after pulse of thick, hot cum flooding her, filling her, spilling out around his cock as he kept rutting through it like he couldn’t stop. Bonnie clenched around him, milking every drop, her own release crashing over her in waves that left her shaking and sobbing his name. Arthur didn’t pull out. He stayed buried deep, hips rocking in slow, lazy thrusts, pushing his cum deeper with every gentle grind. Bonnie’s laughter started soft —half-moan, half-giggle— then bubbled up louder as the aftershocks rolled through her. Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes, sliding down her temples, and Arthur watched them with something close to reverence.

—Goddamn storm’s got nothin’ on you —he rasped, voice hoarse— You’re shakin’ like a leaf and still laughin’. My girl’s a fuckin’ miracle.

She laughed again, the sound breaking into another moan when he angled his hips just right. Arthur kissed the tears away, tasting salt and firelight and Bonnie, then moved lower—kissing her throat, the bite marks he’d left on her shoulder, the soft curve of each breast. He couldn’t stop. He was addicted to every sound she made, every broken laugh, every wet little whimper that told him she was still riding the edge.

—Keep laughin’, princess —he murmured against her skin— Sounds prettier than any music I ever heard.

Bonnie’s hands slid up his back, nails dragging lightly over old scars.

—You’re ridiculous —she gasped, another laugh spilling out when he nipped at her collarbone— Arthur Morgan, outlaw poet.

He grinned against her throat, then lifted his head just enough to meet her eyes.

—Reckon I could write a verse or two about how tight this pretty cunt is. How it milks me like it never wants to let go.

Her laugh this time was bright and helpless, tears still streaming, and Arthur felt something crack open in his chest: wide, terrifying, perfect. He kissed her again, slower now, deeper, his tongue sliding against hers as the rain hammered the roof and the fire popped beside them. Silence settled between them, thick and warm. Arthur stayed inside her, softening but unwilling to leave, his weight braced on his forearms so he could look down at her. She was sweaty, flushed, the hat still crooked on her head, her green eyes glassy with tears of pleasure and something deeper. Her lips were swollen from his kisses, her throat marked with his teeth, and she looked so goddamn beautiful it hurt to breathe.

—I love you —she whispered, voice thick, the laughter still trembling at the edges— Arthur Morgan, I love you so much it scares me sometimes.

Arthur’s throat went tight. He stared down at her, at the woman who knew every dark corner of him, who’d kissed every scar, who’d listened without flinching when he’d told her about Eliza and Isaac. About the girl he’d gotten pregnant at nineteen, the son he’d barely known, the way they’d been taken from him in a single bloody afternoon. Bonnie was one of the few people alive who carried that weight with him. She’d told him on that date in Saint Denis, her hand steady on his while he’d choked the words out for the first time in years. And now here she was, looking up at him like he was worth loving, like he wasn’t cursed, like he deserved this. The terror hit him like a fist to the gut. He couldn’t lose her. Not after Mary. Not after Eliza and Isaac. Not after every person he’d ever let himself care about had been ripped away. The life he led —the guns, the jobs, the endless running— had already taken too much. If it took Bonnie too, he wouldn’t survive it. The thought of her blood on someone else’s hands, of her green eyes going dark, of that laugh being silenced forever, made something inside him howl with fear. But she was here. Warm. Alive. Looking at him like he was her whole world. Arthur swallowed hard.

—I love you too, Bonnie. More than I got words for. More than I ever thought I’d get to have —His thumb brushed a tear from her cheek, gentle despite the calluses— You’re it for me, darlin’. Ain’t nothin’ in this world I wouldn’t do to keep you safe. To keep you laughin’.

He kissed her again, slow and deep, pouring everything he couldn’t say into it: the fear, the gratitude, the desperate, overwhelming love that terrified him more than any bullet ever could. Outside, the storm raged on, but inside the cabin, Arthur Morgan held his whole world in his arms and prayed to a God he didn’t believe in that he’d never have to let her go.

