Arthur Morgan | drunk sex + thigh riding - 333 words
“N-no, sweetheart, I ain’t gon’ take advantage of you..” Arthur was trying his hardest to keep his hands to himself, but the way you were rubbing all up on him like a kitten in heat? He wasn’t sure how long he’d last.
“Sweets, you’re— you’re too out of it. No,” Arthur muttered, unable to stop you when you climbed into his lap.
So now, instead of fucking you properly, he stripped your lower half naked, discarding everything but your panties, and rocked your hips against his thigh.
“Arthur..nngh…need more..” Your face was flushed no thanks to the alcohol, slight drool dripping from the corner of your mouth. He thought you looked so cute like this, all messy and needy for him. It pained Arthur to not be able to do more.
“My needy baby…who told you it was a good idea t’go out and get all shitfaced, hm?”
Your puffy clit dragged against the rough material of his jeans, sending jolts of pleasure down your spine with every movement. You felt so sticky, your pussy was leaking juices through your panties and all over his thigh—he was not complaining in the slightest.
You meweled at his words, nodding eagerly. You silently cursed at yourself for getting drunk in the first place since Arthur was always such a gentleman with you. Your grip on his shoulders tightened when you felt the leg under you bounce.
“F-fuck! Arthur— please, s’good but not enough..” he chuckled at your whines, pulling you down against his bouncing leg harder. He could feel his cock throbbing in his pants, knowing he’d have to take care of himself in private while you slept. This was very tough for him, the same as it was for you.
“I know, baby, I know. But good things come to those who wait, no? You just sit pretty on my thigh, get yourself off, then tomorrow when you can think properly outta that pretty little head of yours, I’ll make love to ya.”
synopsis: arthur morgan returns from hunting, and you watch how effortlessly he carries carcasses to and fro. you greet him to find he's brought something back for you.
contains: whole lotta fluff, whipped arthur, fem!reader, awkward arthur
wc: 1.6k!
The morning at Horseshoe Overlook was already warm, sunlight spilling through the trees in honey-colored streaks. Camp was slow and quiet - just the soft murmur of someone shuffling cards and the distant clink of pots as Pearson fussed over breakfast.
You were rinsing your hands at the bucket, rolling your shoulders loose, breathing in that dusty summer air - when the sound of heavy footsteps and rustling brush pulled your attention.
Arthur emerged from the treeline, and damn if he didn’t look like he belonged to the wild and claimed it too.
A deer rested across his shoulders, tied firm and balanced like it weighed nothing more than a sack of flour. His shirt was pushed up at the sleeves, tan skin catching sunlight, muscles shifting beneath it with each steady step. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple - he wiped it with the back of his arm and kept walking, jaw set in that determined, effortless way of his.
He saw you first.
And just like always, his face softened the second his eyes landed on you, just enough to make your heart feel like it tripped over itself.
“Mornin’,” he drawled, voice warm as the breeze.
You tried - you really tried - not to stare at the whole display of strength and surety in front of you. But your eyes lingered, caught somewhere between admiration and that fluttery feeling you refused to name.
“Morning.” You echoed, a little breathless. “Successful hunt?”
He shrugged like it was nothing. “Reckon so. Figured Pearson might actually stop complainin’ for an hour.”
You laughed, and he looked just a little too proud of himself for making you do it.
Pearson came bustling over like a man possessed, praising the meat and already planning dinner. Arthur let him yap, then turned back to you, thumb hooking absently into his gun belt.
“Didn’t expect you awake this early.” He admitted, eyes lingering on you like he was committing the sight to memory.
You brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Nice mornings like this? Hard to sleep through ’em. Besides,” you added, heat rising beneath your skin even before the words fully formed, “good company helps.”
It slipped out so soft you almost hoped he didn’t catch it.
But he did - and the look he gave you in return was slow, warm, and dangerous in the sweetest kind of way. A smile tugged at his lips, quiet and pleased, like he wasn’t sure whether to tease you or hold the moment close.
“That so?” He teased, voice turned low and rich.
Pearson yelled something unintelligible at him, breaking the spell. Arthur cleared his throat and adjusted the deer on his shoulder.
For just a second - one warm, golden-lit second - his tough, steady composure faltered. His ears went a little pink. Then that ghost of a grin returned, curling at his mouth like he couldn’t fight it if he tried.
“Well,” he said, tipping his hat, “good to know.”
He walked off toward Pearson, but not without looking back once more, like he couldn’t help himself.
Arthur emerged from the trees carrying the deer like it weighed no more than a coat slung over his shoulder, sun catching on his arms, sweat glinting off the warm bronze of his skin. Camp chatter softened as he passed - even the horses lifted their heads like they knew a man worth noticing when they saw one.
He crossed the clearing at that steady, grounded pace of his, boots sinking into dirt, muscles working in smooth, practiced motion. If strength had a sound, it’d be the quiet confidence in his steps. You pretended not to stare, yet every line of him pulled at your eyes like gravity.
He dropped the deer beside Pearson’s wagon with a heavy, final thud.
Pearson spun, wide-eyed. “Arthur, that there is—”
Arthur didn’t stay long enough to hear the praise. He’d already turned - not toward his tent, not toward camp work, but toward you.
His gaze found you easily, like it always did. Like maybe it was looking for you before he even got back.
“Hold up a second.” He grumbled, cutting Pearson off mid-breath.
Pearson blinked, baffled. “Arthur? Don’t you wanna—?”
But Arthur was already stepping away. You watched as he wiped his palms on his trousers, cleared his throat like he was preparing for a duel, and walked straight toward you.
