⭐️

all shall be well. 20 she/her

[stxrgvsm]

⭐︎ fic recs | inbox | ao3 | my thoughts ⭐︎

A B O U T

20. english lit student.

requests: open!

M A S T E R L I S T S

steve harrington !

remus lupin !

arthur morgan !

R E C E N T W O R K S

⭐︎ IN YOUR DREAMS ⭐︎ ABOUT YOU ⭐︎ CRIME OF THE CENTURY ⭐︎ GO AHEAD, BEG

© stxrgvsm

[stxrgvsm]

H A I R C U T

soldier boy x reader (coming soon)

“look, you’re not a hero, ben!”

for once, he’s silent. his breath steams in the cold air, and you watch his eyes soften as he takes in your words. you continue, “nobody cares that you’re crying on cnn. and nobody believes that you really feel all that bad. stop lying to everyone!”

his gaze drops to the ground, and you almost miss his next words: “i don’t know what to do without this. i’ve tried, really, i have… and there’s not a place for me.”

you sigh. “you haven’t tried, ben. other people have tried for you. i know i did. got you a really comfy position. you didn’t want it.”

“because that’s not me!” he yells, looking up at you.

“then what is?”

he glances around wildly, gesturing with his hands. “i don’t know! that’s what i’m trying to figure out. can you just… be patient with me?”

“i’ve been patient. i can’t do it anymore.”

[stxrgvsm]

congrats on 100!!! i was wondering if you’d do remus lupin + friends to lovers? thank youuuu!

come celebrate 100 followers with me!

hi lovely! i hope you enjoy!

"would you rather be shot out of a cannon into the sun or be thrown into a pit of worms?"

remus looks up from his work, brow furrowed. "what?"

"would you rather be shot out of a cannon into the sun or be thrown into a pit of worms?"

"no, i heard you, i just don't know what you mean."

you roll your eyes and close your textbook. "well, answer the question."

his hair flops over his eyes and he shakes his head rather wolfishly to clear his gaze. he sets down his pen. "so the cannon is shooting me into the sun?"

you pretend to think for a moment, trying not to look directly at him. sometimes he can be incredibly distracting. "maybe it would make more sense if the cannon was shooting you off of the sun."

"i think so."

"then it's like a science experiment."

remus shudders. "definitely the pit of worms."

"i think so, too."

he suddenly laughs, loud and joyous. "where on earth did that question come from?"

"i just thought of it," you tell him, smiling at him. "i'm using you as a guinea pig."

remus lupin is your best friend. he has been for almost as long as you've known him, and you've loved him for just as long. his piercing eyes, his effortless smarts, his calming smile. everything about him is made to be loved. you do it better than anyone.

"nice to know i'm just your guinea pig, then," he says, grinning widely. "i guess that answers that question."

"what question?"

"just..." he trails off, ducking his head and picking up his pen. "uh, never mind." if you didn't know any better, you'd swear that there's a distinct blush creeping up his neck.

"no, what is it? c'mon, we tell each other everything."

"well, not this," he snaps. when you don't respond, he looks up, eyes wide with regret. "hey, i'm sorry, i didn't---"

"didn't think?" you shake your head. "don't worry about it. i get it."

five years you've loved him. five years of watching him and waiting, somehow, for him to say something, anything. for him to say he loves you, too. all of the love you have for him won't even fit in your chest anymore. it bursts onto your face into stupid smiles and stupider jokes, poking him for a reaction.

but remus doesn't love you like that, and maybe he never will.

you sigh and stand up, shouldering your bag. "look, i should probably go."

"wait, no, i--" he stops when you look at him, eyebrows raised expectantly. then, "i love you," he blurts out.

your entire world spins to a stop. it's comical, actually, the way you both freeze, like a record just scratched loudly. you can almost hear his long eyelashes brushing his cheeks as he blinks slowly.

"...what?" you ask, brows furrowing.

"i love you," he repeats, more earnestly, if that's possible.

"i--um, i..." you trail off lamely. "i don't know what to say... why didn't you tell me before?"

remus stands now and takes one of your hands in both of his. "you're my best friend," he confesses. "i didn't want to lose you."

"i love you too," you whisper shyly, and with that, your world opens up.

[stxrgvsm]

stxrgvsm's 100 follower celebration!!

because we hit 100 followers, i want to do something to celebrate all of you! thank you for supporting this blog! i want all of my writing to be something you can enjoy, no matter what fandom you're a part of. so i made this ask game for y'all!

here are your options:

⭐️ - send me a character (or two) and a trope and i'll write a blurb for it (ex: steve harrington + brother's best friend)

🌈 - send me a character (or two) and a line of dialogue and i'll write a little scenario about it (ex: arthur morgan + "who did this to you")

⚡️ - send me a character and a kink and i'll write a blurb for it (ex: javier peña + choking)

🌧️ - pick a mood (angsty, fluffy, or smutty) and a character and an idea and i'll write a short blurb (ex: angsty office romance + soldier boy)

this ask game is open to the fandoms: the marauders era, criminal minds, rdr2, the boys, stranger things, top gun, and star wars. please send in whatever character you'd like, and i'll do my best to write for it!

i hope you enjoy! send in as many requests as you want!

[stxrgvsm]

hi!!! i’ve read your arthur series in the last hour and i’m!! gagged!!! i saw you haven’t been active in a few months but if you happen to see this — i’m looking forward to the rest of the series <33 you deserve so many more notes on the chapters. i hope you are doing well!!

just for you, i posted the next part:) hope you enjoy!

[stxrgvsm]

crime of the century, part five | arthur morgan x reader

summary: you're running from a life you never wanted. arthur's running after you just as fast.

content: angst, genre-typical violence, mentions of past sexual assault

wc: 4k

two months later

this is the lemoyne where it’s easy to spot a church, but hard to find a saint.

this is the country of elegant dresses and expensive suits and girls for whom all of life’s promise comes down to a ring and a wedding dress and the birth of an anna or a bessie or a martha and then a few black eyes and a return to mama’s house. “we were just kids,” they’ll say, looking to the past with no regret. the past always looks good in lemoyne, because no one remembers the future.

here is where a humid wind blows and the old ways are still new, where divorces aren’t spoken of and where most live in shacks. this is the last stop for all those who are looking for something else, for all those looking for an escape. here is where they are trying to find a new life, a new life that looks remarkably like the old one. 

imagine the shops first, because that’s where you are. rows and rows of identical shops, all selling the finest that saint denis has to offer. the tailor has seen 5 brides today, all younger than you. all of life’s promise has come true for them. but you, she’s not so sure about.

you spin in front of the dim mirror, watching the delicate fabric float up around you. 

your mother laughs behind you, and you turn to see her bright smile. “you look so beautiful,” she whispers, hands clasped in front of her. 

“thank you, momma,” you say earnestly. “it really is a beautiful dress.”

the tailor gestures to stanford, who is sitting next to your mother, legs neatly crossed. he’s clearly the one in charge. “and you, sir? is it to your liking?”

stanford rises and steps over to you, circling the pedestal. his eyes flit over the dress, and he reaches out now and then to yank the fabric down or around. finally, his inspection over, he looks up at you. “you are a vision,” he says. 

everyone in the room releases relieved breaths. “is this the one then, dear?” your mother asks, glancing between you and stanford. 

the small boutique is filled with a strange tension. your mother, who should be the one everyone defers to, cowers in front of stanford. the tailor, who ultimately owns the dress and will decide who it goes to, has also kowtowed to stanford at every turn. and stanford, who shouldn’t even be there—bad luck to see the bride in a wedding dress—is the one making the final decisions. 

stanford answers for you. “this is the one,” he says, smoothing his hands over the skirt. 

for all of stanford’s flaws, he certainly knows wedding dresses. this one is a very fashionable cinched-waist style, with puffy shoulders. the ivory fabric is pure as the moon. very 1890s. the long train flows behind you, and the tailor is careful to pick that up first as she moves you to the dressing room to help you take it off. 

once you have the top of the dress off, the rest goes pretty easily. you assure the tailor that you’ll figure it out, and she ducks back into the sitting room. 

“i will pay for it,” you hear stanford say. 

your mother gasps. “mr. white, no. i can’t possibly—”

“please,” he says. “i love her. i insist.”

what’s one more item on your growing list of debts to stanford? 

after the party, he had assured you that the wedding was nonnegotiable. “this is the price of running away,” he’d said. “now you will never leave again.” true to his word, you haven’t been able to leave the home without a significant escort in months, and there is certainly no discussion of leaving the grounds of the estate. this is the first time you’ve been off property since your reunion with stanford. 

when you return to the sitting room, the tailor is writing up a receipt. she hands it to stanford, who offers you his arm. “shall we get lunch out?” your mother asks. “it’s such a nice day… it would be a shame to return so quickly.”

a burst of hope flares within you, but you don’t dare let it show. you glance up at stanford and know immediately that there’s no use. “i’m so sorry,” he says. “i don’t think your daughter is feeling well. are you?”

“no,” you murmur, ducking your head to avoid his gaze. 

your mother visibly wilts. “alright,” she says. “well, it was still nice to get out.”

“yes, it was.” stanford leads the two of you to the waiting carriage and helps you in. “i’m off to meet a partner. i will be back in a few hours,” he says. “stay in the house, please, dear. rest. i’ve already told the staff.”

your heart sinks within you, but you do your best to smile pleasantly. “yes, stanford.”

he reaches out to caress your cheek. “take care, evelyn,” he says to your mother. “it might be best if you spend the rest of the day at your cottage. i wouldn’t want my darling bride to get over-excited.”

“oh. of course. yes.” if it’s even possible, your mother’s face falls even further. 

pleased with his work, stanford steps back with a grin. “i’ll see you ladies later.” he shuts the door of the carriage and waves you both away. 

your mother leans into the seats and sighs. “i don’t like the cottage,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“momma, i don’t want to be the adult right now. i’m the one marrying him.”

she rolls her eyes. “he’s keeping me away from my daughter. i think i get to be upset at least a little, too.”

this is how it always is. “stop it.” you press your hands to the bench to keep them from curling into fists. “the day was going well; can we keep it like that?” she looks out the window wistfully and says nothing. you let out an exasperated breath. 

the rest of the ride is silent, broken only by your mother’s passive-aggressive sighing. the carriage pulls up to your mother’s cottage first, and she presses a kiss to your cheek before leaving, giving you a small wave. from there, stanford’s driver takes you to the main house. 

imagine now the house, white as bones, polished to gleaming. it rises above the neighborhood like a too-tall boy, not yet a man but no longer a child, in the limbo of adolescence. yet, ironically, its imposing dominance reminds one of an old man, in decline, past its golden age. over the years, wings have been added and demolished, giving the home a half-finished feeling, even on the inside.

your room, perched at the back of the house, gives you a charming view of the water. every morning you watch people sail away from saint denis and you dream of a different life.

“hello, miss, how was the afternoon?” your maid, cella, asks you as you shrug off your coat. she takes it from you seamlessly and hangs it up. 

“it was fine,” you tell her, toeing off your boots. “just wedding stuff.”

she nods, bustling about you distractedly. “did you find everything to your liking? the whole house knows mr. white has threatened every storekeeper in the county for you.”

you look at her quizzically. “what on earth do you mean, cella?”

her eyes widen, and her hands fly to her mouth. “oh no, miss, please don’t tell him i said that! we weren’t supposed to know, but… people talk.” she winces and bows her head, as though she expects you to physically discipline her. “i hope i wasn’t too forward.”

“no, no, it’s okay,” you tell her, lifting her up. “i’m not upset. i just didn’t know what you were talking about… stanford threatened people? why?”

she glances to the door. “well, um… there’s been some outlaws in the city recently, miss. i expect he’s just trying to keep you away from that. is there anything else you need from me today, miss?” you reluctantly dismiss her, but you can’t get her words out of your head, even as you climb the stairs to your room. threatened every storekeeper in town. for you. 

a puzzle fit for someone else’s hands. yours are too tired to undo it.

imagine now a bedroom, hardly a place of refuge. even here, stanford’s touch is everywhere. the bedsheets, frilly in a way you hate. stiff furniture designed to be looked at and not used. a vanity stocked with products you’ll never use. even so, you have no choice. your bedroom is the one place that is wholly yours, that stanford has never intruded on.

the first bout of tears kicks off when you sit down to your letter-writing. this is a new hobby that stanford is foisting onto you. he wants you to keep up a proper correspondence with his mother and some other female relatives. thus far, their responses have been bone-dry, leaving you with little to write. merely the thought of composing another half-hearted letter is enough to bring tears to your eyes. 

you’ve barely written dear anita when tears blot out the still-wet ink. the second crying spell doesn’t come till much later. 

that night, after dinner and an evening game of cards, in your mind’s eye, you can see arthur, all of him. his dark hair, and the way he bashfully covers it with a hat. “ain’t fit to be seen like this,” he would mutter, smoothing it down. his broad shoulders straining at the seams of a shirt. his sly smile when you asked him if he needed a new coat. his eyes, piercing and mournful, but also quick and lively. the scars that litter his chest and arms, each one with a story. his sense of humor, sharp as a tack but sometimes so dim-witted. 

his last words to you: “vengeance is an idiot’s game.” not for the first time, you decide that arthur is wrong. vengeance is worth every penny it will cost you. as much as you might miss arthur, you hate him more. and on nights when stanford treats you like this, you pull out your pet fantasy. 

you will find arthur morgan, and you will kill him. no matter how hard you must try. no matter how long you must delay the wedding. arthur morgan will not taste joy after what he did to you. you’ll make sure of it. 

imagine another part of the city, where a man slumps on a bar and cries out for more.

arthur heaves a deep sigh. 

“another,” he calls down to the bartender. 

the man rolls his eyes and begins pouring another glass of whiskey. “are you sure, man? you’ve been drinking for a while now,” he says, even as he slides the glass down the bartop. “might be time to stop soon.”

arthur shakes his head and downs the drink. he grimaces at the bitter taste. “no, sir. i’m just getting started. got a long night ahead of me.”