The rain had passed sometime in the night, leaving the world washed clean and bright. Morning light filtered through the trees in soft gold shafts, and the air smelled of wet earth and pine. The fire had burned down to glowing embers. Arthur stirred first, his arm still heavy across Bonnie’s waist, her bare back pressed to his chest. For a long moment he didn’t move, just breathed her in, the scent of her hair, the warmth of her skin, the steady rise and fall of her breathing. She woke slowly, stretching against him with a soft sound that made his chest ache.

—Mornin’, handsome. —Mornin’, princess —His voice was gravel-rough from sleep and everything they’d done. He pressed a kiss to the back of her neck, then another to the bite mark he’d left on her shoulder— Storm’s gone.

They untangled themselves reluctantly. The cabin was cold now that the fire had died, and the chill raised goosebumps across Bonnie’s skin as she stood. Arthur rose with her, reaching for their clothes where they hung on the rusted nail. He helped her first, holding her shirt open so she could slip her arms through, then buttoning it with careful fingers, pausing to kiss the hollow of her throat between each button and she laughed softly.

—Your turn —she murmured, taking his shirt from the nail.

She worked the fabric over his broad shoulders, smoothing it down his back, her hands lingering on old scars. She fastened each button slowly, deliberately, like she was memorizing the shape of him all over again. When she reached his belt, she buckled it with a quiet click, then handed him his hat. He set it on her head instead, tilting the brim just so, and the look she gave him made something in his stomach flip. They dressed each other in pieces: her chaps, his gun belt, her boots, his coat—every touch a quiet affirmation. By the time they stepped outside, the horses were waiting, damp but calm, the air bright and clear after the storm.

They rode north through the washed-out morning, the trail winding through pine and oak. The ground was soft under the horses’ hooves, the leaves still dripping. For a while it was peaceful, just the creak of leather, the occasional birdcall, the easy rhythm of two people who didn’t need words to fill the space between them. Then the trail narrowed, trees pressing close on either side, and Arthur’s instincts prickled. Two men stepped out from the underbrush ahead, rifles half-raised. Their clothes were ragged, faces gaunt with hunger and desperation. Lemoyne Raiders, or what was left of them: stragglers who’d turned to preying on travelers now that their cause was ash.

—Hold up there —one called, voice thin— Toss your saddlebags and nobody gets hurt.

Arthur and Bonnie shared a single glance. No panic. Just a quiet understanding, forged in blood and trust. Arthur gave a slight nod. Bonnie slipped from May’s back without a sound, using the horse as cover. Her revolver cleared leather in one smooth motion. Arthur stayed mounted, his rifle already in his hands, the barrel steady. The first man barely had time to react before Bonnie’s shot took him in the shoulder. He dropped with a cry. The second swung his rifle toward Arthur, but Arthur was faster, his shot cracked through the trees, and the man crumpled. Silence fell, broken only by the horses’ breathing and the soft groan of the wounded man on the ground. Arthur dismounted, rifle still ready, while Bonnie kept her revolver trained on the second Raider. Arthur checked the first man: dead. The second was alive but bleeding badly from the shoulder, his rifle discarded in the mud. Arthur knelt, his voice low and cold.

—You got two choices. Crawl back to whatever hole you came from, or die here. Your call.

The man looked at him, then at Bonnie, then back again. He chose to crawl. Arthur watched him go until he disappeared into the trees, then turned to Bonnie.

—You hit? —Nah. You? —Not a scratch.

They moved through the scene with practiced efficiency: checking the bodies, taking what little was worth taking (ammunition, a few coins), dragging the dead man off the trail so the scavengers could have him. Within minutes they were back on their horses, the tension already bleeding away into the morning air. Bonnie nudged May alongside Boy, her hand brushing Arthur’s arm.

—You alright?

He looked at her —his cowgirl, his partner, the woman who’d fought beside him without hesitation— and felt that familiar mix of love and terror settle in his chest.

—Yeah.

Valentine hadn’t changed much since the last time they’d passed through. The main street still bustled with the same mix of ranch hands, traders, and townsfolk, boots kicking up dust that hung in the morning light. Horses lined the hitching posts outside the general store and the saloon, while a few early drunks already lingered on the boardwalk, swapping stories and spitting tobacco. The smell of fresh manure, hay, and frying bacon drifted through the air, mingling with the low murmur of voices and the occasional burst of laughter from the hotel porch.