You blinked. “For me?”
He nodded, then immediately seemed to regret nodding, because now he looked awkward as hell. “Just—wait here.”
Before you could say a word, he turned sharply, pacing toward his horse like a man on a mission and yet somehow embarrassed to be seen doing it. You watched him rummage in his saddlebag, shoulders tense like he was bracing for impact. Then he hesitated… winced… and pulled something out.
It was a little wildflower bouquet.
…Well. Mostly a bouquet.
A few petals were bent, some stems twisted from the ride back: a handful of summer blooms in shades of pale yellow and soft white, tied together with a bit of twine. Clearly gathered by hand. Clearly meant for you.
He stared at it with a tiny grimace, thumb brushing over a crushed petal like he could magically fix it by sheer willpower alone.
Then he sighed under his breath, squared his shoulders, and headed back - bouquet held behind him like it might explode. When he stopped in front of you, he cleared his throat again. Twice.
“So, uh… this’s for you.” He muttered, finally holding the flowers out.
You looked at them - imperfect, sweet, heartbreakingly earnest - then at him. His eyes flicked to yours and away instantly, a pink flush climbing his cheeks.
“They were nicer before.” He mumbled, visibly annoyed at the betrayal of nature. “Got a bit squashed comin’ down the ridge.”
You accepted them gently, careful like they were a gift worth more than they looked - because to you, they were.
“They’re beautiful.” You said softly.
He lifted his head at that, searching your face like he needed to make sure you meant it. When he saw the truth there, his whole expression softened - relief, warmth, something tender he didn’t know how to hide quick enough.
“Yeah?” He asked quietly.
“Yeah.”
His jaw worked, like he wanted to say something else but couldn’t find the words. Instead, he just nodded once - slow, almost shy - and tugged the brim of his hat down.
“Figured you might like ’em.” He murmured.
A beat passed. Summer air between you, bright and gentle. Your fingers brushed his as you tucked one flower behind your ear, and he froze - breath catching just a little.
Behind him, Pearson’s voice cracked across camp like a frustrated rooster: “Arthur Morgan, that deer ain't gonna skin itself!”
Later, camp settled into that soft evening hum - the clink of plates being washed, the crackle of the fire, somebody humming a tune just off-key enough to make it human. Lantern light flickered across wagons, and fireflies drifted like tiny sparks caught in the warm twilight.
Arthur sat at the edge of camp with his journal open but absolutely not writing a damn thing. He kept pretending to scratch the page, but he wasn’t fooling anybody with eyes.
Especially not Dutch.
“So.” Dutch drawled from across the fire, swirling his drink like he was born dramatic, “I heard you rode back with quite the… spring in your step today.”
Arthur’s jaw ticked. “Don’t start.”
“Seems to me,” Dutch continued, voice like a smug cat stretching in the sun, “our dear Arthur’s been feelin’ inspired by nature. Flowers and all.” He smirked. “Romantic sort.”
Arthur’s ears went pink instantly. “Ain’t nothin’ like that. Just saw ‘em, figured… somethin’ nice. Nothin’ more to it.”
Dutch lifted a brow like he didn’t believe a single word. And truthfully? Neither did Arthur.
He tried to go back to staring at his blank journal page. Tried to breathe normally. Tried not to think about how close he’d come to makin’ a fool of himself handing those flowers over.
But then he looked up.
And froze.
You were walking toward the fire, lantern light catching your hair - and there they were. His flowers.
Braided into your hair, woven through like they belonged there all along. Little, soft, wild blooms threaded between strands, glowing in firelight, making you look like summer itself had chosen you.
Arthur forgot how breathing worked.
His fingers curled slowly into the paper of his journal. His shoulders stiffened. His heart - traitor that it was - kicked hard enough that he felt it in his throat.
Dutch followed his line of sight, then grinned like the devil himself. “Ahh.” He realised, low and pleased. “And there she is.”
Arthur swallowed. Hard.
You met his eyes briefly, shy little smile tugging at your lips when you caught him staring, and he had to look down at his boots before he did something stupid, like stand up and pull you into his arms in front of half the camp.
Dutch leaned closer, voice just loud enough for Arthur to hear. “Son, if you’re tryin’ to hide it, you’re doing a terrible job.”
Arthur grunted, voice strained. “Ain’t hidin’ nothin’. Ain’t anything to hide.”
Dutch’s laugh was knowing, quiet but wicked. “Mhm. And I suppose the sky ain’t blue either.”
Arthur tried to ignore him. Tried. But when you settled by the fire, flowers glowing in your hair, soft smile just for him, he felt something in his chest tighten, soften, and break open all at once.
He ducked his head, tipping his hat low to hide the way his mouth betrayed him with a tiny, helpless smile.
Dutch saw it anyway and clicked his tongue. “Lord help him.” He teased cheerfully. “The man is gone.”
Arthur didn’t look up. He didn’t trust himself to.
All he managed was a quiet, rough, “Shut it.” and even that sounded more like a prayer than a threat.
And across the fire, with your flowers in your hair and moonlight catching your eyes, you looked at him like maybe, just maybe, you were gone too.
a/n: arthur is such a cutie.. he just like me fr.. this is also my first post on this account what do we think chat
Arthur Morgan meets a strange man, and does something even stranger.
Entering my Arthur Morgan phase. Dw, I still have some Joel miller planned but right now I’m playing red dead so you know I had to do it. All fluff, hope you like
꘎♡. ━━━━━. ♡꘎
"Oh, thank you sir, thank you," said the man as Arthur returned his horse.
"No problem."