“so you’re getting drunk?” the bartender shakes his head. “doesn’t seem like a good plan to me.”

“s’posed to watch some lady for a bit,” arthur tells him. “don’t really want to.”

the man begins drying some glasses, throwing a towel over his shoulder for easier access. he looks up at arthur and frowns. “well, why are you doin’ it, then?”

“pays good,” he says. “i did the same job a few months ago. worked out pretty well for me.”

“and you don’t want to do it again?”

arthur signals for another whiskey. when he downs this one, a familiar doe flashes through his mind, injured. absurdly, arthur thinks of you. “just don’t like the man payin’ me. he’s an asshole.”

“aren’t they all,” the bartender muses. 

arthur stands unsteadily. “i better be headin’ off. good talkin’ t’ya.”

the bartender nods wordlessly without mention of arthur’s forgotten journey to drunkenness and waves him off. arthur stumbles towards the door and out into the saint denis streets. he’s not quite tipsy enough to be drunk, but he’s had enough alcohol that it shows. in the back of his mind, he thinks, stanford won’t be happy, but he brushes it away. stanford is never happy. neither are you. 

arthur would know. he’s been paid to watch you for the last two months. 

hidden in shadows and behind trees, arthur spends most of his days making sure you don’t get any ideas. he reports your every action to stanford. not that there are many actions. mostly you sit in your room and mope. you do a lot of crying. tonight, when arthur gets to his post below your window, you’re crying. 

he sighs. it’ll be a long night. 

sure enough, it’s a few hours of your weeping before you collapse into bed. the lamp burns out, and that’s when arthur leaves.

a man possessed, or maybe haunted, for the past eight weeks, all arthur can do is think about you. 

he replays your conversations over and over, trying to figure out how to talk to you, not that he’ll ever get a chance again. your laugh echoes through his head when he’s trying to sleep, and he even dreams of your smile. 

rarely does he let himself dwell on your body. with shame he thinks of the nights with you. never going any farther than touching, arthur would give anything to share a bed with you again. he dreams of your soft skin and fine hands, your timid touch and shy glances. he thinks more of his unworthy hands skimming the surface of your body, never asking, only taking.

and every night, arthur practices.

“i’m so sorry,” he whispers as he paces around the apartment. “please let me try again. i’m so sorry, i love you. i love you, i’m sorry. i love you. i love you.” but nothing is good enough. 

he writes letters. i’m so sorry. i love you. please forgive me. i love you. he burns them all. 

“back again so soon?” the bartender is still wiping down glasses, and he raises his eyebrows at arthur’s dejected form slumped over the bartop. 

“i love her,” he groans.

“what?”

“and she doesn’t even know it! i love her and she doesn’t know i exist.”

the bartender is silent, rolling his eyes again. 

arthur continues. “i would do anything for her. i would take her and we could run away together. i would protect her. from everything. but she doesn’t remember me.”

“i thought she didn’t know you?” the bartender asks. 

“no, she knows me. she… is engaged to another man.”

arthur remembers his heartbreak when he heard that. stanford’s grin when he told arthur is branded into his mind. that should be me, arthur had thought, and he still can’t bring himself to unthink it. 

“tough luck, man.”

“i have to take her far away from here.”

the bartender eventually refuses to serve arthur any more alcohol, and he finally slinks home alone, dead drunk. when he dreams, it’s of you, smiling and happy. he hasn’t seen you smile in months. 

one week goes by, then another.

you get used to the weight of the ring stanford has given you. the wedding is getting closer, and stanford has begun to send out invitations. 

“darling, can i see the guest list?” you ask him one night, putting on your best i-love-my-fiance voice. carefully, you rest your hand on his shoulder. he smiles up at you from his seat at his desk. 

“no, i want it to be a surprise,” he says. “i know how much you love surprises.”

your heart sinks. “no, angel, please let me see,” you plead. “i just want to know if i’ll know anyone there.”

“oh, you certainly will not,” stanford says. his mouth has dropped into a round ‘o’ in dismay. “no, i can’t have any of your friends there. they would ruin the night.” he shrugs your hand off of him. “go to your room now; i can’t be distracted.”

you slink off to your room as silently as possible. stanford’s moods are volatile enough that one wrong noise can set him off, and he does seem to be on edge tonight. 

cella is waiting for you with a clean nightgown when you open your door. “how did it go?” she asks, voice bright. she waits for you to unbutton your blouse and skirt before she helps strip off the rest, wrapping you in the nightgown.

“the usual,” you confess. cella produces a warm robe and places it around your shoulders as she begins to unpin your hair.

“he wouldn’t say?”

“no.” you shrug. “i guess it doesn’t really matter.”

“but it’s your wedding, too!” cella protests. she ushers you to the small cushioned stool in front of your vanity, and you sink down with a sigh. “don’t you want to know who will be there?”

“well, yes,” you say. “and i do know that my mother will be there. i don’t have any friends to invite anyway.”

“what about the man stanford brings around sometimes?” she asks, beginning to brush your hair. “he seems awfully interested in you.”

the bedtime ritual puts you to sleep very quickly, and you stifle a yawn. “what are you talking about?” 

the brush catches on a particularly knotty tangle, and cella mumbles a curse as she yanks it through. “oh, i don’t remember his name,” she says. “something mercan?”

“mercan?” you ask, frowning at her in the mirror. “i don’t know anyone with that name.”

“morgan?” she tries, pulling the brush through the tangle again. 

“morgan?” the surname catches in your throat, and you’re wide awake now. cella is just about to go for a third try at the name when you hear a horrifyingly familiar voice from below your window. 

“yes?”

cella makes terrified eye contact with you as you both freeze. she recovers first, racing to the window and pushing up the sash. you’re right behind her, clinging to her shoulders as you both lean out of the window. 

worst day of my life, you think. 

below your window, staring up at you, is arthur morgan in all his imagined glory. his sharp profile, stark against the fading light: his nose, his chin. his broad shoulders, heavy from the weight of who-knows-what. his is the country of invisible burdens, never too tired to take another one. you know him well. his smell, smoky and woodsy, drifts up to you, mingled with the smell of the city. 

his eyes go wide when he sees you, and he immediately ducks his head. “ah, shit,” you hear him mutter.  

you slam down the window and grab cella’s shoulders. “who is that?” you ask, even though you already know the answer. 

her wide eyes bore into your own. for once, cella is silent. in a flash, you’re back at the window. the sash raises with ease, but by the time you’ve opened it enough to see, arthur is gone. 

the city is perfect for dutch. 

men and women dressed in varying states of disorder slink through alleys and into saloons, downing mysterious drinks that no one’s ever heard of. the circus rolls into town and takes up permanent residence, inviting all to partake in its macabre wonder. and dutch’s boys have moved into the old plantation just west of the city, across the river. 

arthur leans over the balcony at the back of the house, half-listening to dutch and hosea argue behind him. not for the first time, he grimaces at the overgrown wildlife below; it threatens to swallow up the house whole. he feels the crushing weight of the vines creeping up the side of the manor; his heart strains under the pressure.

“dutch, for the last time, the money will be with him!” hosea says. “i knew him in new york. he’s old as shit, and he’s about to get married. he’s especially flush with cash right now.”

dutch paces the length of the balcony. he heaves a sigh. “but i know him, too!” he protests. “and he won’t let go of that money for all the world.”

“so we con him,” hosea says, like it’s that easy. “remember, he’s about to get married.”

“so?” dutch asks.

“so, his wife is our entry point.” 

arthur turns around suddenly. “what old codger are we talkin’ about robbin’ now?” he asks, frowning. 

dutch waves a hand dismissively. “friend of mine.”

“what’s the problem then? aren’t you the entry point?”

“he doesn’t trust me anymore.” dutch shoots a glance at hosea. “and he definitely doesn’t trust hosea. we need new blood. or maybe a new target.”

hosea’s rocking chair scrapes against the floor as he leans back. “this is the best target we’ve got,” he says. 

“i trust hosea,” arthur declares, crossing his arms over his chest. “sounds like the new wife might be a good idea. i’ll follow up with hosea and report back to y’all.”

dutch shrugs and raises his palms to the sky. “if i’m outnumbered, i’m outnumbered. hosea, this plan of yours better work.”

hosea rises from his rocking chair with a pleased smile. “trust me, dutch. he is a blind fool. he won’t know what hit him.”

to the south, thunder rumbles over the river, and arthur glances over his shoulder. “looks like a storm’s coming,” he says, but dutch and hosea are already inside. 

in the morning, stanford’s manor quakes with the force of the thunder, as though it relishes in your anguish. 

your room is lit up suddenly. fat raindrops pelt your windows relentlessly, and you pull the covers up over your head like you would if you were taking cover. it’s a feeble covering, though, because you can still hear the booming strikes. it’s exciting to feel scared sometimes; your heart races with irrational fear even nestled within your down mattress.

a soft tapping at your door yanks you into the real world. you sit up, holding the covers close to your chest. “hello?”

the door squeaks open, and your maid, cella, pokes her head in. “good morning, ma’am,” she says, curtsying. 

“you don’t need to do all that, cella,” you say, dropping the covers. “please just come in.” 

cella pushes the door open further and comes in, keeping her head bowed. “are you hungry?” she asks. “the cooks made your favorite: oatmeal.”

“they make that every morning,” you say, pulling a face. “i’m getting sick of it.”

“so no breakfast? what about some fruit?”

“has stanford eaten yet?” you ask in lieu of an answer. 

cella tilts her head in thought. “i think so,” she says. “he’s not here right now anyway, so i assume he must have eaten before dawn.”

a familiar tension releases within your stomach. cella eyes you with concern when you don’t immediately respond. both of you are loath to mention the sighting from mere hours ago, but neither of you can forget it. especially not you. 

tentatively, she crosses to the window and touches the oft-used sash gently. “oh dear,” she sighs. “i think we broke it.”

“what do you mean? it worked fine la—i mean, it was fine the other day.” if she notices your hasty coverup, she doesn’t mention it. cella has worked for stanford a long time. she knows the power of discretion. 

“i can telephone a repairman,” she offers. 

without bidding, arthur springs to your mind. you distantly wonder if he can fix a window. “don’t bother,” you say. “we’ll leave the house after the wedding anyway. and good riddance.”

but with the house comes arthur. stanford knows it. cella knew it. now you do, too. it’s cruel, almost—the way that stanford has cooked up this scheme. you would do anything to lose stanford, but he’s the one holding all the cards. this deal with the devil that arthur forced you into has done nothing but break your heart, and you’re beginning to suspect that arthur wanted exactly that.

[stxrgvsm]

R E M U S L U P I N

O N E S H O T S

⭐︎ ABOUT YOU

you've hated remus lupin longer than you've known him, if that's even possible. you'll never be able to forgive him for everything he did to you. in fact, it's insulting that he even wants to try. you'll show him.

© stxrgvsm

[stxrgvsm]

S T E V E H A R R I N G T O N

S E R I E S

⭐︎ IN YOUR DREAMS

© stxrgvsm

[stxrgvsm]

A R T H U R M O R G A N

S E R I E S

⭐︎ CRIME OF THE CENTURY

part one part two part three part four part five (coming soon)

O N E S H O T S

⭐︎ GO AHEAD, BEG

© stxrgvsm

[stxrgvsm]

crime of the century, part four | arthur morgan x reader

summary: you're running from a life you never wanted. arthur's running after you just as fast.

content: angst, genre-typical violence, domestic abuse, past sexual assault, mentions of rape, sexual content (consensual), heavy petting

wc: 3.4k

two weeks later

in other circumstances, saint denis might be a lovely destination. 

you can tell that its citizens have deep pockets and aren’t afraid to act like it; the shops are filled with the latest fashions, all imported from paris; and the streets are kept clean, or, at least, cleaner than annesburg’s streets. it’s a shame arthur won’t let you leave the apartment without him. 

you’d watched in awe as the two of you rode in, shocked by the dresses some of these women wore. the houses were bigger than you’d ever seen outside of new york, and arthur told you that politicians lived in them. not hard to believe. 

but then he’d taken you up to a furnished apartment and told you to stay put. 

the apartment was on the second floor, atop some law offices that looked seedy. it was large enough. the one bedroom had a huge bed that took up most of the space, an imposing presence. you tried not to be in there during the day, but the bed was comfortable. the sheets were worn but clean. you tried not to think about who else had lived there, or, worse, who else arthur had taken here.

there was also a lovely sitting room that you spent most of your time in while arthur was off who-knows-where doing who-knows-what. the sofas were plush, a pink velvet soft with age. the sitting room had double french doors that opened onto a balcony overlooking a small courtyard. the place was very charming, you had to admit, but… lonely.

“are you kidding me?” you’d stomped your foot childishly, aware that you looked ridiculous. he didn’t spare you a second glance as he shouldered his satchel and slammed the front door behind him. you’re ashamed to admit that you had let out a scream as the door shut.

when he returned later that night, he was flush with cash. “poker,” he’d explained simply. 

after that, things were more bearable. arthur took you with him on business trips (read: high stakes poker games), and, to reward you for your time, he bought you luxury items every time you agreed to come. you suspected that he was using you as arm candy or maybe as a distraction. you didn’t care; you’d gotten new heeled boots out of the deal. 

but it’s getting old, and, two weeks after your arrival, things suddenly change.

“are you coming with me?” he asks, shrugging on a dinner jacket. “it’s on the steamboat tonight.”

from your position lounging on the sofa, you roll your eyes. “i’m so tired of the steamboat, arthur! can’t we leave saint denis already? what are we even waiting for?”

he ignores this complaint and tosses you a dress. “come on, i won’t wait forever.”

i won’t wait forever. isn’t that the truth. 

you stomp over to the painted screen that serves as your dressing room. “seriously, arthur, why are we still here?”  

you can almost hear his eye roll, but his voice is as smooth as ever. “sweetheart, hurry up.” you pretend not to hear the first word.

of course you oblige, slipping the dress over your head. it’s a light powder blue, almost green, tight on your hips but flowy around your legs. you have to admit it is a nice dress. arthur has always had good taste. 