Arthur and Bonnie rode in at an easy pace, Boy and May’s hooves thudding softly on the packed dirt. They tied up outside the Smithfields Saloon. Arthur stretched his back with a quiet groan as he dismounted, then reached up to help Bonnie down even though she didn’t need it. His hands lingered at her waist for a moment longer than necessary.

Inside, the saloon was warm and loud with the clatter of plates and the low hum of conversation. They took a corner table by the window, Bonnie sliding into the seat facing the door out of habit while Arthur settled across from her, his back to the wall. The waitress brought them coffee without asking —black for Arthur, with a splash of milk for Bonnie— and left them with menus neither of them really needed. Bonnie wrapped her hands around her cup, steam curling up between them. Her green eyes sparkled with mischief as she looked at him over the rim.

—You remember the first time we came here? —she asked, her voice soft but teasing.

Arthur raised an eyebrow, already suspicious.

—Which part? —The cinema —she said, and the grin that spread across her face told him exactly where this was going— You took me to see that picture about the bear who wandered into town and kept fallin’ asleep in the middle of everything. You were so tired from that job with Dutch that you fell asleep halfway through. Snoring and everything.

Arthur’s ears went red. He shifted in his seat, suddenly fascinated by the sugar bowl.

—I was… it was a long ride back from that job. And the lights were dim.

Bonnie laughed, the sound bright and fond.

—You were dead to the world. I had to nudge you twice when the picture ended. And the whole time, there’s this big ol’ bear on the screen, snorin’ away in a rocking chair, and I just kept lookin’ at you and thinkin’: ‘Well, ain’t that somethin’.’

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, the blush creeping down to his collar.

—Ain’t my fault the damn thing was so borin’. —It wasn’t borin’ —Bonnie said, reaching across the table to poke his hand— It was sweet. And ever since then, you’ve been my bear. My big, sleepy, outlaw bear who buys chaps for his girl and falls asleep on the first date.

Arthur groaned, but there was no real protest in it. He could feel the heat in his face, the way his cheeks burned under her teasing, and he hated how much he loved it. Arthur Morgan, wanted man, gunslinger, the man who’d faced down Pinkertons and rival gangs without blinking, blushing like a schoolboy because his girl reminded him he’d fallen asleep during a picture about a bear. Bonnie’s smile softened, her eyes warm with affection.

—I love seein’ you blush like that. Makes you look like a little boy who got caught stealin’ cookies. —Keep it up and I’ll make you pay for breakfast —Arthur muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.

Bonnie just laughed again, squeezing his hand across the table.

—Worth every penny, bear.

Arthur looked at her —his wild pretty girl, his partner, the woman who could make him blush with nothing but a memory— and felt that familiar, overwhelming mix of love and terror settle in his chest. He didn’t say anything else. Just let the warmth of the café and the sound of her laughter wash over him, grateful for every second he got to keep her close.

Mary Linton stepped out of the general store with a paper-wrapped parcel tucked under her arm and the weight of her father’s expectations pressing down on her shoulders. The dress she wore was the color of dried lavender, the fabric stiff and heavy, the high collar digging into her throat with every breath. Her hat was pinned so securely that her scalp ached, and the gloves on her hands felt like a second skin she couldn’t shed. She had come to Valentine on errands —fabric for her father’s new curtains, a letter to post to her husband’s solicitor— and the town felt smaller than she remembered, louder, rougher around the edges. She paused on the boardwalk, adjusting the parcel, when her gaze drifted across the street. And there he was.

Arthur Morgan.