He'd only been riding out for a day or so, intent to explore the land more. He'd already seen enough to send him back to camp but he couldn't ignore a man desperate to retrieve his horse.
He could, but if you found out and somehow you would- because you always do- you'd be very upset with him.
When you found out he'd let a man walk home after he was robbed, he had to sleep on the floor of your tent like a dog curled up close to his owner.
"Please, take this," the man pulled a thin golden chain from his pocket, dangling it in front of Arthur. "I'm from Europe, you see. Came here to make my name in America. I'm a jewellery maker. I insist you take it."
Arthur watched the gold glint in the sun. The chain was long and thin, a heart dangling at the end of it, decorated with intricate designs of flowers and swirls and such.
He took it, gently, it seemed expensive, genuine. Could fetch a pretty penny. "All for helpin' ya, sir, but i'm a takin man."
"Give it to her," the man insisted. "Do you have romance in this country."
Arthur stared at it, holding it up like it was some prey to examine.
Sure, he knew romance. Sometimes after a hard day he'd sit you down around the fire, pull of your old worn boots and rub your feet. That was romance right?
Or the way you'd always have a cup of strong coffee for him in the mornings when he doesn't sleep well.
Or how, though he hated it, he let you play with his hair. Sometimes braid it.
"It is a locket," said the man, he was French, Arthur thought. "You can put a portrait inside. Of you. Give it to her and she can carry it next to her heart. Now I must go sir! Thank you!"
Arthur hardly waved a hand goodbye as he still stared and still thought about it.
He liked to give you things, never passed a field of flowers without picking a bouquet for you. Never had he gotten you something quite so extravagant.
Him? Inside?
Arthur could count the pictures he had of him. Two. One of him, Dutch and Hosea when he first joined them. The other of you and Arthur sitting around the campfire, just talking.
It was look of love, Charles called it when he took it. Now it was tucked in his pocket and he looked at it every night and morning.
Look of love, he was a damn puppy dog for you.
He would never sully that picture just to put one of himself in a locket. He could just give it to you as is, maybe you'd want a picture of your horse in there? Or Dutch? Or John or someone else you cared about?
Who was he to hold your heart?
But the very idea had him wanting to throw it into a lake if it wasn't him going to be in there.
Arthur patted his horse with an absent mind, rubbing his thumb over the gold. "What you think, girl?" he showed his horse the locket, waiting for approval. "You think she'll like it?"
Now, how would he fit inside your heart?
꘎♡. ━━━━━. ♡꘎
That night the stars seemed bright and the air was warmer as you lingered at the lake, staring out at the moon that glittered on the surface. You were nursing a cup of coffee, waiting on Arthur's return. It had been two days and he said he wouldn't stay away long.
Your idea of long was an hour. His a week.
"Hey!" Abbigail called, dragging Jack to bed. "Your boy's back!"
You grinned instantly, setting your coffee cup into the rocks at the lake.
Arthur was already making his way down to you, his horse not even hitched at the post before he was jogging over.
"Arthur?" you could tell he was agitated by how rushed he was. Was it a quick stop? A quick peck then a run off again.
He wrapped his arounds your waist, lifting you quickly. "You alrigh'" he sighed into your hair, body relaxing into you.
"Missed you."
"I weren't gone long," he said, setting you down on the stones again. "I-I got you somethin."
"Me? Somethin'?" you mocked his accent and the roughness to his words.
Arthur grunted an acknowledge of your teasing, hand fishing around in his satchel. "Well, I helped this man, he was from France, I think. He gave me somethin."
He was still looking down at his satchel though you could see something in his hand, balled up there and hidden. Yet, he didn't show you.
You looked at him, a waiting smile on your lips but a furrow in your brows. What was it? Your mind dared conjure up several things, some better than others.
The back of Arthur's balled up hand tipped back his hat as he rubbed at his forehead. "If you don't like it, you don't have to keep it."
"Well, I don't know what it is yet," you teased.
Arthur un-curled his fist but kept it low and for his own gaze. You watched as his jaw ticked and a thousand thoughts ran through his mind. "It's nothin- silly really-"
You reached up to tuck the growing strands of his hair back, your fingers trailing along his cheek until he relaxed, leaning into the touch ever so slightly. "Arthur."
He hummed, eyes looking up to you un-sarcastically quiet.
"Can I see?"
He sighed heavily and you were almost tempted to take it back when his fingers uncurled and you caught the golden chain in hand.
Your eyes widened, your heart rose. You held onto his wrist. "Oh, Arthur."
"You like it?" he asked, still un-sure about it.
It felt like giving you his heart all over again.
"It's beautiful." Gently, you picked it up, looking close at the heart and the engravings.
Arthur shrugged of some un-ease as he shifted his weight to one foot, holding onto his belt. He watched you admire it. "Fella was a jewellery maker, said he wanted me to have it."
"And you didn't sell it of, I am so proud of you," you teased.
"Thought of my pretty one at home who would only look prettier wearin' it," he smiled.
A blush crept to your cheeks as you looked at him. "Thank you, Arthur."
You held his shoulder as you reached up to kiss his cheek. Like he was a gentleman and like you were falling in love for the first time. Still, ever little touch between the two of you sent sparks, made him feel alive.
Your fingers went to the locket, ready to unclasp.
Arthur grabbed your wrists like you were handling a gun. That awkward shyness coming back to him. "Don't laugh."
"Laugh?"
Arthur rolled his head back, looking to the lake. "I had to... get somethin' to put in there," he grumbled.
That was how a locket worked, you wanted to tell him but he looked just about ready to crawl out his own skin or jump on his horse and run away.