“the game starts in—”

when you step out from behind the screen, his eyes blow wide and his jaw goes slack. it’s not the first time he’s reacted this way to you: shallow breathing, flushed cheeks, fidgety. mostly you pretend not to notice, just as he does when you arch into him at night.

arthur nods wordlessly and leads you outside to byron, harnessed to a streetlight. his hand hovers over your lower back on the way down, but he doesn’t say anything to you until you settle into the steamboat routine.

the men in the game are familiar to you, but even though you’ve watched their poker nights for a week now, you’ve never spoken to them. you’ve accepted that your role here is to perch on arthur’s lap and serve as a distraction. tonight, it’s going remarkably well. arthur has won all three rounds so far, and he’s well on his way to drunk. 

and one thing you’ve learned about arthur since coming to saint denis is that he’s awfully handsy when he’s drunk.

his large hand roams your waist and thighs, refusing to settle on just one area. he squeezes and grips, first here and then there. you can feel your face flushing, but he’s not even paying attention to you, which almost makes it worse. his touch lights you on fire, and he doesn’t even care.

then his hand dips lower, onto your ass. the dress is tight enough that you know he can feel every curve. where you should feel shame, excitement bubbles up inside of you. instead of nerves, you feel a thrill at his touch. two weeks’ worth of anticipation finally coming to a climax.

after all, it’s been a long two weeks. 

initially, arthur had taken the couch and you’d taken the bed. he said it was the gentlemanly thing to do, although you hadn’t been able to ignore his sorrowful sighs every night. when he started complaining about his back, you offered to switch with him. and then he’d suggested it. 

“why don’t we share the bed? we’re both adults.”

and, foolishly, you’d agreed. 

you’d learned almost immediately what a gentleman arthur is. refusing to touch you when sober, his hands are all over you at night. he grabs your waist and tugs you into him. he caresses your shoulders, your arms. you pretend not to notice when you feel his hardness poking your thigh in the morning, and he pretends not to notice when you arch into it. when he wakes, he won’t acknowledge anything. in fact, most days, he leaves quite early. you wake up alone and wanting. 

so tonight, you feel properly wound up. two weeks’ worth of foreplay, all for this game. all for this boat, where he stills your squirming with a gentle squeeze and then continues to feel you up. where his hand slips between your thighs and stays. 

you wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a wet patch on his trousers when you stand up. 

the tablecloth shields his fingers from view, and you’re quite thankful for this. your dress has fallen open around your legs, giving him a clear opening. his fingers dance along your inner thigh, his eyes locked on the cards in front of him. arthur still laughs at the appropriate times; so do you, but every time you release a breathy laugh, his hand drifts higher and higher. 

then he feels it. 

his forefinger presses against your slit, nothing at all—no fabric, no panties, no bloomers—between the pad of his finger and your seam. arthur inhales sharply. it’s not the first time you’ve seen him break, but you want nothing more than to see it again.

and then, without warning, your world comes crashing to a halt. the doors slide open silently. if it weren’t for your direct line of sight, you wouldn’t have noticed him at all. not for the first time, you wonder how it can be that the worst day of your life dawned so quietly. 

stanford walks in, straightening his cuffs and smiling like he owns the whole damn boat. he probably does. “gentlemen!” he exclaims. then his eyes land on you. they don’t sharpen, don’t sparkle, none of the things you’ve read about. no recognition flickers behind his eyes, but you know he knows. “and lady,” he says, offering you a mocking bow. “i hope you’re enjoying the game!”

arthur’s hand rips away from you and returns to the table. you’re so shaken up you can’t even mourn the loss. arthur joins the other men in a rousing cheer for stanford. 

“mind if i join?” he asks. no one refuses, because no one ever refuses stanford. you certainly never did. 

he sits next to arthur, close enough that you can hear his breathing. a shiver wracks your body, and you fake a sneeze to cover it up. without a word, stanford offers you a handkerchief. 

you take it, to be polite, and then you freeze. it’s your handkerchief. your initials are there, embroidered in the corner. initially a gift from stanford, the piece of fabric stops your breath and forces you into acquiescence. you know stanford well enough to see his game before it even begins. this is his way of saying you’re not fooling me. 

_._._

when arthur wins the game, stanford pats him on the back and leaves without addressing you. 

he hadn’t said a word to you the entire night, but you know your time is up. whatever scam you foolishly thought to run on stanford is over before it even began. he knows where you are. he will come back for you. 

in his drunken state, arthur doesn’t notice your silence. he’s talking too much. “‘n’ did you see how i won that han’?” he asks you, slurring every word. 

you nod and try to smile encouragingly. “let’s get you back to byron.”

“tha’s my horse,” he says. 

“yup.” you focus your energy on shouldering most of his weight, stumbling out towards the docks. arthur babbles the whole way there, mostly meaningless nonsense. you tune his rambling out—you’re too busy taking inventory of your entire life to listen.

the first time you’d run away, the police caught you. stanford seemed so relieved when they returned you that you’d been fooled. of course, as soon as the door shut behind their backs, it was all different. the back of his hand across your cheek a sharp warning never to do that again. 

“don’t you dare run from me,” he’d said. and then he softened. “don’t you see how much i need you?” you hadn’t the courage to say no. 

and for the first few weeks after that, things were different. he was kinder. treated you better. kissed you softer. there were no parties, no other men, and stanford didn’t make you perform. you’re ashamed to admit that he fooled you into a slow rhythm, and when everything went back to the way it used to be, you hadn’t known what to say. 

you didn’t know which was the real stanford. because there were two: one with sweet words and thoughtful gifts and one with a cruel laugh and rough hands. sometimes you preferred the second one, because at least he touched you, even if you woke up a little bruised. the first one sneered if you asked for his touch.

but this stanford—the one who’s come back for you? you don’t know who to expect.

when arthur collapses into bed, he immediately starts snoring. but you know you can’t sleep right now. sleeping feels reckless when he’s out there, somewhere in this city. you spend a few restless hours on the balcony, scanning the horizon for you don’t know what. anything to feel busy. 

eventually, the snoring stops and you brace yourself. 

“hey,” arthur says from behind you. his voice is husky with sleep. “what are you doing out here?”

“just couldn’t sleep.” it’s not a lie. 

“that was stanford, wasn’t it.” you don’t answer. arthur drops into the chair next to you. “i know you think i’m a fool, and maybe i am. but i’m not stupid.”

knowing that arthur knows doesn’t make it better. in fact, maybe it makes it worse. he keeps talking: “tell me what happened.”

so you do. “when i was 15, my momma couldn’t make rent. we lived in a shantytown in the city, and it was getting cold. one day the landlord showed up. he took one look at me and said not to worry about rent. next day momma got a job. she got me a job there, too, and then one day a man walked in.”

“stanford,” arthur supplies.

“yeah. he offered me a job posing for pictures, and we didn’t know any better. i knew it would pay well, and i made momma let me. one day, he asked me to come over for lunch with one of my friends from the studios. his home was so beautiful. i cried. i couldn’t very well say no when he asked me to stay with him forever. how was i supposed to know?”

arthur is silent across from you. his brow furrows in thought, and he stares down at the courtyard. you continue. 

“then the money stopped coming. he told me the experience was the pay and i would thank him later. i never did. he started taking me around to parties across the country. there was even one here. that’s where i met dutch.”

at that, arthur’s head jerks up. “is that what he was talking about?”

you nod. “he paid stanford to sleep with me. a lot of men did, i guess, seeing as how many times i couldn’t remember the previous night. but then one day i ran away. when the police brought me back, he hit me. then he cried, and he promised never to do it again as long as i always stayed with him. he said he didn’t want to hurt me. i believed him.”

“what made you run away again?”

at this you pause. he looks so earnest. you tell him. “at one party, there was a boy named thaw. he gave me a lot of money to see me again, but stanford said not to. i did anyway. i sent all the money to my momma. she needed it more than me. anyway, stanford found out. he wasn’t happy.”

“is that why you left?” arthur asks. 

“no. i left because he killed thaw.”

to his credit, arthur doesn’t look too surprised. he nods. “and now he’s back to finish the job?”

“i don’t know why he’s back,” you admit, desperation leeching into your voice. “i don’t know what else he could possibly want from me.”

“money,” arthur says like it’s obvious. “or sex. or revenge.”

“what do i do?” 

he shakes his head. “vengeance is an idiot’s game. he’ll get what’s coming to him.”

“arthur, he’s going to kill me! what do i do?”

“look at me,” he says. your eyes flit to his, and you’re taken aback by the intensity in his gaze. “i’m going to keep you safe. nothing will happen to you.”

it’s a little silly, how quickly tears spring to your eyes. no one has ever said that to you. no one has ever been there for you. even thaw, despite his money, wanted to use you. “thank you,” you tell him earnestly. 

“do you trust me?” he asks. 

“yes.”

“then let me take care of it.” arthur’s dark eyes bear into yours, earnest and loyal. “stanford will not find you.”

_._._

but things fall apart, and arthur cannot always be there to protect you. 

when stanford knocks on the door one day, you don’t know what to do. arthur left it unlocked when he left. of course you hadn’t thought to lock it, and now you’re hiding under the bed with a dull knife that arthur keeps forgetting to sharpen. 

the door creaks open, and you hear thudding footsteps. stanford’s always-open eyes flit through your mind, terrifying and suffocating. his breathing is audible even from the bedroom. “where are you?” he sings. “i’m going to find you.”

his voice drifts into the sitting room. “do you remember what i said last time you ran away from me?”

you hold you breath, and he sighs. “i promised that i would find you no matter where you go. and i have!” 

you watch from under the bed as his heavy boots step into the bedroom and stop. he chuckles. 

“there’s no use hiding,” he warns. his voice is light. “in fact, it will be better for you if i don’t have to come find you.”

you clutch the knife closer, as though it will protect you.

“i know you’re in here.” he steps closer to the bed. “don’t make me grab you.”

the knife clatters to the floor and you slide out from under the bed. “please don’t hurt me.”

the first thing you notice is his face. he has changed since the last time you really saw him two months ago. there are new lines under his eyes, and his beard hasn’t been shaved. you can’t help but compare him to arthur’s rugged build. stanford is round in the middle, and you notice the guns he keeps on a gun belt around his waist. for the first time, you’re not afraid of him: he’s just an old man. 

then his face splits in a big smile. “my dear,” he says. then he pulls you up to standing, and that bravery vanishes. he still towers over you. “your mother is worried sick about you. frankly, so was i. kidnapped, how awful.”

stupidly, you frown. “i wasn’t—”

he backhands you across the face. your cheek aches with the force, and you lift a hand to tenderly feel the flushing skin. inside your mouth, you can feel where the skin split from your teeth. 

“next time i’ll kill you,” he says, smile gone. his hands haven’t left your shoulders, and fear bubbles up inside you. “don’t ever contradict me again.”

you nod. 

“now let’s go. foolish girl. a waste of my time, really.” he drags you through the apartment and down the stairs and then he shoves you into a carriage waiting on the street. “i can’t believe how stupid you are. if you weren’t worth the world to me, i wouldn’t have bothered.”

he climbs in himself and sits opposite you. the carriage lurches into motion, carrying you away from the apartment, away from arthur, wherever he is. “where are we going?” you whisper, eyes cast downward. 

“speak up,” he snaps.

where has your courage gone? your resolve? where did arthur go? you think. 

he promised to protect you. 

you look up. “where is arthur?” 

“who?” stanford looks at you as though you’ve gone daft. “oh, arthur! that delightful bounty hunter who led me straight to you.”

your world spins to a stop. “what?”

“how on earth do you think i found you two? he told me where you would be. i paid him well, don’t worry. he’ll be living comfortably for a long time. perhaps i’ll keep him on retainer for the next time you try to get away.”

oblivious to your thoughts, stanford rambles on, but you’ve stopped listening. he told me. paid him well. keep him. next time. the terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad truth slowly dawns on you: arthur lied. 

he lied that night on the balcony. he lied at camp, when he said he would protect you. he leid in the cave. he lied in annesburg. and you walked right into it. you knew stanford was cunning. desperate for something to believe, you walked right into his trap. 

and arthur was so handsome, so believable. it was too easy to trust him. but the truth is all there in front of you: he lied. 

stanford talks until the carriage pulls up to a familiar mansion. it’s the place with all the parties. “remember dutch?” he asks. you nod, suddenly exhausted. “he’ll be here tonight.” then he winks. 

your heart sinks. it will always be like this.

_._._

but this party is different from all the others. 

for one, dutch doesn’t try to touch you. no one does, besides stanford, who always keeps a hand around your waist. everyone seems so happy. and there are women who fawn over you and tell you how beautiful you are. 

“where is the ring?” someone asks. 

stanford presses a hand to yours. “it’s getting resized. we wanted it to fit perfectly!” the crowd gathered around you two laughs heartily. you don’t have the energy to ask what on earth they’re talking about, and stanford’s harsh touch on your hip warns you not to speak. 

instead you smile gently. all night, mostly stanford does the talking. you’re glued to his side helplessly, and then, slowly, this new realization comes to you.

“are you so excited?” a woman asks, peering into your eyes as if she can see straight through you. 

“yes,” you say, forcing a smile. 

“what will the dress look like?” 

“the… dress?”

“the wedding dress, silly!” she shakes her head and laughs. 

wedding.

[stxrgvsm]

i think when we reach 100 followers i'll do a blurb celebration!!

[stxrgvsm]

crime of the century, part three | arthur morgan x reader

summary: you're running from a life you never wanted. arthur's running after you just as fast.

content: angst, genre-typical violence, past sexual assault, dutch is an asshole sorry

wc: 2.9k

after a few miles, your cries subside into soft sniffles, but they never fully go away. 

stanford’s empty eyes flit through your mind, never fully shut even in his sleep. the first few nights, it had scared you. after that, you got used to it. you got used to a lot of other things, too. his phantom hand gripped your upper arm tightly, yanking you into the past. 

“i’ll make it good for you,” he’d promised. “i can help you.” 

and foolishly, you’d believed him. allowed him to drag you from your home and onto the stage, pocketed your income and told you the experience was the gift. posed you in front of cameras and let managers and producers do what they wanted. as long as he got the final say, of course. 

