maybe something with arthur morgan and getting caught 😨😨😨
Oooo, love me a good 'caught in the act' fic! Hope you enjoy :)
A dress, a tree, and Arthur Morgan on his knees—that’s how it starts. You only wanted to make him breathless. You just didn’t count on Sadie Adler showing up before he could catch it.
*Contains sexual material: Minors DNI, caught in the act, mutual obsession, ft. Sadie
Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader
Tag list: @mostlymarvelgirl
Red Dead Redemption Masterlist | Main Masterlist
The sun had barely dipped beneath the tree line, but the sky still burned like fire behind the hills—molten gold bleeding into blood-orange, streaks of crimson catching in the tips of the pines like a warning. It looked almost holy, almost unreal. Like something you weren’t meant to touch, and yet everything about this evening felt made to be touched.
Camp had begun to hush, settling into that in-between hour where the day surrendered to dusk. Dinner pots clanged hollow as they were scraped clean. Bill argued faintly with Pearson about something mundane. The younger boys were dragging their feet, pulling water or hauling scraps as the women called for washbasins. Even Dutch—forever the preacher—was reduced to a low, steady murmur by the fire, hands gesturing as he wove dreams that hung like smoke in the air.
Because your eyes weren’t on Dutch. Or Hosea. Or the river, winding silver in the distance like a snake with nowhere to go.
Your eyes were on Arthur Morgan.
He sat just outside the glow of the fire, perched on an overturned log like it belonged to him, long legs spread, elbows resting heavy on his knees. The cigarette in his hand was more ash than ember, forgotten. That hat—tilted just low enough to shade his eyes—cast his face in shadow, giving him the air of something ancient and unreachable. Something carved from sun-worn bone and gravel. But you knew better. He wasn’t untouchable.
You watched the way his fingers flexed around the cigarette. How his tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip when he thought no one was watching. There was a tension in his shoulders, the kind he wore like a favorite coat—muscle pulled tight over something simmering just beneath the skin.
Waited until Miss Grimshaw was halfway through chewing Pearson out for leaving fish guts too close to the girls’ tent. Until little Jack was curled up under Abigail’s shawl, and Mary-Beth had gone off to write some tragic nonsense in her diary. Until the last clang of metal on plate faded into the background hum of crickets and murmuring voices.
You walked slowly—purposefully—toward the edge of camp. Just enough sway in your hips to catch his eye. Just enough lace at the neckline of your dress to tempt. As you passed him, your hand grazed his—just a whisper of skin against skin—but it was all the signal he needed.
Arthur dropped his cigarette and rose without a word. He didn’t call out to you. Didn’t ask where you were going.
Through the trees, into the underbrush, where the hush of dusk wrapped around the world like velvet. The moss beneath your boots muffled every step, the scent of pine and woodsmoke heavy in the air. Shadows stretched long and low, draped in silver moonlight leaking through the canopy.
When you reached the clearing—your clearing—you stopped. The one just far enough to be safe. Just quiet enough to forget the world.
And there he was, only inches away, chest rising and falling beneath that threadbare shirt, eyes gleaming beneath the brim of his hat like some animal caught mid-prowl.
“You always walk this fast,” he rasped, voice like gravel warmed in whiskey, “or are you just tryna kill me?”
A smirk curled your lips. “Maybe I like you breathless.”
His smile was slow and feral.
His hands, rough and calloused, found your waist with the desperation of a man chasing his last breath. His mouth crashed into yours—wet, hot, clashing teeth and spit and something deeper—something too starved to be gentle.
He kissed you like he wanted to devour you. Like he wanted to drink you straight down into his bones.
You clung to him, fisting the collar of his shirt in both hands, your back pressed to the nearest tree. The bark bit into your spine, but you didn’t care. Not when his thigh pressed between yours. Not when his lips trailed down your jaw, teeth scraping your neck, tongue flicking over your pulse like he meant to count every heartbeat.
“You wearin’ this little thing just for me?” he murmured, one hand dragging down your side, over the soft cotton of your dress until his fingers found the hem.
You tilted your head, chest heaving beneath the lace-trimmed neckline. “Did it work?”
Arthur groaned—low, deep, feral—and shoved your skirt up with both hands, bunching the fabric around your hips with a growl.
When he found you bare underneath, his breath caught. “No drawers?” His voice dropped. “Christ, woman…”
You tugged on his bottom lip with your teeth and whispered, “Told you it was for you.”
Arthur dropped to his knees like he’d been born to do it—like worship was something he only remembered how to do when your thighs framed his face.
He hooked one leg over his shoulder, big hands gripping your hips like he didn’t trust you not to float away. The skirt of your dress was pushed up around your waist, twisted in the knot of his fist as he pulled you open to him—spreading you, baring you to the cool kiss of the night air.
Then his mouth was on you.
Warm, slow, dragging tongue from the bottom of your slit to the top with a low, satisfied groan like he’d just tasted something forbidden. And he had. You were already wet, already aching, already trembling against the tree behind you, and it only made him more ravenous.