He looked taller than she remembered, broader through the shoulders, the lines of his face deeper but somehow softer at the same time. He was sitting at a corner table by the window, and he was smiling. Not a sad, tired smile, but a real, unguarded smile that transformed his entire face. His head was tilted slightly, his attention fixed on the woman across from him, and Mary felt something in her chest twist sharp and sudden. The woman was nothing like Mary had expected. She wore trousers, practical and dust-stained, with a pair of leather chaps strapped over them that hugged her hips and thighs in a way that made Mary’s cheeks warm just looking. A revolver sat on her hip, the grip worn smooth from use. Her hair was braided back, a few strands escaping to frame a face that was undeniably pretty: soft features, bright green eyes, a mouth that curved easily into laughter. There was a vitality to her, an unstudied ease in the way she sat with her boots propped on the chair rail, that Mary’s upbringing would have called unrefined. But Arthur was looking at her like she was the only person in the world. Mary’s fingers tightened on the parcel.

The woman said something, her Southern drawl carrying faintly across the street, and Arthur threw his head back and laughed, a full, deep sound that Mary had never heard from him. It transformed his face even further, crinkling the corners of his eyes, softening the hard line of his jaw. Mary’s breath caught. She had seen Arthur smile, seen him soften in rare moments, but she had never seen him laugh like that. Like the weight of the world had lifted, even if only for a second. They stood to leave, and Arthur’s hand settled on the small of the woman’s back as he guided her through the café door and onto the street. It wasn’t possessive. It was protective, intimate, the touch of a man who knew exactly where his partner was at all times. He leaned down to hear something she said over the noise of the street, his head tilted close to hers, and the woman bumped her shoulder against his arm in easy affection. A vendor called out, and Arthur paused to buy a peppermint stick, handing it to the woman without a word. She took it with a grin, unwrapping it and popping it into her mouth, then bumped his arm again, a simple, familiar touch that spoke of shared mornings and quiet nights.

Mary watched, hidden in the shadow of the hotel awning, as they approached their horses. The woman swung up onto a bay mare with practiced ease, the chaps creaking softly as she settled into the saddle. Arthur’s gaze lingered on her, his eyes darkening with something raw and feral, pure, physical desire mixed with profound pride. He loved what she was. Loved the chaps, the gun, the way she moved through the world like she belonged in it. To Mary, those chaps were masculine, improper, a symbol of everything she had tried to pull Arthur away from. To Arthur, they were an emblem of his woman’s strength, her competence, her wildness. Mary’s chest ached. She had begged him for help, for change, for a life he could never give her. This woman rode beside him without asking him to be anything other than what he was. Mary had represented a cage of respectability, a world of stiff collars and polite smiles and expectations that had slowly crushed the life out of both of them. This woman represented the open road, the freedom Arthur had always craved and never quite reached.

And then Arthur reached up, gentle as anything, and tucked a stray strand of hair behind the woman’s ear. The gesture was so tender, so effortless, that it stole the breath from Mary’s lungs. He looked at her like she was his entire world, and Mary realized with a sudden, painful clarity that she had never been that for him. Not really. Not the way this woman was. The parcel slipped from Mary’s numb fingers and landed on the boardwalk with a soft thud. Mary bent to retrieve the parcel, her gloved fingers trembling slightly as she straightened. Across the street, the woman said something to Arthur and he nodded, tipping his hat before leaning against the hitching post to wait. The woman turned and walked into the general store, the bell above the door chiming softly. Mary hesitated. She told herself she needed thread. Dark thread, for mending. She crossed the street with measured steps, the parcel clutched tight against her chest, and stepped again into the dim, wood-scented interior of the store.

The air smelled of leather, tobacco, and the faint sweetness of dried apples. She moved toward the fabric counter, her eyes scanning the bolts until she found one in emerald green. She lifted it, the silk cool and smooth beneath her gloves, and glanced sideways. The woman was at the counter near the back, examining pocket watches. She didn’t touch the flashy ones with the engraved cases and delicate chains. Instead, she picked up a sturdy silver watch with a clear white face and thick hands, holding it up to the light to check the visibility. Her fingers traced the edge of the case, testing its weight, its durability. Mary watched her, transfixed by the quiet thoughtfulness in every movement. The shopkeeper was busy with another customer, so the woman turned slightly, her gaze drifting across the store. Her eyes landed on Mary, and for a moment Mary felt pinned beneath that green-eyed stare, direct, curious, unafraid. Then the woman smiled. It was a natural, disarming smile, warm and genuine, nothing like the polite, practiced expressions Mary was used to.