Had he put a lock of his hair that you loved so much? A tooth of his? A pressed flower?
You peeked inside at the small heart. Your lips pursed into a thin white line.
Don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh.
"You wanna laugh, don't ya?" he grunted, shaking his head.
"No," but you answer came out in a cough.
Arthur may have been given the necklace but he wasn't given the opportunity to make it special.
Inside laid a roughly cut and small picture of Arthur. It was small but close up. He'd taken his hat off so you'd always see his hair. You wondered if he asked someone to do it, or if he'd somehow done it all alone himself. His eyes, your favourite colour because they're his, didn't meet the camera but more so looked past it and he seemed shocked and slightly confused to be there.
"Arthur," you tried to keep your voice steady. It wavered.
"Ah- get rid of it!" Arthur threw his arm out to the lake.
"No!" you held it close to your chest like he might snatch it and get rid of it for you. "No, Arthur."
He groaned and turned back to you. "I needed a picture, I hate pictures, you know that. Much rather have took one of ya but, didn't know if... well, I wanted you to have-"
"You," you finished for him, cutting his rambling. "The only person who my heart belongs to."
Arthur hid his bashful gaze under his hat. "Well, I like to hear that."
You had the locket cupped in your hand like it was a dying flame to protect. "I love it. I do. It's sweet. And I love you."
You knew Arthur didn't find those words easy, that love was not something he was accustom to. It never stopped you from telling him and he never had you doubting his care for you.
The holds, the flower, the locket, the small and sometimes big things were enough to tell you how much he loved you.
You held the locket out to him. "Help me with that thing then, would you?"
Once the chain was held between his fingers you scooped up your hair and turned, offering your neck to him.
There was grumbling on his end. Not protests, you could tell, just his own muttering under his breath. Something about 'too dang pretty,' and he was 'too damn lucky.'
You felt the lucky one.
The cold metal dangled down your chest and you closed your eyes, familiarising yourself with the weight and never wanting to feel without it.
Arthur fiddled with the clasp. "This dang thing."
Once he had it and it dangled freely, Arthur bent and kissed over where the clasp met your neck. His hands, rough to the touch but forever careful with you, drew down your arms. His body pressed into yours, an arm curling around your waist and holding your back into him.
He rested his head where your neck met your shoulder. "You never takin' it off?"
You shook your head, his hair tickling against you. "Never."
He hummed, satisfied, squeezing your waist and dragging his lips up your neck, in no rush to be quick with loving you.
Your held onto his arms. "Did Hosea help you with the picture or did you do it by yourself."
Arthur huffed. He pulled back, his hands still rested at your hips but he forced you to turn, holding you there. His thumbs were making small circles, almost of absent mind that he was doing it. "I ain't need Hosea help for takin' a damn' picture. It's only for you. Ain't no one else needa see."
Prompt - “There are rumours about us.” “I know. I spread them.”
Arthur was a Prince, born as the heir of Uther Pendragon and expected to rule as King of Camelot one day. Arthur was a man with expectations heavier than the world thrust upon him and he bore it with honour, without complaint.
You were nothing but a servant, your only expectations were to complete your duties and bring enough money home to make sure there was food on the table at night. You weren’t destined for greatness, you were not even a footnote in the lives of the richer and yet somehow…somehow you’d manage to capture the Prince of Camelot’s attention without even meaning to and now you were somebody.
You still weren’t destined for anything legendary but now you had the eyes of those with a legacy to make on you. Arthur was intrigued by you, for what reason you hadn’t figured out yet but Arthur liked you enough to add you to his personal staff, trusting you as much as he did Merlin and you recognised that for the honour it was.
Right now you found yourself hiding away from your duties in Arthur’s chambers with Merlin, both of you had made yourself comfortable on Arthur’s bed, picking at a bowl of grapes that lay between you.
“When are you going to tell Arthur you’re pathetically in love with him?” Merlin asks lazily before popping a grape into his mouth and you roll your eyes, knowing the peace couldn’t last long.
“Why must you always ask this stupid question?” You sigh but there was no real heat to your voice, not after years of hearing and answering it. “Arthur is a Prince and I am a servant, there will never be anything between us.”
“Well I heard differently.” Merlin grins and you can feel a smile tugging at your own lips.
“Just because we can’t ever be together doesn’t mean I can’t have fun with it.” You laugh but before Merlin can say anything the door opens and you both look over to see Arthur standing in the doorway, an unimpressed look on the man’s face as he looks between you and Merlin laying on his bed.
“You two are insufferable.” Arthur says exasperated, closing the door and entering his chambers, shrugging his cloak off. “Really, how the two of you have a job is beyond me.”
You just beam at Arthur and Merlin laughs, standing from the bed and helping Arthur out of his chainmail.
“I heard something interesting today, YN.” Arthur says conversationally once he was in his regular clothing. “There are rumours about us.”
Arthur gives you a look, raising his eyebrow at you like he knows you were somehow involved and daring you to deny it, though as you beam over at him, still having not moved from your place on his bed, his face softens.
“I know. I spread them.” You tell him with a grin, watching as a smile pulls at his own lips despite how much he tries to fight it.
“You’re insufferable, you know that, don’t you?” He told you, coming over to lay on the bed next to you and Merlin takes that moment to politely excuse himself, grinning at you like the idiot he was as he left.
“Is it such a terrible rumour?” You laugh and Arthur rolls his eyes, though his smile falls slightly as he shifts closer to you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and you froze for a moment before letting yourself relax against Arthur’s side.