“isn’t it better this way?” he’d asked. 

then came the parties and the drinks, where stanford introduced you to people whose names scampered in one ear and out the other. except for one—thaw. he told you he was an heir, which hadn’t meant anything to you then. not until he’d winked and slipped you a bouquet papered with bills. then he’d laughed. you can still hear that laugh echoing around your head sometimes. 

stanford pulled you away from thaw and pressed drink after drink into your hands, assuring you that you wouldn’t remember any of it in the morning. he’d been wrong. the blood on the sheets told you all you needed to know. 

 arthur’s hand lightly taps your hip, bringing you back to the moment. he’s dismounted, and he looks up at you with clear, bright eyes. “you okay now?” he asks, rubbing your wrists. somewhere during your reverie, arthur had removed the rope, leaving only a faint mark. 

you nod distractedly and he helps you down. arthur’s fingers drift to your cheek, and you think he’s about to wipe away your tears. his touch lands, soft and steady, and then it’s gone. “let’s find you a tent,” he says instead, leading you away from byron. 

a camp sprawls before you, stretching into a yawning cave mouth. various tents and wagons have been pitched along the road. there’s a stew pot near the cave, and a man stirs it halfheartedly, throwing vegetables in seemingly at random. besides the cook, there’s a gaggle of young women huddled together by a tent at the edge of camp. they’re staring at you, but they don’t seem to be mean. one of them smiles encouragingly. 

“miss grimshaw,” arthur calls. a woman you hadn’t noticed before looks up from some washing. her arms are dipped in soapy water up to her elbows, but when she sees you, she wipes them on her skirts and stands up. 

“arthur,” she says. “who is that?”

he looks down at you and nudges you forward. “go on,” he says. “tell her your name.”

you do, keeping your gaze pinned to the ground. it’s funny, all those years in front of cameras, and you’re still shy. you can almost guarantee that this grimshaw woman has seen photos of you in various states of undress. but her gaze doesn’t register any recognition. 

“nice to meet you,” she says, sticking out a hand for you to shake. her skin is calloused by hard work, and you don’t miss the way her brow furrows at your own weak handshake. “what kinda housework you know—”

“she’s a guest, susan,” arthur laughs. “i’m not putting her to work.”

miss grimshaw harrumphs and turns back to her washing. “she can stay with the girls,” is her final judgement. 

arthur turns you around and leads you back the way you came, towards the girls huddled beneath a tent. “ladies, is it alright if my friend here stays with you for a bit?” he asks, a slow smile forming on his face. 

the girls don’t seem very amused by his tactics. one of them, a blonde, speaks up. “arthur morgan, let the girl speak for herself. goodness. all we’ve seen since you pulled up was an overbearing man.” the others giggle at her boldness. 

arthur smiles bashfully and glances at you. “we had a rough start. was hoping you all could talk to her.” he nudges you forward. “i know you can talk.”

another girl grabs your hand and pulls you down to sit with them. “my name is tilly,” she says, already moving on from arthur. “it’s nice to meet you.”

arthur takes the hint and tips his hat. “i’ll see you ladies in a bit.” then he strolls off, and, despite your rapidly cooling anger, you find yourself eyeing the back of his jeans more openly than you’d have liked. 

the blonde girl hands you a biscuit from behind her. “i’m karen,” she says. “sorry, the biscuit is a little hard. i’m guessing you’re pretty hungry.”

“arthur gave me some apples,” you tell them. “that’s about it.”

“how unromantic!” the final girl gasps. “arthur knows better than that.”

yeah, right. “how long have you known him?” is what you say instead.

“‘bout five years,” karen says. “he’s not a bad guy. i’ve known worse.”

“same here,” tilly says. 

“me too,” the final girl echoes. “i’m mary-beth.”

“so how’d you meet arthur?” karen asks. 

“it’s kind of a long story,” you admit. “but mostly we met after i shot him a few weeks ago.”

their eyes go wide with shock. “you shot arthur?” mary-beth exclaims. 

“yeah. somebody paid me to do it.”

“and he didn’t kill you?” tilly asks.

“no. but i think that was more to do with pity.”

they seem to sense your unwillingness to talk much, because karen stands up suddenly. “ladies, we’d best give her a moment to rest. arthur’s not the patient type, and he’ll want to be back on the road with you shortly. it was nice meeting you.”

the other two express similar sentiments, and then they file out of the tent, leaving you alone. through the opening, you can see arthur laughing with the cook. he dips a spoon into the stew and tastes it. then he nods and pats the cook on the back and moves on to the next person. 

once he’s greeted a few others, he looks back at you, face open and unguarded. immediately, you duck your head, but it’s too late; he’s caught your eye, and he lazily walks over to you, letting his hips sway in the late afternoon sunlight.

“you doin’ alright over here, ma’am?” he asks with a teasing smile.

“yes, arthur. i’m fine.” 

arthur sets himself down in front of you, careful not to touch any of the girls’ things, even as he stretches his legs out. then he looks at you, really looks, and you find yourself flinching away from his gaze. 

“are you going to take me to valentine?” you ask quietly.

“no.”

a hushed refrain, freedom, chants within your soul, but you tamp it down. “why?”

his face hardens. “i don’t deal with men who hurt women.”

both of your gazes drift to your forearm, where a faint ring of bruises from stanford’s hand still blooms. you rush to cover it. “that’s none of your business,” you say. “i could have handled it. i was handling it.”

to his credit, he actually looks surprised. “woman, what on earth are you on about? the man who gave me your wanted poster could have ripped you apart with his teeth.”

you’ve no doubt that’s true. stanford employed the biggest, stupidest muscle in new york city to do his dirty work. “i’m not a kid,” you protest.

arthur actually laughs. “then stop acting like one.”

you cross your arms over your chest. you’re aware that you’re pouting, but it’s to no avail. his gaze doesn’t soften and he doesn’t shift his posture. “if you're not taking me back, then what am i doing here?” you finally ask.

at that, he does shift uneasily. “i’m not sure,” he admits. “i was hoping to have that figured out soon.”

you let out an exasperated sigh. “why can’t you just let me go? nothing bad is going to happen to me.” you search his face for some sign of mercy, even the vaguest relaxation for you to worm your way into. you’ve always been good at squeezing into tight spots. but there are none for you. 

instead, a firm resolve fits itself onto his face like an expensive mask.  “i have to protect you,” he says. “i don’t know why or how, but i have to protect you.”

“from what?”

he doesn’t have to answer. you already know. stanford’s endlessly open eyes stare you down. you can almost hear his voice. 

“i will find you. no matter where you go, or how far you run. i will find you and bring you back.” at the time, it had been sweet and comforting. he’d pulled you in and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

looking back, it was a threat. you know that now. and that morning, with blood on the sheets and a sharp pain between your legs, you knew something else.

arthur’s hand covers your own. when you look up, his gaze is locked onto your fingers, curled into a fist. “who was it?” he asks. 

you pull your hand away. “it’s none of your business.”

his face falls and he stands up. “i tried,” arthur says, shrugging down at you. “you’re only hurting yourself with your stubbornness.”

“you kidnapped me!” you can’t believe his attitude. as though you owe him your trust or your life story. “i’ve only known you for two days.”

“you shot me!” he returns, just as quickly. 

“they paid me to do it!” you scramble to your feet, feeling heat flood your cheeks. “you can’t pin that one on me!”

“you battered me with a rock,” he says, annoyingly casual. his hand is propped on his hip, and he’s staring you down with a look that says you’re not fooling him. 

“the o’driscolls—”

suddenly, he presses a hand to your mouth as if to shove the words back inside. he steps closer to you. “don’t say that so loud,” he warns you in a hushed tone, eyes gone wide. 

but it’s too late. a booming laugh sounds out over the camp, and you watch over arthur’s shoulder as a man strolls out of the cave with familiar ease. a chill crawls down your spine at his gaze. “arthur,” he calls. “who are you hiding there?”

arthur winces but peels his hand away from your face and steps back. “this is a friend of mine,” he says. you think he’s being a bit generous. 

“don’t we share everything?” the man asks. he’s close enough now that you can see the glint in his eyes. his ornate red vest sets him apart from the rest of the camp, marking him as one in authority, the one with the money. 

his grin makes you nervous, but you force yourself to shake the hand he offers. “dutch,” he tells you.

then you recognize him. 

a party, years ago. some mansion in saint denis. you’d woken in a soft bed to a pounding headache. stanford perched on the side, brushing your hair away from your face. wordlessly, he had handed you a small stack of bills. when you took it, he stood, winked, and left. 

no blood on the sheets this time, but the soreness between your legs was the same as before. and when stanford introduced you to dutch later that day, he’d reached out to touch your chest. when you’d stepped out of his reach, stanford had pinched your hip and pushed you forward again. dutch didn’t seem too bothered. he didn’t try again, though. 

“behave,” stanford had hissed in your ear. 

so now, when dutch shakes your hand, you step back into arthur. he looks down at you with a frown and nudges you forward. it’s all so familiar when dutch laughs again. “haven’t seen you in a while,” he says, leering at you. “how’s old stanny doing?”

arthur goes still behind you. “you know her?”

“well, sure, i know her. stanford white introduced me to her,” dutch says, as if it’s no big deal that he paid someone for the privilege of having sex with you years ago. “says he hasn’t seen you in a while, though. supposed to be a big cash prize.” 

“i wouldn’t know about that,” you tell him, tossing your hair behind your shoulder. “mr. white and i haven’t spoken in a long time.”

“mr. white!” dutch laughs, pressing a hand to his belly. “how formal. my dear, you don’t need to worry. i won’t return you.”

return. as though you’re a missing piece of baggage. as though stanford has simply borrowed you out to his sleazy friends. you’re sure dutch can read your inner turmoil; he suddenly looks very smug. 

arthur settles a hand on your shoulder. “we’d best be getting to bed, dutch. see you in the morning.” it feels like a shitty lie, but dutch buys it. he kisses the back of your hand and winks. it sends another chill down your spine. 

when dutch turns away, arthur pulls you back towards his wagon. both hands on your shoulders, he looks you dead in the eyes. “what was he talking about?” arthur demands. 

“nothing!” but you can’t meet his eyes. “it was nothing. he’s just… i don’t know. nothing.”

behind arthur’s back, you watch the sun meet the horizon in a brilliant burst of color. distantly, you’re reminded of a lullaby. 

the sun departs in a golden boat / across the sea of tranquil blue / and leaves behind a crimson coat / to paint the sky for me and you.

as the glowing rays explode across the sky, you wonder what it would be like to sail away with them. to be a passenger in that golden boat. to run far, far away from stanford and the past you’d do anything to erase. 

running from him is beginning to feel futile. he followed you to annesburg. he followed you to beaver hollow. even the o’driscolls had provided no escape, only paltry pay for shit work. you’re lucky to have escaped them; you think about the girls who aren’t so lucky. 

 arthur glances at the sunset. his grip relaxes a little. 

“arthur,” you say tentatively. 

he hums in response, still looking behind himself. 

“when can i go home?”

his gaze darts to you suddenly, and you find yourself shrinking beneath his stare. “don’t,” he says, in a tone that speaks of heartache and grief. “please don’t. stay with me.” 

you’re inclined to obey.

you wake to a darkness that feels all-encompassing. 

for a moment, it’s frightening. it swallows you and seems to find you lacking. it spits you back out into life. you claw at its gates, crying out for release. 

the fear melts into comfort almost immediately. stanford and dutch fade away. the hands of men whose names you don’t know slide off of your skin, and you’re back with your mother. she’s humming to you, a song you haven’t heard in years. tears slip down her cheeks. 

“mama, please, what’s wrong?”

she shakes her head and doesn’t answer, just keeps humming that song. 

“mama! where have i been?”

then you wake for a second time, and you’re alone. harsh daylight breaks through the gap in the tent’s fabric, and you blink the sleepiness from your eyes. arthur is nowhere to be seen, and, when you peek your head through the tent flap, the camp is still and silent. even the horses are gone. 

your heart sinks within you. he’s gone. it will always be like this. 

you settle back into the tent, wrapping yourself in one of the blankets you’d been given, trying to formulate a plan. you don’t need arthur’s protection. you made it to annesburg just fine. you can make it somewhere else, too. 

you’re stuffing the blanket into a bag when you hear a laugh ring out over the empty camp. fear chills you to your bones and you freeze. 

“there’s no one here, boss,” you hear a man call. “place is deserted.”

then a growl. “lift all the valuables you can find. they must have left a trail somewhere. we will find that girl!” a cheer goes up from the small group and then you hear rustling. heavy footsteps approach your tent, and you duck under the blankets. 

a shitty disguise, you think. sure enough, the blanket is ripped off of you and you find yourself staring into a boy’s eyes.

he is young, younger than you. probably only 17. his eyes are wide with fear and shock. he sports a bright golden badge that reads deputy. it almost makes you laugh. 

he’s clearly a stanford pick. you know that it’s his life or yours. you don’t hesitate.

you grab him around the neck and bring him close to your face. “if you give me away, i swear i will track you down and slit your mother’s throat,” you hiss, glaring at him.

he nods frantically, beginning to claw at your hand wrapped around his throat. “do you hear me?” you ask. 

“yes, ma’am,” he whispers. then, louder, “clear!”

“get out,” you order. he obeys.

shortly after, the men clear out, leaving you alone. again.

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

no saints in safehouses

content warning/s & word count: 18+!!!, first and foremost—ben is his own warning here because jesus christ, language and swearing, misogyny, violence, threats, spitting, smut (kissing, biting, oral/cunnilingus, throat-fucking, fingering, unprotected p in v, threat of p in a, spanking, overstim, coming on face, ben being mean, reader has an implied breeding kink), manhandling, degradation, gentle humiliation, mocking, i believe that's it. 6.4k

The safehouse door slammed shut behind you with a rusted metal groan, the sound sharp and final—like a lid sealing on a coffin.