—That’s a real pretty color, ma’am —the woman said, her Southern drawl soft but clear— Would do right by your eyes. Got a kind of depth to it.

Mary blinked, startled by the direct kindness. She glanced down at the silk, then back up.

—Thank you. It’s… quite lovely.

The woman’s gaze flicked to the watch in her hand, and Mary found herself asking before she could stop herself.

—Is it for someone special?

The woman’s smile softened into something private, warm, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

—Yeah. For my fella. His eyes are the prettiest shade of blue… like a clear sky just before a storm. But he’s forever losin’ track of the hours when he’s out workin’. Figured somethin’ sturdy might help.

Mary’s chest tightened. The description was so specific, so intimate, that she could almost see the man in her mind: tall, broad, with eyes the color of a storm sky. She didn’t need a name. She already knew. The woman turned back to the counter as the shopkeeper approached, and Mary watched her complete the purchase. Then the woman’s attention shifted to a small wooden toy on a nearby shelf: a carved horse, simple and sturdy. She picked it up, turning it over in her hands, and Mary couldn’t help herself.

—Is that for him as well?

The woman laughed softly, the sound bright and fond.

—Nah. For a little boy waitin’ on me back at camp. He’s been beggin’ for somethin’ to play with, and I reckon this’ll do just fine.

Mary didn’t know if the boy was hers and Arthur’s. She didn’t ask. She just stood there, watching this woman —this outlaw in chaps and trousers— buy a gift for her man and a toy for a child, and felt something inside her settle into place. The woman paid for both items, then noticed an elderly woman at the counter struggling to count coins from a worn purse. Without hesitation, she reached into her own pocket and slid a few extra coins across the wood.

—That should cover it, ma’am —she said quietly, and the elderly woman’s eyes filled with grateful tears.

Mary watched it all, her gloved hands clutching the emerald silk she no longer wanted. The woman tipped her ha t—a charming, androgynous gesture— and smiled at Mary one last time.

—You have a good day, ma’am.

And then she was gone, the bell chiming behind her as she stepped back out into the sunlight. Mary set the silk down on the counter, forgotten. She moved to the window and watched through the dusty glass as the woman crossed the street, the small package in her hand. She approached Arthur, who was still leaning against the hitching post, and handed it to him. He looked surprised, then touched, his fingers brushing hers as he took it. He didn’t open it. Instead, he held it to his chest for a second, pressing it over his heart, before tucking it safely inside his coat.

Mary turned away from the window, a single tear slipping down her cheek. It wasn’t just loss. It was release. She knows he's loved, and loved well, and she knew, with a clarity that both hurt and healed, that she could let him go now without a hole, because she's seen the wound filled with something true and strong. Mary Linton stepped out of the general store, the emerald silk still on the counter, and walked away without looking back.

Arthur leaned against the hitching post, arms folded across his chest, watching Bonnie through the dusty window of the general store. She was at the back counter, turning something small over in her hands: a wooden toy, carved in the rough shape of a horse. Her brow was furrowed in that particular way she got when she was thinking hard about something. She paid for the watch and the toy, then slid a few extra coins toward the old woman struggling at the counter. Arthur saw the gratitude in the woman’s eyes, the way her hands trembled as she accepted the help, and something warm settled in his gut. That was his girl. Always thinking of others, even when she didn’t have to. He didn't see Mary. Bonnie stepped out into the sunlight a moment later, the small package tucked under her arm. She crossed the street toward him with that easy stride, her boots kicking up little puffs of dust, and Arthur straightened as she approached.

—Got somethin’ for you —she said, handing him the package without ceremony.

Arthur took it, surprised, then touched when he realized what it was. He didn’t open it. Just held it against his chest for a second, feeling the weight of it, the thoughtfulness behind it. He tucked it inside his vest, over his heart, where it would stay safe until he could look at it properly.