He buried his tongue deep, licking into you with maddening patience, tasting you like a man starving. Every lap of his tongue was hot and deliberate—thick, lazy strokes at first, as if savoring the way you arched toward him, the way your thighs quivered around his shoulders.
“Goddamn,” he muttered against your cunt, his voice barely a rumble. “You taste like trouble.”
You whimpered, back pressing against the bark as your hips bucked forward. “Arthur—fuck—don’t stop.”
He didn’t. His hands tightened on your hips, dragging you impossibly closer, until your heel scraped up the flat of his back and your cunt was flush against his mouth. His tongue flicked over your clit in slow, rhythmic circles before he wrapped his lips around it and sucked, hard and greedy. Your moans spilled out unchecked, raw and desperate, echoing into the hush of the forest.
Your fingers twisted in his hair, your thighs shaking around his head as the pleasure built—tight and white-hot and unbearable.
“That’s it,” he growled, his voice drenched in praise and lust and something almost possessive. “Let me have it, sweetheart. Let me make you come.”
And then he pressed two fingers inside you—thick, calloused, curling just right while his mouth stayed latched on your clit. The cry that left you was almost a sob, your body snapping tight as your orgasm slammed into you like a summer storm. You came with a strangled gasp, thighs clenching, hips rocking into his mouth as he licked you through it, swallowing every last shudder like he was made for it.
He only rose when your knees buckled and you gasped his name like a prayer.
His lips were slick with you, chin wet, pupils blown wide with hunger as he pressed up against you, body flushed, breath ragged.
“Turn around,” he said again—hoarse this time, almost a growl.
Hands braced on the tree, your chest rising and falling fast, your dress still bunched at your waist and thighs still sticky with release. Arthur stepped in behind you, his hands rough and frantic as he undid his belt, the metallic clink of the buckle almost lost beneath your panting.
He didn’t even finish undressing—just freed himself, hard and thick and already leaking as he gripped the base of his cock and dragged the head through your folds. You gasped when he rubbed against your clit, still oversensitive and throbbing.
“Beg me,” he murmured into your neck, voice dark and velvet-soft.
You let out a breathless, needy sound. “Please.”
He shoved into you in one brutal, perfect thrust—deep, hot, and overwhelming. You choked on a cry, forehead falling against the bark as he filled you completely, stretching you wide around him.
“Fuuuuck,” he groaned, burying himself to the hilt. “Goddamn, you were made for me…”
He didn’t wait. He couldn’t.
He began to move—hard and deep and punishing, each thrust driving your hips into the tree, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the clearing. The roughness of the bark scraped your palms, your moans were gasped and wrecked, and Arthur was cursing into your hair, his pace relentless.
Your walls fluttered around him with every thrust, your body still trembling from your last orgasm, and he knew—he knew—you were close again.
“You gonna come again for me, baby?” he rasped. One hand tangled in your hair, the other sliding around your front, fingers finding your clit with expert, ruthless pressure. “Let me feel you. Come on. Let me feel you lose it all over my cock.”
You couldn’t stop it. Your voice was high and broken, hips rocking helplessly back into him as the coil inside you snapped once more. Your orgasm hit like a thunderclap, stealing your breath and blurring your vision, legs shaking violently beneath you.
“Shit—fuck—that’s it,” Arthur gasped as you clamped down around him, tight and pulsing and soaking. “Fuckin’—yes—”
He came with a guttural moan, slamming into you one last time before spilling inside, hips twitching through every pulse of it. His hands gripped you so tight your skin would wear the memory. He stayed buried inside you, still moving slowly, like he couldn’t let go.
Neither of you spoke for a long, breathless moment.
You just stood there—bent over the tree, Arthur flush to your back, both of you trembling and slick and overwhelmed. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, sex, pine needles, and something sweeter—something that tasted like reverence.
The voice was unmistakable.
You whipped your head around just in time to see Sadie Adler emerge from the shadows, rifle slung casually over her shoulder, a wicked grin painted across her face.
Her eyes dragged slowly over the scene—your skirt hitched, Arthur still inside you, his hands clutching your hips like you might float away.
“Well,” she drawled. “Ain’t that a picture.”
Arthur muttered something filthy under his breath.
Sadie just laughed. “Y’all could’ve warned a gal. I come out here thinkin’ I heard a damn coyote, and instead I find the two of you humpin’ like teenagers.”
You let out a strangled laugh and buried your face in your hands.
“Don’t worry,” she added, already turning away. “Your secret’s safe with me. But next time? Maybe try a blanket. Or at least don’t moan so loud I think someone’s bein’ murdered.”
She disappeared into the brush, laughter trailing after her.
Arthur sighed, pulling out of you gently and reaching to fix his trousers. “She’s never gonna let me live this down.”
You tugged your dress down, cheeks flushed, hair wild. “Neither am I.”
He looked at you then—dirty, disheveled, and grinning like a fool.
You gave him a look like the answer was obvious. “Always.”
He chuckled, ran a hand down your spine, and kissed your shoulder.