“It is when we both know how we feel,” Arthur murmured and you felt your eyes widen, glad that he couldn’t see your face. “It is when I hear the maids whispering about me and you and I want nothing more than for their words to be real.”
You blink once, eyebrows knitting together as you shift so you’re still pressed against Arthur but now you can look up at him and he softens as he looks at your expression, reaching out to cup your face gently in his calloused hand.
“Tell me you don’t wish their words were true too.” Arthur murmured, his head dipping closer to yours and you felt your breath htich.
“Arthur,” you breathed out, your gaze falling to Arthur’s lips before meeting his eyes.
“Tell me you don’t feel the same way I feel, YN. Tell me it doesn’t kill you everytime my father brings a Princess to the palace for me to meet, tell me you don’t think about me when you’re dragged to the tavern, tell me you don’t wish I wasn’t a prince or that you were a princess.” Arthur murmured and you couldn’t tell him any of that because he was right, you wished it all but apparently so did he.
“Arthur,” You whispered, apparently the only word you were capable of saying but Arthur didn’t seem to mind.
“Tell me not to kiss you.” Arthur whispered and you stayed silent, mentally pleading with whatever god was out there to have mercy, to let you have this, whatever this was, even if it only lasted for this moment.
Arthur smiled at your silence, bringing your face up to meet him halfway and you let him. You let yourself have what you’d been dreaming about for years, let yourself forget about titles and destinies and let yourself sink into the kiss, practically melting against Arthur and kissing him back, smiling slightly into the kiss.
“Wanted to do that for so long.” Arthur murmured against your lips and you nodded slightly.
“I’ve wanted you to do that for so long.” You laugh slightly, blinking up at Arthur, still not able to believe he’d actually kissed you but you knew the moment couldn’t last and so did Arthur.
“In another life I’d make you mine, I hope you know that.” Arthur told you, voice heavy with regret. “In another life the rules would be damned, in another life, Gods YN, we would be so happy.”
“But not in this life?” You whisper and you already knew the answer because despite how much love you felt for Arthur, despite how much he seemed to like you, it didn’t matter.
“I want nothing more, believe me when I say that. But it would not be fair to you, you deserve to be loved loudly, to not be hidden away as a secret. You deserve somebody who can give you the world and I can’t do that.” Arthur told you, voice shaking and you felt your own eyes stinging.
“I hope we get everything we really deserve in that other life.” You whispered, voice soft and small and Arthur pressed a kiss to your forehead and stayed like that for a little while because what else was there to say?
Hi!! I love your work. Could I please get High honor Arthur Morgan headcanons in contrast to the low honor headcanons 👀
High Honor Arthur Morgan Headcanons
Is reminded of Eliza and his son sometimes and gets the urge to bash his skull in, he gets so upset but forces himself to hide it.
He misses Mary but he's just glad she's not roped into his life as an outlaw.
He likes floral smells. Sometimes he literally stops to smell flowers. He's got a bit of shit from the other gang members for this but he's not embarrassed by it.
He loves to watch the sunset. He never goes to sleep without watching the sunset. He looks straight into the sun and burns his eyes but doesn't regret it, he finds the sun to be so beautiful.
Animals like him and dogs and cats naturally gravitate towards him and follow him around.
Constantly gets songs stuck in his head and the only thing that helps is to hum or sing the whole song.
Smells like pine, smoke, and sweat. He tries to keep as clean as possible.
He's not dumb, he just lives under a rock. He's confused by things like racism, sexism, politics, and small social norms.
Says he won't do something but you can bribe him to do nearly anything with a twenty-dollar bill. Also can't say no to a dare.
Nsfw (⸝⸝ᵕᴗᵕ⸝⸝)
Nice and slow. Real slow. Real gentle. At least at first.
He loves kissing you all over your body, no mole or scar or mark is safe from his soft lips worshipping your body.
He's got a huge cock and he has to be careful not to hurt you. He pets your hair and whispers sweet words into your ear, kissing you and telling you it's okay, telling you how good you feel wrapped around him.
He's so good at giving head. If you have a pussy, he's gonna suck and lick your clit for hours, fingering you while he does it. He groans as he does it, completely drunk on the taste of you. Sloppy and messy and practically making out with your cunt. If you have a cock, he can take it real deep in his mouth. He's not too experienced with giving blowjobs but he gives it his all. Spit runs down his chin and he doesn't bother to wipe it away. His eyelids flutter as he feels your dick slide into his throat.
Could probably cum while giving you head. He sits up, looking sheepish, and there's a huge wet spot on his pants right next to the huge outline of his cock.
He makes love rather than fucks. He holds you close and kisses your lips as his cock fills you over and over.
He can be rough if you want it. He's staring at you the whole time, groans and small whimpers falling from his lips. He stops immediately if he thinks he's hurt you. He never gets carried away unless you've made it clear to him that that's what you want.
He always makes sure you cum first, he'll even try to make you cum multiple times. He praises you and touches you so gently as he begs you to cum again. "Good girl/boy, it's okay, c'mon, do it again, cum on my cock."
He loves to cum inside you or on your belly. It turns him on to know his cum is inside you, he loves to pull out and watch the cum slowly dribble out of you. He cums a lot, his balls are always so heavy and full and he just needs someone to help him empty them.
He holds you afterwards. He loves to cuddle after sex. He's so heavy and strong.
Hi can I please request a fluffy Arthur Guinness x fem!reader ?