You dropped your bag at the threshold without looking back. Your shoulder was bleeding again—torn wide when the mission started unravelling, torn wider when he got involved. You hadn’t even wrapped it. Couldn’t stand the thought of asking him for help. Would rather bleed out on the floor than let him touch you.

The air in the safehouse was sour. Sweat, smoke, old rot behind the walls. A single naked bulb dangled from the ceiling, flickering every few seconds like it couldn’t decide whether to expose or protect.

Behind you: boots. Slow. Heavy. Cocky.

You heard him exhale like he was bored. Like this whole thing—the mission, the mess, you—was just another inconvenience.

“Y’know…” he drawled, voice low and lazy, like he was savouring the words before spitting them into your spine, “He’s not wrong.”

You didn’t turn around.

“Butcher,” he added, in case you needed clarity. “You heard him. Said we’re a liability. Said we fucked it.”

You still didn’t move. The pain in your shoulder pulsed in time with your heartbeat. You could feel him behind you—close enough that your skin prickled.

“What was it he said again? Somethin’ like—‘get the fuck back to base before you fuck everything else up, yeah?’” He snorted. “Fuckin’ poetry.”

You turned slowly. Deliberate. Controlled. Like you hadn’t been burning the entire way back.

Ben leaned against the table like he owned it. Like he owned everything. His shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled, streaks of blood dried on his forearms. A cut split the corner of his mouth, barely crusted over. He looked like hell. He looked smug as sin.

“This your way of apologising?” You asked flatly.

He grinned.

“For what? Havin’ to drag your sorry ass out of the crossfire?” He tipped his chin toward you, voice soft and sharp. “You’re the one who decided to break off formation, sweetheart. You’re the one who thought she knew better. As usual.”

“You were supposed to be on my six.”

“I was,” he said, with a smirk that could rot teeth. “But your head’s so far up your own ass, you probably couldn’t see straight.”

You took a step forward.

“Don’t fucking talk to me.”

“Why not?” He tilted his head, mock-confused. “Scared I’ll say somethin’ you don’t wanna hear?” He clicked his tongue. “Or scared I’ll say somethin’ you do?”

He pushed off the table and started toward you, boots deliberate, like he was giving you time to flinch.

You didn’t.

“Touch me and I’ll gut you.”

He laughed. Full-bellied. Loud in the cramped space.

“Jesus Christ. Every time. You get that little snarl in your voice and think it makes you dangerous. But sweetheart—” He closed the distance, close enough to smell the blood drying on his skin. “—you don’t scare me. You get me hot.”

You flinched before you could stop yourself. And he noticed.

“That’s right,” he said, voice dipped low like a secret, like a threat. “Say my name like it don’t hurt you to come out that pretty, wet little mouth.”

“I’d rather chew glass.”

“Don’t tempt me. I’d still fuck you with blood on your teeth.”

Your hand twitched toward your blade.

He saw it. Didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“What are you gonna do?” He asked, voice husky with mock concern. “Stab me?”

He leaned in. “C’mon, baby. Don’t tease. You and I both know you ain't gonna do shit.”

You shoved him.

It was instinctive, desperate, not meant to land so much as buy space—but he didn’t budge. Didn’t stumble. He just looked down at the spot where your hands had hit his chest. Then up.

Then smiled.

“There she is,” he murmured. “My little junkyard dog. All bark. No bite.”

You punched him. Hard. Right across the face.

His head jerked sideways with the impact. And for a moment—blessed silence.

Then he licked the blood from his lip and grinned.

“That all you got?”

You went for him again. This time he blocked it. Then the other.

You were shaking. Breathing too fast. You didn’t care. Your shoulder screamed, your vision burned—but you kept swinging. He caught your wrist. Twisted. Pressed you back against the table.

His face hovered over yours, grinning like a devil that just found a loophole.

“Always a mean little bitch under all that scowling,” he rasped, his breath hot against your cheek. “Now what? You gonna hit me again…”

His other hand slid across your hip, slow, possessive.

“…or you gonna fuckin’ kiss me?”

You shoved him—hard.

This time, Ben moved. His ass slammed against the table’s edge with a thud, the sound loud in the breathless space between you. The legs screeched against the concrete floor, the flickering bulb above swaying ever so slightly from the shift.

He didn’t look angry. He looked delighted.

That fucking smirk twisted across his split lip like sin incarnate. His eyes tracked your movements lazily, like he was watching a predictable game play out exactly as he'd imagined.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you snapped, voice low, warning-laced, vibrating with the kind of rage that tasted like blood at the back of your throat.

He tilted his head. “Ohhh,” he said slowly, savouring the shape of the sound like a fine cigar. “Feisty now, huh?”

Your chest heaved. Your shoulder throbbed. The sleeve of your jacket was soaked through, blood soaking the fabric where the wound still wept. You didn’t care. Not now. Not when he stood there like every word that had ever left your mouth was just foreplay.

“You are a walking piece of shit, Hargrove,” you hissed, each syllable laced with months of bitter frustration. “Every time you open your mouth, it’s like someone scraped the bottom of a fucking urinal and taught it to speak.”

He barked out a laugh, loud and cruel, cutting across your words like a blade. “C’mon, sweetheart. You can do better than that.”

You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

“You’re a liability. A danger to your own team. You’re not a soldier—you’re a relic. Washed-up and bitter and desperate for someone to look at you like you’re still relevant—”

“There she goes,” he said, louder now, over you. His tone dripped with amusement, his grin all teeth. “God, you run that mouth like it’s gonna win you a medal.”

“Shut the fuck up and let me finish!”

“Why?” He shrugged. “You only like hearin’ yourself talk?”

Your vision blurred, fury red-hot behind your eyes. You didn’t even realise how close you’d stepped until you felt his breath ghosting across your lips.

“You think this is funny?” You hissed. “You ruin everything you touch. Every mission, every team—you tank it. Because you can’t handle anyone not looking at you like you’re a fucking god.”

He didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked pleased. “And yet you keep comin’ back,” he murmured. “Can’t help yourself. Bet you lie awake wonderin’ if I’m thinkin’ about you. Wantin’ me to.”

You scoffed, but his grin widened.

“Hate to break it to you, honey, but you ain't special. You're just easy.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Nah. I'm honest.” He stepped in close, voice dropping to a murmur. “Y’know what your real problem is? You don’t know your fuckin’ place.”

You blinked. Something in your spine stiffened. That sick-slick tension tightened between your ribs.

“Back in my day,” he continued, slow and deliberate, “girls like you weren’t out in the field. You were fuckin’ dinner entertainment. Something soft to come home to. Not stompin’ around, actin’ like your tits and your tantrums count as tactical advantage.”

Your nails bit into your palms. He kept going.

“You wanna play soldier so bad, but you can’t even keep your emotions in check. Bleedin’ all over the floor and yellin’ like a brat who didn’t get her way.”

“I am ten times the asset you’ll ever be—” you began, but he cut you off again.

“Sweetheart, the only asset you got is between your fuckin’ legs.”

Silence fell. Ugly. Hot.

Then you spit.

Right into his face.

It landed just beneath his eye, slid slow and gleaming down his cheek to where his jaw tensed. He didn’t wipe it away. Didn’t blink.

Then, fast as a whipcrack, he lunged.

His hand snapped up and clamped around your jaw with bruising force, fingers digging into the soft parts of your cheeks, thumb pressing into the hinge like he was daring it to break. He squeezed hard enough to make your lips part, to force your chin upward until your eyes had nowhere to go but him.

You jerked, tried to wrench away, but he held you firm. Unyielding.

“Don’t waste your fuckin’ spit like that,” he growled.

His breath was hot. His face inches from yours, that cut on his lip glistening red and wet.

“You got no idea how many men would’ve dropped you where you stand for that.”

He paused, then smiled. A slow, filthy thing.

“But not me.” His voice rasped low, reverent in the worst way. “Nah. I like you like this. All mouth and no plan. Lookin’ at me like you wanna kill me and come on my cock at the same time.”

You tried to speak, and he tightened his grip. The ache bloomed instantly, your jaw locked in place.

“Don’t. Speak.”

His eyes roamed over your face, dark and gleaming with something feral.

“You’re not gonna say anything I haven’t already jerked off to.”

Your jaw ached in his grip, cheeks squeezed between his calloused fingers, lips parted just enough for breath to pass—but nothing else. He held you there like a fucking trophy, his thumb rough against your skin, his smirk rotting through your bloodstream like venom.

You could hear yourself breathing. Could hear him breathing. Close and sharp and slow. Measured, like he was savouring the scent of your unraveling.

You hated the silence. Because in the silence—you felt it.

The throb. Low and dark, blooming in your gut like a bruise. Not from rage. Not from shame.

From want.

And it hit you like a slap.

No.

No, no, no.

Your pulse pounded hard against your ribs. Your body buzzed like it had just realised what kind of man had you pinned. What kind of voice was in your ear. What kind of fingers were on your jaw.

And that—that’s what made your stomach twist. Because somewhere in the middle of all the hate and heat and violence—

You were getting wet.

You scowled. Tried to pull back. But Ben’s grip didn’t loosen. Instead, his smile stretched into something even worse.

“Ohhh,” he crooned, soft and vicious, “there it is.”

You froze. Heart lurching.

“That little squirm,” he said. “Took you a minute, huh? Thought you were gonna keep up the act a little longer.”

You growled in your throat, furious, but he just kept going.

“Should’ve known. All that righteous little rage—” he leaned in, voice dipping like a secret, “—was just your pussy tryin’ to negotiate terms.”

You twisted in his grip, but he followed you like a shadow.

“Bet you’re soaked. Hatin’ every second of it. Poor thing.”

“I’m gonna kill you,” you hissed.

He ignored it.

“What is it?” He murmured. “The voice? The muscles? Or is it the fact I treat you like a fuckin’ dumb little girl who doesn’t belong on the field?”

You spat again—but this time, you missed. It hit his collarbone, slid down his bare chest where his shirt wasn't fully done up.

He chuckled darkly.

“Temper, temper.”

Then you bit him. Hard.

Your teeth sank into the curve where his shoulder met his neck, the tang of his sweat hitting your tongue like copper and salt. You heard him grunt—deep and involuntary—but he didn’t pull away. If anything, his hand tightened on your jaw, holding you there like he wanted the pain.

You pulled back and glared up at him, lips slick with spit and rage.

“You are not fucking me,” you snapped.

Ben didn’t blink.

“No?” He said, voice sharp with laughter, laced with something darker beneath it.

Then his hand dropped low, low enough to brush between your legs, just for a second, just enough for him to feel the heat there.

His eyes lit up.

“Well I ain’t fuckin’ the hole in your shoulder, sweetheart.”

You slapped him.

The sound snapped through the room like the crack of a whip. His face turned with the force of it—but his smile stayed. Wider now. Red glistened on his lip where your palm had split it further, curling into the corner of his mouth like a badge of honour.

And still—he laughed. Low and steady, like he was enjoying this more than anything that had come before.

“Still got fight,” he rasped. “God, I fuckin’ love that.”

He stepped forward again, forcing you back until your spine met the rough cinderblock wall. His body caged yours, broad and radiating heat, his breath ragged but measured like he was controlling it just to make a point.

His hand landed on your hip. Possessive. Heavy.

“You’re burnin’ up,” he murmured. “Tryna hide it, but you’re meltin’ for it. I can feel it. You’re pulsin’.”

You sneered. “You’re hallucinating.”

He laughed again, but there was a tension coiled beneath it now. Something tight and hungry and climbing.

His fingers dragged slowly up your thigh, the heat of them searing through the fabric. He didn’t go high enough to touch anything worth touching—but close. So close. Just enough to make your skin buzz and crawl.

“You always get this hot when you’re mad, or is it just for me?”

You turned your face away.

That smug fucking tone. That condescension. That voice.

Your body hated you for it. You hated you for it.

He leaned in until his mouth grazed the edge of your jaw, his lips brushing skin with infuriating softness. His stubble scraped, and your breath hitched—just once.

He heard it.

“C’mon,” he said, softer now. Dangerous. “Stop fightin’ it, baby.”

You clenched your teeth.

“I’m not—” you started, but he cut you off with a groan that was almost frustrated.

“Jesus. You are the most stubborn little fuckin’ thing I’ve ever met.” His palm pressed flat against your stomach now, not moving higher, not yet. “I’m right here. You know it. I feel you, sweetheart.”

He pressed his hips against yours.

You felt it—his arousal, straining against his pants, heavy and hot and very, very there.

And still—your jaw locked.

He chuckled again, but this time it was quieter. Rougher. His lips ghosted over your ear.

“You ain’t gotta beg,” he murmured. “Don’t gotta say please.”

He nipped your earlobe, and you flinched.

“But fuck,” he breathed, “I want you to. Just once. Just a fuckin’ whimper of it.”

His other hand came up and gripped the back of your neck, dragging your head back against the wall, making you look at him.

“Just gimme somethin’,” he growled. “Let me have it.”

You stared up at him, eyes defiant, chest heaving, lips trembling with a fury you couldn’t name. His pupils were blown, jaw tight, sweat beading at his temple.

“You want me to say it?” You whispered.

He nodded, once. Jaw ticking.

You leaned forward, lips almost brushing his.

“No.”

His eyes flared. Just for a moment. Then his forehead hit the wall beside your head with a hollow thunk.

“Fuckin’ tease,” he growled, nearly breathless. “Goddamn little—”

You kissed him.

Or maybe he kissed you. It didn’t matter. Because suddenly—there were no more words. Only teeth. Tongue. Pressure. Only hands everywhere, dragging, grabbing, bruising. Only the sound of your breath punched out of your lungs as he pinned you harder, like he wanted to break something open just to see what spilled out.

And still—you didn’t beg. Not once.

His mouth was on yours, hot and hungry and entirely too satisfied with itself. He kissed like he fought—with dominance, with grit, with absolutely no care for anyone’s breath but his own. Your teeth clashed, tongues fighting for control, every gasp turning into another insult.

“I fuckin’ knew you wanted it,” he muttered against your lips, breath ragged, voice ruined. “God, you’re such a fuckin’ prick tease sometimes.”