—Watch’ll help you keep track of the hours —Bonnie said, swinging up onto May’s back— The toy’s for Jack. Figured he’d like it better than another stick.

Arthur mounted Boy, his eyes lingering on her as she settled into the saddle. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just watched her: his wild pretty girl, the woman who bought him sturdy things because she knew the life he led, who thought of a little boy waiting back at camp even when the road was long and uncertain. They rode out of Valentine at an easy pace, the sun climbing higher, the road stretching out ahead of them. Arthur kept glancing at her, at the way the light caught in her hair, at the easy set of her shoulders, at the gun on her hip and the chaps she wore like armor. He thought about the old woman in the store, the way her eyes had filled with tears when Bonnie had helped her without hesitation.

He thought about the way Bonnie had looked at that watch, not for flash, but for function, because she understood the reality of his life better than anyone ever had. He’d been thinking about it more and more lately: marrying her. Not in some grand, romantic way. Not with a church and a preacher and all the trappings of a life he’d never fit into. But in the quiet, certain way that mattered: standing before someone who mattered, saying the words, making it real. Not because she’d asked. She never had. Bonnie had never once tried to pull him out of the life he led, never begged him to change, never looked at him like she was waiting for him to become something else. She loved the man he was: the outlaw, the gunslinger, the man who came home bloody and tired and still found room for her in his arms. She rode beside him without complaint, fought beside him without hesitation, and kissed every scar like each one was a story she wanted to keep. She wanted to marry him. God help him, he knew that. She wanted children, a home, something steady and real. But she had never asked him to give up the gang, never demanded he walk away from Dutch and Hosea and the only family he’d ever known. And that made him want to give it to her all the more.

Arthur’s hand drifted to his vest, pressing against the watch again. He thought about Jack—about the way Bonnie’s face lit up every time the boy came running toward her, arms outstretched, calling her name. She was good with him. Patient. Kind. She’d sit with him for hours, teaching him to read or showing him how to hold a stick like a sword, and Arthur would watch from a distance and feel something crack open in his chest. He’d had a son once. Isaac. He’d been nineteen, scared and stupid and trying to do right by a girl who deserved better. He’d visited when he could, brought money, tried to be a father in the few hours he had. And then they were gone, both of them. The memory still burned, sharp and bitter, and every time he thought about having another child, the fear came rushing back like a flood. But Bonnie with Jack made the fear feel smaller. Manageable. She made him believe that maybe, just maybe, he could have something good without it being ripped away.

She loved the gang. She was part of it in a way Mary never could have been: laughing with the girls by the fire, helping Miss Grimshaw with the chores, sitting with Hosea for hours while he told stories about the old days. If Arthur told Hosea he wanted to leave, to take Bonnie somewhere quiet and build something real, the old man would give his blessing without hesitation. Maybe even help them find a way out. The thought of walking away from Dutch, from the jobs, from the constant running, that still scared him. But the thought of losing Bonnie, of watching her ride away one day because he couldn’t give her the life she deserved, scared him more.

Arthur looked over at her again, at the way the sunlight caught in her hair, at the soft curve of her mouth as she hummed a tune he had heard her sing to Jack. He thought about proposing. About finding a quiet moment, maybe by a fire or under the stars, and asking her to be his wife. About giving her his name, his protection, his future… whatever was left of it. About leaving the outlaw life behind and finding a place where they could wake up together without the weight of the gang pressing down on them. About children. About Jack visiting and playing with that wooden horse, about a home that wasn’t always moving, about a life that didn’t end in blood. He didn’t say any of it, but the thought settled into his chest like the watch against his ribs. Bonnie glanced over, catching him staring, and smiled that private smile she saved just for him.

—You alright, cowboy?

Arthur nodded, his voice rough when he answered.

—Yeah. Reckon I am.

They rode on, the road stretching out ahead of them, the sun warm on their backs, and Arthur Morgan, the man who had lost everything and somehow found her, thought about the life he had and the life he wanted, and wondered if maybe, just maybe, he could have both.