One where reader and Arthur are married. Arthur is in a bad mood, stressed with the campaign etc and just being grumpy with everyone around him. People get sick of it and it falls to reader to calm him which he does because he's just a man in love blah blah blah 😍
In the good and in the bad
Pairing: Arthur Guinness x F!reader
Summary: the request
AN: this is my first Arthur Guinness request, I hope you like it! Also, requests remain open, if anyone wants to send anything, don’t be a stranger!
The sounds of Arthur’s yells were reaching all of the rooms in the Guinness household, making all members stiff and ready to flee if they were to be encountered with the furious firstborn son of Benjamin Guinness. Ever since the funeral and the reading of the will, Arthur Guinness and his wife, Y/N Guinness née McCallister were still trying to adapt to not being the only people in their home. After five years in London, the couple of Dubliners were remembering how boring this city was, as opposed to the capital they had been living in. It was an undeniable fact that Iveagh House was far larger than the home they had bought in London, but it was theirs, decorated how they wanted, and with the staff they wanted.
Y/N, after listening to the reading of the will beside her husband, had decided to show a strong front for the sake of their sanity. Arthur was counting on taking his father’s seat in parliament, going back to the home they had made on their own and starting with kids (more for the entertainment he found in outspoken children than the idea of heirs), but that had been completely shattered when Benjamin had shackled both sons together, intertwining Arthur and Edward for the foreseeable future. Y/N had decided to take the radical change with as much grace as she could muster, but it was true that some days were harder than others. Luckily for her, today she had woken up in good spirits, counterpointing her husband's outbursts on the other side of the building.
Sitting on a chaise lounge with knitting needles in her hands, she had been working on a small blanket for Anne’s baby, whose existence had been known a few weeks prior. The white wool was a perfect color for the child, but the piece kept wrapping into itself, making her somewhat frustrated at the shape it was taking. While she was stretching the knit, Anne barged into the room, closing the door as quickly as possible. Both women looked at each other, the older one shaking her head and the younger smiling softly.
“I swear he has become worse as time passes.” Anne moved away from the door, walking to sit on the other side of the chaise. “How have you been doing this for five years?” Y/N left the knit on her lap, shifting to face her sister by law and her closest friend in Iveagh.
“This has just started, London has been completely different.” Anne scrunched her face, confusion evident in her pale features.
“He is the same as he was before you left, but somehow worse.” Y/N shrugged, not fully knowing what to say.
“I mean- We had a low-stress lifestyle in London, his only possible chance to anger was cricket or the result of the horse races. Now he feels suffocated, none of you have gotten out of the will what you expected.” She picked up a small piece of lint from her skirt, black thread that was possibly his. “And now the campaign isn’t going as he expected, so this is how he is externalising it.” Anne looked at her with a bewildered look. “I will talk to him.”
“Honestly, the Guinness name is only alive because of the two of us. Leave it to the three of them, with Rafferty, to destroy the family.” Y/N picked up her knitting again, starting to twist the yarn in the familiar fashion her mother had taught her.
Comfortable silence engulfed them, Anne taking out of her small pouch a book of prayers that she had gotten from the church. Not long had passed before a sound of something coming into impact with a wall made both women look up from their distractions. They looked at each other and sighed. Footsteps that were moving at a quick pace became louder by the second, the owner of such movements clearly running down the hallway.
Edward stormed into the room, looking at both women and then focusing on her brother’s wife. “He has lost all control.” Closing the door behind him and standing in front of the woman, he crouched down to meet her gaze. “Between the election and the brewery, he has lost it, Y/N, I swear.”
Y/N looked at Edward, knowing what he was asking of her. “You want me to go?” He nodded solemnly. “Where is he?”
“In dad’s office.”
Standing decisively, Y/N left the baby blanket on the coffee table beside the chaise, walking to grab the door. Once her hand was touching the handle, she turned to both siblings. “If we don’t show up for supper, don’t expect us.” She smiled one last time and swiftly moved to where the sounds of crashes were coming from.
On her way there, she encountered one of the maids walking away from the office, and she gently stopped her. “Mary, how is he?”
Big brown eyes met hers, doe-like with shock coating them. “He demanded I leave the room. I have never seen him this angry.” Nodding, she gently thanked Mary and left her to keep walking towards her objective.
The tall mahogany door was closed, but in its state it couldn’t stop the sounds that were coming from the room. She wondered if she should knock, but she quickly got rid of that thought – what help would that be? Opening the door, she was met with her husband’s back, shoulders pulled back and his upper body moving to his deep ragged breaths.
“I said to get out.” His tone had progressively gotten louder with every word he said, ending the sentence with a shout.
Y/N rolled her eyes and sat on one of the chairs near the entrance, beside the world globe that showed perfectly New York and Dublin. “It’s only me, Arthur.” Recognising her voice, the man turned around to face her.
“Oh.” He walked tentatively closer to her while he was visibly trying to calm down. Finally nearing her, he spoke again. “We live surrounded by idiots.”
Usually, when Arthur would speak like this of his family, Y/N would first negate that thought, pointing out the virtues of his siblings, but this time, something told her that that wasn’t the subject of importance. Noticing the poster split in half, she stood to walk to it, passing Arthur in the process.
“Why do you have an Abe Lincoln propaganda poster on the floor?” Even if that had been one object of his ire, the fact that his wife had thought the same exact thing made Arthur smile gently. “It's not Lincoln.” Moving her head to the side to get a better view, she snickered, “It’s you?”
She turned only her head to look at him, a soft laugh leaving her mouth. He walked forwards to stand behind her, his arms wrapping around her waist and leaning his head on her shoulder. “My thoughts exactly.” Y/N responded by putting her hands over his, which were placed on her lower stomach. “This Byron bastard is not as competent as he sold himself to be.”