You bit his bottom lip, hard enough to make him grunt. “Shut the fuck up,” you panted, fingers already yanking at his half-undone shirt.

He growled—deep and primal—grabbing the hem of your top and pulling it over your head like it’d personally offended him. You barely had time to toss it aside before his hands were on your tits, greedy and rough and everywhere.

Between kisses, between moans, between muttered curses, you were tearing at his belt, yanking and fumbling, both of you shaking with urgency.

“Fuckin’ finally,” he hissed, snapping the leather free. “Gonna ruin you.”

“You already have,” you spat.

His grin split wider. “Aww, baby. That almost sounded like a compliment.”

Then he went for your pants.

And froze.

You were kicking off your boots, halfway done when he huffed—truly, violently irritated.

“Fuck this shit,” he barked.

Before you could speak, his arms wrapped around your waist and he spun you—fast, like the air was thick with smoke and he didn’t have time to be gentle.

You barely got your hands out to brace yourself before your hips hit the edge of the table and you were slammed down onto your front.

“Hargrove—” you started.

He didn’t listen.

Didn’t care.

His hand wrapped around your waistband and in one brutal, fluid motion, he ripped your pants and underwear clean down the back of your legs, the fabric tearing with a shriek and hitting the floor like surrender.

“Are you fucking serious?! I liked those pants!”

He grabbed a fistful of your hair, just enough to tilt your head back.

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth.”

Then he dropped to his knees.

You barely had time to process the shift before his hands gripped your ass and spread you, and his whole face pressed in like he was trying to suffocate between your thighs.

And then—his mouth.

“Oh fuck—”

The first lick was devastating. Broad and slow, from your clit to your dripping entrance, and then back again, like he was learning you.

Then came the second—filthier. Sloppier. Louder.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, voice muffled in your cunt. “You taste like a fuckin’ war crime.”

You choked on a laugh and a moan at once, half turning to glare over your shoulder.

“Don’t flatter yourself—”

But he growled—deep—and sucked your clit into his mouth like he was punishing it. You almost collapsed.

“Shut up,” he muttered against you. “Just fuckin’ take it.”

Then he really started working.

Tongue pressed flat, then curling. Lapping and sucking and moaning like he’d gone feral. One hand keeping you spread, the other sliding down your thigh, gripping tight enough to bruise.

“You hear that?” He said, pulling back just long enough to spit onto your pussy and spread it with two fingers. “That squelch? That’s you, baby. Drippin’ all over my fuckin’ face.”

His mouth dove back in, and this time, he added teeth.

You cried out. His name. A curse. Maybe both.

He laughed into you. “That’s right. Fuckin’ mess. And you act like you’re not into it.”

You tried to push up, to speak, but he slapped your ass—hard—and buried his tongue deep again, humming like it was the best goddamn meal he’d ever had.

“Keep that mouth shut and let me eat, sweetheart,” he growled, voice wrecked. “You’re so fuckin’ wet I could drown in it.”

And he wanted to. You could feel it—in the way he moved. Desperate. Devoted. Obscene.

You were moaning. Panting. Swearing. But even now—still, now—you were running your fucking mouth.

His tongue had been buried in you for what felt like hours. Alternating between lapping, sucking, biting—his face drenched, his groans constant, hands gripping your thighs like a lifeline.

And you? You were taking it. You were suffering for it. But not quietly.

“You sound like a dog,” you hissed, voice breathless, broken, but still smug. “Fucking mutt. Bet you’d hump my leg if I let you.”

He growled into your cunt. You gasped. But the grin was still there, stretching across your face like sin.

“You’re pathetic, Hargrove,” you whispered. “Fucking starving like you haven’t had pussy in—”

His voice rumbled, low and sharp: “Shut your mouth.”

But you didn’t. Couldn’t.

“Can’t get enough, huh? Pathetic little—”

“I swear to God, sweetheart—” His breath was ragged, trembling with something dangerous. “I will fuck that pretty throat if you don’t stop talkin’.”

You arched your back and laughed, breathless and triumphant.

“Aww,” you taunted, “Did I bruise your ego?”

That was it.

He moved. In a blur of strength and heat and fury, he grabbed your waist and lifted you clean off the floor. You yelped, legs kicking reflexively as your spine hit the table, your head dangling off the far side.

The world flipped upside down.

“Hargrove—what the fu—”

Your words were cut off by the weight of him—thick and hot and full, his cock driving into your mouth so deep your vision sparked.

Your throat convulsed.

He hissed through clenched teeth, head thrown back, arms braced over the table as he held you there.

“Fuck—told you.” His voice cracked, breath rattling through the growl. “I fuckin’ warned you,” he groaned, thrusting slowly, deeply, into your throat while your eyes watered and your fingernails dug into the edges of the table.

“Run that fuckin’ mouth one more time,” he panted, his hips grinding deeper with every word, “and I’ll use it just like this every goddamn time.”

He wasn’t pulling back.

Just shallow rocks of his hips, grinding against the back of your throat while he looked down at your body bent over the table like a goddamn feast.

And then?

His fingers slid between your legs again. Without warning. Two of them. Deep.

You choked—hard—around him as his fingers curled exactly where they needed to, dragging slick out of you like he wanted to make it messier.

Your whole body spasmed.

“You feel that?” He rasped, breath shuddering. “Goddamn. You’re squeezin’ my fingers like a fuckin’ vice.”

He groaned again—shaky, hot, fucked-out.

“Jesus, baby… and you were talkin’ like you didn’t want this.”

His free hand cradled your throat now—thumb pressed against the bulge of his cock visible in your neck, feeling himself inside you.

His eyes rolled back.

“Christ, your fuckin’ throat was made for me.”

You tried to move. Couldn’t.

Every breath you dragged in was him. Every sound was slick and gasped and obscene—the wet noise of his fingers plunging into your soaked cunt, the slap of his hips against your lips, the throb of your core twitching around his hand.

He laughed again—wrecked, barely holding on.

And you were still fighting it. Still glaring through tear-lined lashes, still gagging and clawing and refusing to break.

But he was gonna make you, even if he had to keep you full at both ends to do it.

He was fucking your throat like it was the last thing on Earth that could save him.

Every roll of his hips was deeper. Slower. Less angry and more delirious, like he’d tipped over into something hot and helpless and consuming.

His fingers were still inside you, working in tandem with his cock down your throat—crooking and twisting like he was testing reactions, mapping you from the inside out. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Could barely think.

And he loved it.

You could hear it in the way he was groaning now—drawn-out, fucked-up sounds, torn from deep in his chest. He wasn’t even taunting anymore. He was worshipping.

“Jesus,” he gasped, looking down at you with wild, half-lidded eyes, sweat dripping from his temple. “This mouth. This fuckin’ mouth, sweetheart—"

He thrust again, slow and deep, hips stuttering at the feel of you twitching around him.

“I love it when you spit at me,” he groaned, voice cracking into a soft laugh. “I love it when you snarl like a rabid little fuckin’ animal—”

You gagged around him, throat clenched so tight he moaned.

“God, yeah. When you run that mouth like a spoiled little brat—when you hate me so fuckin’ loud—”

He curled his fingers inside you, deep and slick, pressing down on your front wall—that spongey, gummy, wreck-you spot—like he was playing a damn instrument.

“—and then suck me down like you don’t even need to breathe anymore—fuck—”

Your vision blurred. Everything started spinning. You tapped his thigh once. Twice. Desperate.

His hips froze. His cock still buried in your throat.

“Oh—fuck,” he gasped, already pulling out. “Shit. Sorry, sweetheart—got lost in the fuckin’ moment there.”

He was laughing. A breathless, ragged sound, part apology, part thrill. His eyes were wild with it. Face flushed. Hands shaking.

You gagged as air rushed back into your lungs, coughing, drool trailing down your chin, your mouth gaping as you tried to drag yourself upright.

“Jesus,” you rasped, blinking tears from your lashes. “You’re fucking insane.”

His fingers left you with a wet pull that made you flinch—and he watched it. Watched how your thighs twitched when you were empty again.

He was circling the table now, still breathless, his cock glistening, soaked in spit and flushed angry red.

“Damn right I am,” he said hoarsely, eyes raking down your wrecked body.

Then he gripped your hips and dragged you down the table, rough and fluid, until your ass met the edge and your legs dropped open—slack, shivering.

“C’mon.” His voice was low now. Different. Almost soft. “Lean up. Wanna see those fuckin’ eyes.”

You propped yourself up on your elbows, still gasping, still shaking. But you looked. You watched.

You watched him line up—the head of his cock rubbing through your soaked folds, catching against your clit, then sliding down to your entrance where you were aching to be filled.

He exhaled shakily, mouth falling open.

“God,” he muttered, like a man on the brink. “Look at you.”

One hand on your thigh. The other gripping himself, twitching at the base. He nudged forward again, teasing—not to torture, but because he was savouring.

You locked eyes. He was gone.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you,” he whispered.

Then he pushed in like he had all the time in the world.

No rush. No brutality.

Just that slow, devastating stretch as his cock split you open—inch by aching inch—like he’d been waiting for this, like he’d earned it. His mouth dropped open when he bottomed out, a filthy groan catching low in his throat.

“Fuck,” he hissed, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. “You’re so fuckin’ tight. Squeezin’ me like you were made for this.”

Your body arched, mouth falling open in a wordless moan as the table beneath your back creaked. You couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. All you could feel was the weight of him—deep, thick, pulsing inside you—and the heat blooming out from where your bodies met.

And then he started to move.

Slow. Deep. Dragging his cock almost all the way out, then pressing it back in until your walls clenched and fluttered helplessly.

Your head lolled back. Your eyes rolled.

He slapped your thigh—hard.

“Uh-uh.” His voice was tight. Stern. “Eyes on me.”

You blinked, dazed.

He was braced over you, one hand on your thigh, the other fisted beside your hip. His hips rolled forward again—slower this time, deliberate. You moaned. Your eyelids fluttered.

Another sharp slap to your thigh.

“Look. At. Me.” he growled.

You dragged your gaze back to him, jaw slack, lips parted.

“Goddamn,” he rasped, staring down at you like you were an open flame. “Look at that face. Look at what I fuckin’ do to you.”

He rocked in again, groaning as your body clenched around him.

“I love this part,” he muttered. “When you’re still tryin’ to hold it together. Still actin’ like you’re not fallin’ apart.”

You whimpered, and his mouth curled.

“You like this, don’t you?” He crooned, voice thick with filth. “Being pinned open like this. Full. Spread. Watched.”

Your head tipped back again on instinct, eyes slipping shut—

And his hand snapped up, grabbing your jaw.

“No.”

He held your face, fingers digging into your cheeks, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“You don’t get to look away,” he said, voice sharp with heat. “Not when I’m inside you like this. Not when I’m this deep.”

He thrust again, deeper this time—grinding the base of his cock against you so perfectly you cried out.

“That’s it.” He grinned, breath catching. “I wanna see you break.”

Your hands scrambled at the table, nails dragging across the wood. Your thighs were shaking. Every time he bottomed out, your hips jerked, your breath hitched, your chest arched—and he watched. Every. Fucking. Time.

“Don’t you dare close those eyes again,” he warned, still holding your face. “I want to watch what I do to you. Every twitch. Every moan. Every little shiver.”

Your body pulsed around him like it was listening.

And that made him feral.

“Jesus, sweetheart—this pussy,” he groaned, slowing his thrusts again, dragging them out to pure torture. “Grippin’ me like it knows. Like it wants to be ruined.”

Your eyes fluttered again.

He tutted.

“Aw, baby. You tryna be good?” His cock slid deeper. “You wanna be good for me?”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. He let your jaw go—just long enough to slap your thigh one more time.

“Christ,” he groaned, hands gripping your thighs like restraints. “Still this fuckin’ tight…”

You felt it every time he bottomed out—hips flush to yours, cock buried so deep you could barely breathe. Your mouth opened on a moan that never quite found its voice, your head tipping back on the table, fingers trembling where they gripped the edge.

His hands moved—one sliding up to press flat against your belly, the other settling on your jaw, thumb grazing your lips like he didn’t know what part of you he wanted to control more.

“Pussy like this should come with a fuckin’ warning,” he muttered, thumb brushing your lower lip. “You feel that? How tight you’re squeezin’ me? It’s fucking perfect.”

You moaned, head tipping back more.

He slapped your thigh. Again. Sharper.

“Nuh-uh. Eyes. On. Me.”

Your gaze dragged back up to meet his—blurry, glassy, wrecked.

He looked devastated. Sweat on his chest. Jaw tight. His green eyes burning down at you like he’d die if you looked away again.

“You keep doin’ that, I’m gonna lose it,” he whispered. “I’m already hangin’ by a fuckin’ thread.”

Your walls clenched around him at the admission. He hissed.

“You like that, don’t you? Bein’ the one who makes me lose my fuckin’ mind.”

His thrusts got deeper, harder. Still slow, still controlled—but barely.

“God, I really do love this fuckin’ mouth,” he panted, staring at your lips now.

You whimpered. Shuddered. Your whole body was tensing.

He could feel it. His fingers reached down, thumb finding your clit, circling in tight, merciless pressure.

“You close?” He asked, voice gone rough and mean.

You nodded, whimpering, trying to say yes. But your throat couldn’t form it.

He stilled.

You cried out, grinding your hips, chasing the friction—anything—but he held you.

“Nope,” he rasped. “You wanna come? You ask.”

Your eyes flared. Fury and arousal crashing like thunder.

He grinned.

“What’s wrong?” He cooed. “Too proud to beg? Thought you were a tough girl.”

You clenched your teeth, panting.

“I can do this all night, sweetheart,” he said, hips grinding deep and slow again, teasing that spot that made your legs twitch. “I’ll keep you right here until you sob for it.”

He pulled back, just enough to make you feel empty. Then slid back in, eyes glued to your face.

“You gonna say it?” He whispered. “Gonna ask me?”

Still, you didn’t. But your eyes were glassy. Your hips were shaking. Your voice was gone.