━━━━━「 NAVI 」

credits: white lace and bows divider by @uzmacchiato main m.list ✧ arthur m.list ✧ dutch m.list ✧ hosea m.list ✧ bonnie m.list

[risingtripletaurus]

now i’m horny and sad :/

[gonewestward]

Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader

𐙚 Gentle Hands

"Can we stay a while and listen for heaven?"

— Mitski / "Heaven"

Summary: The first time's always the hardest. That's what he told you anyway.

You beg to differ.

𐙚 pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader / reader POV

𐙚 warnings: 18+ smut (mdni), p in v sex, virgin!reader, gentle Arthur aka Arthur being a dreamy lover for a thousand words straight

𐙚 word count: ~1.4k

"That feel alright?"

"Yeah... I think so," you murmur, fingers tight around his shoulders. "Ain't in all the way?"

"No, sweetheart—not yet." Pressing a kiss to your forehead, he adjusts your thigh around his hip, angling you just right. "Gotta go slow. Real slow."

He's taking his time, making barely-there presses of his hips to yours like he can't bear to go any faster than this.

Not until you're ready to take it, and given how you winced not but a couple moments ago, he's gonna make sure you're well and ready before he pushes any further.

"Hell—" he mumbles, head dropping heavy between his shoulders. Giggling softly, your fingers find his cheek, lifting his head for his gaze to meet yours.

"Got you all outta sorts, hm?" You tease lightly, a playful smile on your lips.

"You feel—just... yeah."

A heavy breath escapes him then, face landing in the crook of your neck. "Y'feel real good, darlin'. That's all."

The worst of it eased a long while ago, the pain subsiding to a subtle ache you can't be bothered to think about when you've got him on you like this.

Well, it feels like it's been ages now, at least. He's been stiff as a branch all of ten minutes, huffing and puffing something awful, scared to move as if one little thrust of his hips will tear you limb from limb.

"Ain't hurtin' you, am I?" He asks again. It makes you snicker, ankles locking up around his hips, tugging him into you.

You gasp at the way he fills you, moaning shakily as your fingers find his back, holding him close.

"Move... Move, Arthur. I'm alright," you murmur in reassurance.

He watches you close, gaze roving your face, searching for any hint of hesitation. But you're staring back like he's heaven sent, breathing slow to ease around him.

When he feels you relax, no longer clinging so fiercely, his entire demeanor softens. His hand finds your hip, thumb brushing slow against your skin like he's trying to keep you grounded as much as himself.

Then finally, he moves.

Not too fast—never that—but deep, careful rolls of his hips that make your eyes flutter, jaw fall slack.

"You tell me if I gotta stop," he says, voice low, forehead resting against yours. "You just say the word, y'hear me?"

"Don't—" you whine, nails raking down his back, hard enough to mark him red. "Don't you dare."

He groans, a sound that curls itself into your loins, taking root there with the intent of staying. You can't quite help yourself, bucking your hips—once, twice—meeting him halfway to draw out another.

"Just like that... yeah," he murmurs appreciatively, pressing his lips to yours.

When you kiss him back—his tongue dragging slowly against your own—you feel yourself clamming up, limbs tightening, head going fuzzy with it.

Feels too right to even think about stopping.

"You're doin' real good for me, sweetheart," he praises in your ear, the words rough with desire, longing.

Love.

The kind that tangles you up and makes you wanna cry until your eyes seal themselves shut.

"I got you."

"I know..." you whisper, voice breaking. "I know."

He shifts, half-lying on you now, holding himself up on his forearms. One of his hands finds your hair, brushing it back from your face. The other reaches for your own, fingers slipping between yours, squeezing lightly to remind you he's right there with you.

"Easy now," he mutters when you try to move against him. "We ain't in no rush. Got all night."

The words settle over you, low and steady, and for a moment, everything else quiets. It's just the warmth of him, and the way his hand holds yours like it's something worth keeping.

Your fingers tighten in his, breath hitching before it steadies, peace taking the place of any nerves you might've had still sitting in your chest.

"Still alright?" He asks, hips slowing, the length of him still buried deep, dragging along inside of you in a way that has your toes curling.

"Don't stop," you plead quietly, a whimper on your lips. "Please."