“Well, I have eyes that work and I think I know the basics for a good campaign poster, we will fix that eventually.” She was about to move to reach for the discarded piece of paper, but her husband’s tightening grip stopped her movements. “I only want to get it, love.”
“Leave it there, it doesn’t deserve your attention.” Y/N felt his lips move against her shoulder ,muting slightly the sound of his voice. “But I do.”
“Do you?” She felt his nose and moustache tickling her neck, the result of him pressing her face deeper against her skin.
“Don’t be like that.”
“Like what?”
“Mean.” She shifted in his arms, moving completely to face him. Arthur moved to place his head where it was, but Y/N held him away from her by his shoulders.
“Mean is what you have been to everyone in this house.” Arthur groaned, rolling his eyes. “You have made the atmosphere stiff and unwelcoming for your siblings and our staff.” He shrugged her off him to go and sit on the loveseat near the table with the bottle of whisky. Once he was sat, he patted the space beside him, signaling that he wanted her to join him.
She crossed her arms, unknowingly emphasising her bust more, which made Arthur smile at her attempt to be imposing. Taking a deep breath and letting a small smile reach her lips, she moved forwards to join him. Immediately after she sat down, Arthur was already moving to place his head on her lap, using her legs and her skirts as a cushion. Making himself comfortable, Y/N thought of the similarities between Arthur and a cat, but didn’t bother vocalising them. Once he had stopped moving his head to find the perfect spot, she placed her hand in his hair, playing with the brown curls that had already broken from their brushed state.
“I miss home.”
“You are home.” Arthur moved once again, this time to look into her eyes.
“I mean our home, the house we bought and put so much time into it for it to be ours.” He grabbed her hand to play with her fingers. “Every single time I wake up in the mornings, I can’t stop thinking about this not being what I promised you.” He kissed her knuckles. “I told you that we were going to leave Dublin, that we would live in London, that we would travel the world before we settled down to have kids.” He grabbed her other hand and shifted again to his side, so that she had her arms wrapped around him. “I feel like I have trapped you. I know I have trapped you. And I always think I should send you home, where you belong, but then I realize that that would take me away from you, and I selfishly make you stay with me.”
“In the good and in the bad, Arthur.” Now he laid perfectly still. “That’s what I promised you, darling. In the good and in the bad.” She took back one of her hands to gently stroke his face, just like her mother would do to her when she was in distress. “Even if I wanted to go back to London, which, surprisingly, I don’t, I would not leave you here. Arthur, we are a team, and we stick together.”
Her husband started absentmindedly playing with the fabric of her skirt. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Now you are just being foolish.”
“I don’t. Look at you, gentle, patient, kind. And here I am, crashing over a harp logo and a campaign poster.” She stopped her stroking, which made him lowly whimper.
“I am proud, stubborn and unsubmissive.”
“You are beautiful, smart and interesting.”
“You are funny, loving and fair.” This made Arthur shift to look at her, the small wrinkle between his brows making itself visible. “Why do you think my dowry was so large?”
“I don’t remember your dowry. I was too focused on other things.” His suggestive smile made her laugh.
“Well, to remind you, my father was desperate to marry me off. I had had four courtships before you.” The frown came back to his features.
“I don’t know how that is supposed to make me feel better.”
“What I’m trying to say, you jealous man, is that no one wanted to marry me, and father was growing desperate.” His arched brow showed that he was still having a hard time seeing what she was trying to say. “You, Arthur Guinness, showed up at my father’s home and asked for my hand. Knowing that I talk back, I stand my ground and that I was never going to yield to you.”
“Anyone with a brain would have married you.”
“Evidently not. And yet you did. And you have given me the happiest six years of my life.” He finally sat back, both of their faces to the same level, and coming impossibly close to the other. “So what if we’ve had a small setback? So what if we have to start all over again in Dublin? We will do it together, like we have always done.”
“I love you.”
“I love you most, Arthur Guinness.” The kiss was unlike the ones they were used to giving each other, passionate with crashing teeth and world-shattering. This one was soft, tentative, as if they were doing it for the first time again. And somewhat, they were.
A.N: I hope you liked it Anon! I had so much fun writing this!
WHERE THE WILD THINGS GROW | Arthur Morgan x F!Reader
After a job well done, you and Arthur take the long way home.
Or: In a field of flowers, even outlaws can belong.
FANDOM: Red Dead Redemption 2
CONTENT: 18+ - MDNI; HH!Arthur Morgan, pre-Blackwater, no spoilers, fluff, established relationship, smoking, smut, light edging, biting, come eating, p in v, outdoor sex, explicit language, flower meanings
WORD COUNT: 5k
NOTES: Hello RDR fandom! This is my first Arthur Morgan piece and to say he's been an obsession the last few months would be an understatement (cough cough)... so I hope I manage to do his incredible character justice! Also, English isn’t my first language, so if anything sounds a bit off, do let me know!
Painting used above is by Charles Adams (1858-1942). Floral divider used between scenes is by @/strangergraphics.
ㅤ ㅤ✶ READ ON AO3 ✶
The ride back post a successful heist is always one you revel in. The feeling of adrenaline still rushing through your veins; the satisfaction of knowing you sneaked in without being caught; the weight of your pockets well and full.
In times like these, you like to wander, aiming for nowhere in particular, knowing you earned your keep for the foreseeable future, that you could sleep lighter at night for it.
Hosea had been right about this particular stretch of the country; it's damn pretty. Wild, in a way that the rest of the country doesn't feel like anymore, and filled with the type of freedom that makes your heart ache.