And then, you said it. Soft. Broken.

“…Ben.”

His name. Your voice.

Everything stopped.

His hands shook. His breath hitched. His head dropped forward with a gasp.

“Oh, fuck…”

He looked at you like he didn’t know what to do with that sound.

“You’ve never…” he whispered. “You’ve never called me that.”

You said it again, even softer.

“Ben…”

And he shattered.

“Fuck, come.” His voice cracked. “Please. Now.”

His thumb pressed down. His hips snapped forward. Your body broke. And the moment it hit the air—

He snapped.

“Fuck—yes, yes, come, come for me—”

His voice fractured around it—command and awe bleeding together like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. His thumb kept circling your clit, relentless. His cock buried deep. And your body shuddered beneath him.

You came hard. Again. Back arching, mouth open, eyes rolling.

And still— He didn’t stop.

Not even for a second.

He was still fucking you. Driving into your wrecked cunt like he’d been given permission to devour.

You whimpered. Eyes fluttering.

“Ben—”

“Oh, we’re not done,” he breathed, voice wrecked. “Not even close, sweetheart.”

He kissed you. Open-mouthed and filthy. His lips found your jaw, your neck, your shoulder—like he couldn’t decide what part of you to ruin next. His hips never slowed. Each thrust was harder now. Rougher. Every wet slap of his body against yours made you twitch.

You couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. And your body—shaking, overstimulated—begged for mercy you refused to ask for.

Your head tipped back again.

Eyes closed.

Your fatal mistake.

He froze. Just for a second. Then he snapped his hips. Hard. Brutal.

You cried out.

His hand cracked across your thigh. Again.

“Eyes,” he snarled. “The fuck did I say?”

You tried. Blinked. Dragged yourself back to him.

His eyes were wild. Hair damp with sweat. Jaw tight. His cock pulsing deep inside you.

“You look at me when I fuck you.”

He slowed. Just a little. Then slammed into you again, harder than before—making the table creak and your legs twitch.

“Can’t believe you dared to close your fuckin’ eyes again after I warned you.”

“Ben—fuck, I—”

He spit the next words like a threat:

“You do that one more time, and I swear to God, sweetheart— I’ll flip you over, fuck your ass deep, and I won’t let you look at me.”

Your whole body spasmed.

His voice dropped, feral.

“Sound good to you?” He growled. “Want me there next? So every fuckin’ inch of you is mine? So you remember who fuckin’ owns this body?”

You choked on a moan.

He grabbed your face again, forcing your gaze back to his.

“That’s right. Keep those pretty little eyes where they belong.”

He thrust again—hard, fast, filthy. You sobbed. Clenched. He groaned like he was dying. Your thighs were soaked. Your vision blurred. And he was still going. Still holding you wide open.

Still not coming. Because he wanted you broken first.

He was fucking you like he was trying to carve a god out of your body. Relentless. Precise. The kind of rhythm that wasn’t chaos—it was control. Hard-earned. Hard-kept. Just barely contained.

Your thighs were soaked. His cock was dripping. You could feel your own come sliding down the insides of your legs from the last orgasm, and still—he hadn’t let up.

Then—

His pace broke.

He pulled back, hips stuttering as he groaned, “Fuck, I’m close. Fuck—where d’you want it?”

His voice was wrecked. Ragged. Wild. “Your tits? Your stomach? Wanna see it drip off your ass? What, baby—what do you want?”

Your answer was a sob. One word.

“Inside.”

And he stopped cold.

You didn’t even feel his cock anymore—just the sudden absence as he yanked back like you’d burned him.

His hand flew to the base of his cock, fisting it tight to hold himself back.

“Jesus fuck, sweetheart—”

He was breathing hard. Panicked. Laughing like it hurt.

“You can’t—you can’t say shit like that,” he gasped, squeezing himself as precum smeared over his knuckles. “You gotta give a guy warning before you pull that fucking move.”

You whimpered. Barely coherent. “Please…”

He laughed. Laughed like he was losing his mind.

“Oh, no. No, no, no—” he choked, circling around the table like he had to walk it off or he’d blow right then and there.

He looked feral. Cheeks flushed, sweat gleaming on his chest, cock throbbing in his fist.

“Inside?” He echoed, voice hoarse. “Jesus, you really are a little fuckin’ menace.”

You blinked up at him, dazed, mouth open, wrecked in every possible way.

“The last thing either of us needs,” he panted, “is me fuckin’ a baby into you.”

You shivered. Moaned. He grinned wider.

“Can you imagine?” He groaned, twisting his fist at the tip. “Half me and half you? That kid would be fucked. Wouldn’t even make it past the first trimester before startin’ bar fights in the womb.”

He shook his head, still circling, the slap of his fist on his cock echoing through the room.

“Hot in theory, sweetheart. In practice? Not so fuckin’ much.”

He came to a stop at the head of the table. Looked down at you—body blown open, thighs twitching, chest flushed, mouth wet and waiting.

“Back,” he said, pressing a hand to your shoulder. “Down. Now.”

You obeyed. Laid back across the table, head tilted slightly, breathing shallow.

He gripped his cock tighter, leaning over you with that wild grin stretched across his face, his other hand toying with your nipples, rolling and pinching until you gasped.

“Gonna make such a mess of this face,” he whispered.

Your legs spread wider.

He grinned. “That’s my girl.”

Then his hand hovered over your lips.

“Open wide,” he said, voice low.

You did.

He spit. Heavy. Wet. Right into your mouth.

“For earlier, you little fucker,” he muttered, eyes glittering.

You moaned around it. Swallowed. Smiled.

He groaned. “Jesus Christ, you liked that.”

Then—he slapped your cheek, light, teasing. The kind of touch that said mine.

“Here it fuckin’ comes, baby,” he panted, jerking faster now. “Open wider. C’mon.”

You looked up at him. Eyes glossy. Lips parted.

He groaned loud. “Good girl.”

And then—

He came. Hot. Thick. Everywhere. Over your tongue, your chin, your cheeks, your fucking soul. And when he was done, he stumbled. Laughed. Ran a hand through his hair and looked down at you like you’d just ruined him.

Because you had.

author notes: boy, oh boy... i went hard on this one. i need to get fucked like this at the moment, i genuinely believe it would get me out of my own fucking head for five goddamn minutes and then i can just get back on with my life. but alas, i hate all men, and will not go near one, even if it means the dicking of my life. i love ben like this. fucking nasty asshat but so obviously reverent over reader. we live to see it. i also haven't fully proofread this because i'm just delirious from last night, and let's be real, the past few weeks lol. my life is going down the fucking toilet. let me know what y'alls think, please. i need some fucking praise right now. and that isn't even a hint, it's an outright request. all the damn love.

soldier boy/ben taglist: @losers-clvb @bejeweledinterludes @soldiersgirl @bruisedfig @tinas111 @angelicjackles @lunaleah. @mostlymarvelgirl @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @ohgodimgoungtodie @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l @kaz-2y5-spn @agoodgirlsguidetomakingmencry @bohoooitsme @n3lly-h3artz @ladykitana90 @deangirlsstuff67 @adoredawn @sunnyfuffly @deansbbyx <3

everything taglist: @bejeweledinterludes @angelicjackles @losers-clvb @blossomingorchids @tinas111 @lunaleah @drakulana @sacr1ficialang3l @mostlymarvelgirl @bohoooitsme @n3lly-h3artz @deangirlsstuff67 @ambiguous-avery @deansbeer @angrydragon90 <3

[stxrgvsm]

go ahead, beg | arthur morgan x reader

content: mdni 18+, piv sex, fingering, cumplay, unprotected sex (do not try this at home), minor degradation, spanking

arthur meets her gaze through the small mirror atop the vanity. 

she’s lying on the bed, hand propping up her cheek. her body is dimly lit by the candles they can barely afford, but she thinks she must look at least a little romantic. in some places, they’d pay for such a nice atmosphere. “are you coming?” she asks.

he splashes some water onto his head to slick his hair back, and a low smile curls his lips. when he looks at her this way, he looks downright malicious. she shrinks back into the pillow, but her own grin threatens to burst from within. “arthur,” she whispers. 

he walks toward her and stops in front of the bed. “what do you want?” he asks, as though he has no idea. as though he isn’t the reason she’s fairly dripping with need. 

“i want you,” she says plainly. 

arthur smiles again, but this time it’s much sweeter. “what about me?” 

she hugs a pillow to her chest, but he plucks it away from her and tosses it across the small room. “no hiding, now,” he warns. “what do you want from me?”

it seems he’s done playing. she acquiesces. “i want your fingers.”

with exaggerated slowness, arthur lowers himself to his knees. he meets her gaze from the edge of the bed. there’s a glimmer in his eyes. she shudders. “where do you want my fingers?” he asks, already reaching for her ankles. 

a small squeak escapes her throat when his hands make contact. his thick fingers wrap around her legs, pulling her down towards him. “i want them inside, arthur, please,” she murmurs. 

he doesn’t need much encouragement after that. his eyes glint in the candlelight, and then his fingers are trailing under her nightgown, slowly finding their way to her core, where she needs him most. “right here good?” he asks, voice low and slow. 

she mewls into the air and he chuckles. “you tryin’ to kill me, woman?”

just when she thinks she’ll burst with anticipation, his fingers brush against her and she squirms. his free hand smacks her thigh in warning. “hush, now,” he says. “i’m givin’ you what you asked for.”

his hand explores higher, finding her already wet and ready for him. it doesn’t take long for him to find her clit, pulsing and needy, soaking for him. he circles it gently and groans in delight. “all this for me?” he asks. when she doesn’t answer, he gives her another smack, lighter this time. “can’t even string two thoughts together, huh? already stupid on just my fingers?”

“please, arthur.”

“alright, alright.” and finally—finally—he slides a finger into her. immediately, her back arches off the bed and the loudest moan she’s ever given him bursts from her throat. although she can’t see him, she knows his eyes are wide and dark with lust, watching her move on his hand. 

“my pretty girl,” he whispers in awe. “so beautiful.”

arthur works the finger in and out of her, watching slick drip and stick to his hand. at one point, he curls it while inside and feels her legs shake on his shoulders. he chuckles and presses a kiss to her knee. “so wet for me,” he says. 

then he adds another finger, and she keens, high and unsteady into the air. he actually laughs at that, moving his fingers harder and faster. “not enough for you? you need more?” he tsks at her disapprovingly. 

“arthur, arthur, please,” she moans. “please.”

“please what?” his fingers curl inside her again, making her cry out in pleasure. he laughs cruelly. “use your words, angel.”

“need you,” she pants. “need you inside me.”

he doesn’t answer for a brief moment, instead slipping a third finger in. “so tight,” he hisses, momentarily slowing his pace to fit them all in. “and you want more.”

she nods urgently, crying out louder. 

suddenly, he rips his hand out and yanks her towards him. her eyes are wide, blown out with pleasure, unfocused. his own are intense and angry. “i told you to shut your mouth,” he says. “you’d do best to listen when i say so. do you hear me?”

she nods frantically, letting him manhandle her back onto the bed. he nods as if satisfied, although she knows he’ll be taking his anger out on her in a moment. sure enough, without much preamble, all three fingers have found their way back inside her, thrusting in and out almost painfully. 

“soon as you come, you’ll have me,” he promises.

a way forms in her mind’s eye. an orgasm is just up ahead. she can feel it blooming in her stomach, heading south. his free hand caresses her chest, feeding the fire and fanning the flames. his own moans echo around their bedroom, and she squeezes her eyes shut, readying for it, when…

his hand rips free of her. “no!” she sobs, tears streaming down her face involuntarily. “please no, arthur!”

arthur stares at his hand, watching her slick stick his fingers together. “you got what was coming to you,” he says. “now turn over.”

this time, when he rises, she does as he says, rolling onto her stomach and letting him guide her body exactly where he wants it. the pillow he’d thrown earlier is back, this time finding its place under her stomach, propping her hips up. the missing orgasm still pulses in her clit. 

she can hear him breathing behind her, feel his hands smooth over her ass, flipping her nightgown over her hips. “arthur, are you—”

the words have barely left her mouth when he slams into her hard, his cock hitting her walls with such strength that she’s shoved forward. this time, he moans, hands shifting to grip her hips. he sets a brutal pace, and her eyes roll back in her head with every thrust, breasts bouncing to the rhythm. 

he is everywhere. his scent—woodsy, smoky, masculine—fills her nostrils. his strong forearms bracket her head, and he grabs her hair to keep her head up. 

“you’re going to take this…” he grunts in between thrusts. “like a good little whore.”

another cry breaks free of her throat. “arthur,” she moan. “please, please.”

“yeah, beg for it.”

“i am!”

he chuckles. she wonders how he can maintain such composure when she’s a moaning mess beneath him. “not good enough yet, sweet girl. try again.”

“arthur, please, i want more. please, come inside of me!” she tries, and it seems to work, because he falls into her and groans into her back. her orgasm is back, barrelling towards her much faster than before, and she doesn’t think either of them can stop it. 

his thick cock drags in and out of her, catching on her walls, drawing moan after moan, pleas and begs, from her throat. then the orgasm crests, taking her with it. arthur fucks her through it, although they both know his orgasm isn’t far behind.

sure enough, she’s barely recovered when his orgasm hits, dragging her into another. even in the midst of blinding pleasure, she can feel his cum spill inside of her, warm and sticky. arthur slowly lifts himself off of her and pulls out gently, but it’s not been enough time. she doesn’t have to see to know that his cum is dripping out of her, mixed with her own, creating a sticky, debauched mess on her thighs. 

a low moan escapes arthur’s lips at the sight. he slaps her ass, watching it force out more of his cum. “don’t waste it,” she chides weakly. 

he laughs. “you’re right.”

then he kneels down again—she can feel his breath on her—and forces two fingers into her, pushing the cum mixture back into her and plugging it up. “guess i’ll just have to stay here until it dries,” he says, but he doesn’t sound too unhappy. 

her walls clench around his fingers at his words. “i felt that.”