"Shh... I'm right here."

Your eyes—heavy with desire—meet his, holding there.

Yeah, you think to yourself.

He is.

He's just as careful with you after that.

Whispers words that make your chest ache, gentle hands caressing your skin with boundless care. All the while, he moves inside of you, a steady, growing rhythm that has you melting effortlessly in his arms.

After a while, feeling weak and hazy, a sensation grips you hard enough to make your brows draw tight, voice faltering.

"Arthur... I feel—" you mumble, breathing uneven. "Feel kinda funny."

He slows just enough to pull back, taking a good look at you, reading the tense lines of your face.

"Hey, you're alright. Look at me," he murmurs, eyes fixed on yours.

Your chest is rising and falling quicker now, body growing hotter than you know what to do with.

"I got you... let go, darlin'."

Before you can ask what he means, something within you unravels, like a seam coming undone stitch by stitch. Your breath stutters, breaks entirely, his name falling from your lips like a prayer you don't know how to finish.

You cling to him, fingers tightening, the world narrowing down to nothing but him, the steady way he holds you through it. He doesn't rush you, doesn't pull away. Just stays there inside of you, rocking gently to prolong the feeling—murmuring sweet things you don't quite catch.

But you know the words by heart, recognize the familiar way his lips part around each one even when they're half-buried against your skin.

You can't help but say it back.

"Arthur... I love you, too."

Something in him falters at that—like the words catch him off guard, settling somewhere deep. He holds you tighter then, breath breaking against your shoulder as he presses closer, like he can't possibly get near enough.

"Yeah..." he whispers—rough, unsteady. "Yeah."

He stills, muscles going rigid, hand tightening around yours like he needs you there to hold him steady.

And that's when something in him gives way. A rough sound slips from him—a low, ragged groan rising from deep within his chest. When his name leaves your lips again, it undoes him further, the last of his restraint slipping clean through his fingers.

He comes back to himself slowly, in pieces, but he doesn't let you go.

Not once. Not at all.

"Hold on," he murmurs, softer now as he reaches for something off to the side, movements quiet and unhurried.

The cloth is damp when it grazes your aching skin, his touch careful—gentler than anything else he's done in this life.

He doesn't say much while he cleans you up, doesn't need to. Just takes his time like it's another detail that matters too much not to mind it.

He tosses it aside, lying back down beside you with a tired huff.

"C'mere," he says, scooping you into his arms to draw you close.

You settle into his side, arm draping across his middle, cheek on his shoulder.

"...It always that nice feelin'?" You ask tentatively, words quiet in the space between you.

He exhales slow, takes his time answering. "Depends on who it's with, I guess."

You hum softly at that, fingers tracing idle patterns along his chest, thoughtful for a moment before you glance up at him.

"Think I like it best with you," you admit, quieter now. "Don't reckon I'd like it as much with anyone else."

That earns you something from him—not quite a laugh, but close enough to warm you up inside and out. His hand shifts where it rests along your back, running back and forth idly, like he doesn't quite know what to do with the words you've spoken.

"Yeah?" he asks.

You nod, a small, certain thing.

"Well..." he mutters, shaking his head just slightly, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. "Ain't got no complaints 'bout that."

You can't help the laugh that leaves you then, eyes meeting his as you rest your chin atop his chest.

"Can we do it again?"

You pop a kiss to his mouth and he softens in an instant, watching you with something akin to adoration in his eyes—a reverence that makes your heart race.

"Yeah, sweetheart," he murmurs, hand cupping your cheek, thumb trailing a slow path along your skin. "We can do it again."

a/n: short, sweet, and to the point, but my god, i think this is a new favorite for me ?? something about gentle lover Arthur just gets to me. big fan of this and i hope you are, too! a bit of a shorter one, but i hope it tickled you pink anyway. as always, please let me know what you thought in the comments if you can ♡

also, just have to say how unbelievably grateful i am to everyone who has been reading my work and being so kind about it. requests are OPEN in a show of appreciation, and i'm now on AO3! link to come. love you sm!!

[dolliecowboys]