[stxrgvsm]

crime of the century, part two | arthur morgan x reader

summary: you're running from a life you never wanted. arthur's running after you just as fast.

content: angst, genre-typical violence

wc: 2.8k

you know five dead people. 

first was your next-door neighbor growing up. she was only five when she passed. you were friends, in the way all alley-kids are. her funeral was somber and modest; the casket was closed. you were sad, but promptly forgot all about it when your father presented you with a hard candy from the sweetshop. later you would wonder what happened to her. 

second was a boy from the general store. he was older than you, but he sometimes helped around the house with chores and such. he ran off to join the raiders and got himself killed in a shootout. you were 11. no one but his parents felt all that bad for him. 

third and fourth were twins, girls around your age. after their funeral—another closed-casket—their mother gave you some of their dresses. you never wore them. 

now, you dream of the fifth. young, too young, much like the executions you’ve witnessed recently. 

you wake with a start to find that nothing has changed. the sound of birdsong draws you from your slumber, and you blink into the daylight, wondering how the worst day of your life can dawn so calmly. 

arthur dozes by the smoldering remains of the fire. you allow yourself 30 seconds of staring at him. 30 seconds of admiration.

30…

his profile stands sharp against the horizon, the sunrise illuminating his features one by one. his forehead. his eyes, closed against the bright morning. his nose. 

25…

despite all his big talk of staying up, it seems like he fell asleep shortly after you. he looks so calm in slumber, arms wrapped tightly around himself to keep warm. you glance down and see that you’re clutching his jacket. 

10…

a faint shiver wracks his form and he rolls over towards you. you realize at once that you can smell him, sort of smoky, woodsy, and masculine. it’s a pleasant smell. you let yourself indulge, if only for a moment. 

it’s not lost on you that arthur is an attractive man. he’s not greying quite yet, but the lines around his eyes and nose mark him as one who’s experienced what life has to offer. your 30 seconds are up, and you force yourself to look away and busy yourself with kicking a rock around your corner of the cave.

when arthur wakes up, moments later, it’s because of you. your sighs were a lot louder than you expected, and he blinks awake slowly. “mornin’,” he says. his voice is scratchy from disuse, charming and husky. he doesn’t bother clearing his throat. you fight back a shudder. “you ready to go hunting?”

“you’re going hunting,” you tell him, hoping that your tone is clear enough. “i’ve never hunted before.”

it’s one of the only true things you’ve told him. 

arthur sits up and gestures for you to come closer. when you’re within reach, he plucks the jacket out of your hands. “there’s a first time for everything,” he says as he shrugs the jacket on. you wonder if it smells just a little like you.

you don’t answer. he stands and scatters the remains of the fire and then gathers up his meager belongings. you, of course, don’t have anything to pack, but arthur offers you another apple. there’s only one this time, and you feel a little bad taking it. then you remember valentine and his plans for you. you don’t feel half as guilty then.

this apple is less tart than the one last night. its sweetness bursts onto your tongue, dripping from your lips down your chin. arthur’s eyes linger just a tiny bit too long on your mouth, then he pointedly looks away. you pretend not to notice.

he saunters over to his horse, settled by the front of the cave. “byron,” he murmurs. “i’m sorry about the sleeping conditions. i know they weren’t up to your standards.”

the horse snuffs out a response. arthur laughs, a low thing that makes something unfurl behind your ribs. “sweet thing,” he coaxes her. “that’s my girl. so good. it’ll be okay, it’s just one night of this. we’ll be at valentine soon, girl.” and on and on he goes. 

stanford never spoke to his horses like that. maybe stanford never spoke to his horses at all. but you’ve certainly never heard anything quite as sensual as the mouth on this man. 

when arthur speaks, something in you demands you stop and listen. he is not forceful, although you suspect that he absolutely could be, if the situation demanded it; no, this mysterious element is something more personal. he speaks with a calm surety that leaves no room for doubt. his tone dips low when he really wants you to listen, and, indeed, it snags at something behind your heart, pulling you towards him. 

“so are you going hunting?” you ask.

he turns to look at you. a thrill shivers down your spine. “maybe soon. why, you interested?” something flashes in his gaze, a challenge, maybe. 

you were always a sucker for a contest. “yes,” you say before you can stop yourself. 

arthur’s face betrays his shock for a split second, before he schools it into submission. “well, i’ll be damned. if you wanted to go hunting, all you had to do was ask.”

what kind of kidnapping is this? you wonder. still, you’re not taking this freedom for granted. a plan begins to form in your mind. “let’s go, then.”

like a fool, arthur hands you the reigns to byron. “you can take the horse,” he says, lifting you into the saddle. “i’ll walk next to you.”

you think you can’t get any luckier. then he hands you a rifle. “whoever gets a deer first wins.”

“that’s hardly fair,” you find yourself protesting, against your best interests. “i don’t know how to shoot or aim or… anything.”

arthur looks at you with hooded eyes. something dark flashes in his gaze, forcing a shiver down your spine. “i don’t think that’ll be a problem, sweetheart.” then he pats byron’s left flank. “go on, girl.”

you don’t know who he’s talking to. 

byron saunters off into the woods, leaving arthur clear behind. it feels like a joke. he’s given you a horse and a rifle and set you free. has he ever done this bounty hunting thing before? 

you wait a few seconds, to be sure that he’s not running after you. then you lean forward in the saddle, squeeze your thighs, and urge byron into a gallop. 

_._._._

arthur, despite what you might think, is not stupid.

he hates that people assume that about him. he didn’t choose to be burly. if hosea had his way, arthur would have been in school past the 9th grade. 

that being said, this is not arthur’s finest moment. 

he realizes this mere moments after you’ve disappeared into the dense forest. he can hardly believe it of himself: setting you on his prize horse, handing you a gun, and then letting you ride off to “hunt.” 

what kind of a bounty hunter are you? is what arthur wants to know.

foolish though this may have been, he has to remain calm. you can’t have gone far. you don’t know how to ride or shoot, and you’ve probably never been in this part of the country before. as charming as you are, you seem like a born-and-bred city girl, not one to have ever left saint denis or wherever you’re from. 

and you’re on his horse. byron won’t run away from arthur. 

he whistles into the clean air and waits. nothing. 

“shit,” he curses under his breath. then he starts running. 

_._._._

you, meanwhile, can’t believe your luck. 

byron gallops through the forest, deftly shifting between trees and jumping over roots. you have to admit she’s a lovely horse; whatever else arthur might have, he’s got damn good taste in horses. her coat is white, glimmering like the moon on a clear night, and she has strong muscles. you can feel them ripple beneath the saddle. despite the exercise, she’s barely breathing hard.

a good omen, you think.

you’ve slung the rifle onto your back, allowing you greater range of movement, and you laugh out loud with glee. it’s such a shocking noise—you don’t know how long it’s been since you’ve done that—and the forest seems to answer in kind. a rustle of birdsong echoes behind you, and byron snorts, even as she continues to gallop. 

you dare to glance behind you, but see only trees. arthur is nowhere in sight. “moron,” you murmur under your breath. then you turn to byron and ease up on the pace. “it’s okay, sweet girl,” you say, trying to mimic what arthur might have said to her. “you’re a good girl.”

she stamps at the ground in lieu of an answer. 

you scan the treeline for a road or another traveler or any sign that you’re in the right direction. that’s when you realize the first flaw in your plan: arthur has the map, and, although you might pretend to be a country girl, you’re not. 

some cruel joke, you think. but even if you wanted to go back to him, you’re not sure you could find him. you can’t even see the sky through the tree cover. 

before you even know what you’re doing, you jump down from byron, the rifle bouncing against your shoulder. it probably won’t be much help—you hadn’t lied to arthur; you can’t shoot straight to save your life. but it’s better than nothing. maybe it’ll scare away overzealous bandits.

suddenly, a sharp whistle slices through the still forest air, and byron bolts. arthur, you think. 

despite the way he’d treated you with relative respect, you know he’s kidnapping you. even if he’d given you his coat, he’s waiting to sell you out. he took you to return you. you’re not fool enough to believe there’s a relationship of ease or camaraderie between you two. 

byron gallops out of sight, and you duck between a large rock and a cliff wall to wait for arthur to pass. it takes a few minutes, but you hear his groan when byron returns without you, and you hear him grumbling about you when he eventually rides past your hiding space. 

when you can’t hear him anymore, you stand and start walking.

_._._._ 

arthur leans into byron, eyes scanning the forest’s treeline.

you can’t have gone far; you’re not the most elegant woman he’s ever known. still, he knows more about you than he likes, and what he knows isn’t good. you come from money, he suspects. you’re running from someone, and he has the unenviable job of returning you to that someone. he knows that these woods aren’t friendly to unaccompanied riders, especially women, and he knows that you don’t know how to shoot a gun.

something in his heart twitches at the thought of you, huddled against a tree somewhere. he prays to gods he’s long forgotten that the murfree brood don’t find you. arthur doesn’t think he’ll be able to forgive himself if there’s another death on his hands, and even though you made the fool decision to run, it will be on his hands. 

so he forces byron to go faster, further. he wishes charles were here. charles would have found you by now. normally arthur considers himself quite good at hunting, but now, when there’s a personal element involved, he can’t focus for shit. 

his eyes flit faster and faster till the scenery blurs in front of him. “damn,” he mutters, wiping his forehead. he pulls byron to a halt and sighs. 

this is an exercise in futility. why her? why now? he wonders. the sun is rapidly beginning its descent; he’s wasted precious daylight riding in circles looking for you. a resolve begins to form in his chest to go back to camp. sure, he won’t get the cash prize for you. but at least you’ll be off his hands.

unbidden, an image of a doe comes to mind. her sorrowful eyes lift to meet his, big and watery. her lithe body is backlit by a sunset, and she ducks her head to graze. that’s when arthur sees it—the fur on her left flank is matted with blood. he can hear her heartbeat, strong and quick. there and then gone, the image disappears. 

although you are nowhere to be found, he has the strangest feeling that, were he to press his hands to your wrist, unworthy as he is, he would feel the same heartbeat, the same jagged rhythm of fear. 

it will always be this way, he thinks. 

then, a scream he never wants to hear again. he bolts in its direction just as a crack rings out. you’re falling. plummeting, your eyes glued to the sky, foolishly open. arthur doesn’t even have time to wonder how you got into a tree anyway. the rocks beneath you are getting closer, and you squeeze your eyes shut for impact, when all you feel is warmth.

or, at least, that’s what arthur hopes. his solid arms grip you close to his chest, wrapping around you like a vise. he’s barely snatched you from your free fall, and the two of you make a strange pair, desperate eye contact and heavy breaths. vaguely, he can feel your heartbeat, a familiar jagged thrum, reminding him of a doe he’s seen recently. 

your eyes search his face wordlessly, mouth open, still trying to orient yourself after your fall. arthur is frozen, kneeling on the ground, clutching you as tight as he can. when you blink, he does, too, lowering you to the ground as gently as he can. 

it’s then that arthur knows he has to keep you safe. it’s not just a matter of finding you, or delivering you, or keeping you alive. in this moment, he’s cut a covenant with you and absolved you of your responsibility to him. he owes you his life, as backward as it may seem. he will go wherever you tell him to, do whatever you ask him to, as long as he’s with you. 

he reaches up to cup your face, ready to tell you all of this. then, too late, he sees your hand curling around a rock. you make eye contact with him, and then you slam it into the side of his head. 

arthur topples to the side, his grip on you going slack. you jerk free of his arms and stumble away from him, glancing back in horror. your strength isn’t enough to debilitate arthur, and when he rises to his feet, he watches as the fear in your gaze shifts to rage. the panic sets in, and your legs kick into gear, carrying you away from your captor. 

arthur sprints after you, already feeling pain bloom and seep into his head. you’re fast, but nowhere near as fast as you’ll need to be. his hand snatches yours as you run, and he yanks, hard. 

“help!” you scream, even as your knees hit the forest floor. “no, please, please no!” 

but it’s to no avail. no one is there to hear you scream. whatever pity you’d planted in arthur’s cold, cold heart is gone, wasted in one brief moment of foolishness. 

that doe flits through his mind again, and, again, he feels the rapid beat of terror. it’s echoed in your own wrists as he loops a rope around them. your pleas have mostly quieted down, melting into sobs and frantic screams. he’s not that worried. these woods have seen worse.

“arthur, please, don’t take me back there,” you cry. “please, you have to listen to me. he’ll kill me.”

“it would be best for you to shut your mouth,” he mutters as he slings you over his shoulder.  

a frustrated scream slips from your throat. “i’m telling the truth! he’s going to kill me!”

arthur’s own rage bubbles up within him. “i told you to shut your mouth,” he warns you. but when he sets you on byron, he makes sure you’re sitting up. “i’ll handle the details, you just stay quiet.”

when you squeeze your eyes shut in a sob, he looks away and freezes.

a doe stands mere feet away from him, grazing quietly. arthur blinks. the doe slowly lifts her head to meet his eyes. fear flashes through her, and she bolts. 

something twitches in arthur’s heart, something that has been still for a long time. when he looks back at you, you’re still crying, full tears sliding down your cheeks. “please, you don’t know him,” you murmur. 

_._._._

when he spurs byron into a gallop, it’s not towards valentine. 

[girllock-writes]

| What Daddy Doesn't Know...

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

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

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

Arthur Morgan had never come around this much before.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Arthur, please," your father sighed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Let me." Was all he said.

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

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

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

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

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

"Just perfect" you muttered to yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were a grown woman. Weren't you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"If that's what you want."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't–" you started.

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

You couldn't breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your fingers gripped the sheets as you stifled a moan.

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

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

"M-mister... nngh– Morgan–"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Easy, girl."

"Keep breathin."

"That's my girl."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[stxrgvsm]

mean!arthur morgan who… leaves camp far too often, just so you’re extra desperate when he comes back

mean!arthur morgan who… kisses you chastely outside your tent even though he knows you want more

mean!arthur morgan who… lets his hands wander a bit too far when he helps you onto your horse

mean!arthur morgan who… shushes you with his mouth when you get whiny

mean!arthur morgan who… is cruel even when he’s kind