It's pristine, definitely.
As is the company you keep.
Arthur is mostly silent as you nudge your horse into a steady trot. He knows how much you enjoy these scenic landscapes, after all, and he'll be damned if he's the reason your enjoyment of it is cut short.
'Course, he still fills the silence with a quip here and there.
"You've got that grin on your face, darlin'," he says.
"What grin?"
"Y'know."
Ah, that grin. The one Arthur always says shows up at the end of a heist, when you know you've gotten away with it. A dangerous tick, if there ever was one, but you've yet to be caught… unlike a certain someone whose face is plastered on several wanted posters across this county.
"Reckon we'll be fiiine, mister Morgan. Ain't no law here to make sense of my slippery ways."
"Slippery ways, huh?"
You glance at him. Arthur has his head tilted in your direction, honey-colored strands falling over his crinkled eyes. It gives him a roguish look, one that immediately makes you feel like tiny birds are flapping their wings against your ribcage.
You turn away, gaze trained to the horizon. "Hey, how 'bout we take a break ahead?"
You don't see Arthur's reaction, all raised brows (what about Dutch and the rest, still waiting on you both?), but he ultimately obliges you, pulling on Boadicea's reins.
Before you know it, you're in a field of flowers, just a pair of outlaws lost in the wilderness. You watch as Arthur gets off Boadicea, spurs clinking against heat-tight soil. He turns, gait unhurried and slick, and then approaches like he wanted to help you down.
You snort.
What a dolt. You can take care of yourself, thank you very much, but it sure does something seeing the big, bad enforcer of the gang wanting nothing more than to help you—you, just another lost soul who's gotten too good at running away from things.
"Naw, lookatchu, Morgan... what a gallant gentleman you make," you tease. "M'afraid I still got my pride... Outlaw code and all."
Arthur snorts, an easy smile on his lips. "Thought ladies liked these sorta things."
"What things?"
"Being wooed."
Now that garners a laugh from you.
"You're a funny man, Arthur Morgan. 'Sides, you and I both know I ain't no lady."
Arthur smirks, shielding his expression beneath his hat in the way he does when he has no wordier response to give you. He guides Boadicea towards the closest pine tree, a beautiful old sentry with a patch of moss growing along its trunk.
If you had Arthur's talent for drawing, a scene like this one might've made it into your sketchbook.
Since you don't, you unceremoniously sling off your horse instead. You join Arthur's side and tether your horse to his, idly chit-chatting as you do. For a while, that's all there is to it: tending to your mounts, removing saddles, using grass to dry the animals' sweaty flanks. You rinse your hands with water from your flask, and comment about the summer heat in passing.
When all is said and done, there is the scent of horse and leather deep in your lungs. Arthur has his arm snaked around Boadicea's neck, whispering sweet-nothings to her when he thinks you're out of earshot.
It might be that particular sight that makes you want to stretch out your time together while you still can.
"Shall we soak in the view for a bit?" you ask. "Get a little victory nap while we're at it?"
Arthur seems to consider your question for a moment. Then, that familiar smirk. "Why not?"
The two of you get to it then, working in tandem to set up a spot in the shade. By the time you're both comfortably installed on a blanket, bearings and guns within reach, a half-finished can of sweet peaches by your side, the sun is slowly setting over the horizon.
Arthur seems to have taken your suggestion as the directive of the hour. While you clean out the grime beneath your nails with a pocket knife, Arthur lightly snores next to you—his head propped under one arm, gambler hat concealing most of his face.
You bite back a smile.
It's still new, your relationship with him. A part of you is still giddy at it all; you feel like a damn teenager all over again, stupid and foolish and in love. The other part, the outlaw in you, perhaps, wonders when it will inevitably blow up in your face—especially when Arthur acts as he does now, so openly trusting you to have his back. You could tease him for it, but the truth is, you trust him like he trusts you, and you don't remember the last person you let in like this.
It must have been—
Your mother.
This place reminds you of her in many ways. Your ma was so fond of flowers, and maybe that's something you carry in you too, because being here with Arthur, you feel a certain type of blooming swell in your chest.
A breeze stirs the grass. You reach out to pluck a daisy, rolling its stringy stem between your fingers. You watch a bunny no larger than a fist scavenges for food in the distance. There's the passing sight of dragonflies, too, and you wonder which great lakes they make their homes in.
As you idle there, thoughts colored by memories of youth and dreams, you fish out the cigarillo tucked in your vest pocket. Soon enough, smoke mixes with the pine-sap air and you draw into a squat, cigarette pinched tightly between your lips. There, like you were just six all over again—wanting nothing more than to please your mother—you begin to assemble a bouquet.
You select the ugliest of them without even realizing—fuzzy purple heads, then yellow ones that look like cigar burns. You even add a few little white ones Arthur once told you were called "baby's breath", which makes you snort even now.
By the time your hands are full, it's less bouquet and more stack of weeds, and you're not sure why you did what you did, but it makes you smile in the way singing off tune satisfies you.
Arthur inevitably wakes, like a dog with an ear tuned for trouble, only to find you—you and your bouquet in this fever dream of wildflowers.
You hear him before you see him, "Watcha doin'?"
"What's it look like?" you mumble, lips still clutching the lit cigarillo. "I've gone pickin' flowers."
You listen as Arthur shuffles closer, his tall shadow folding into yours. "Flowers?" he repeats incredulously. "Huh."
At that, you have to tilt your head and peer at your outlaw. Arthur's face looks softer than it did an hour ago, sleep still in his eyes, and there's that lovely constellation of auburn freckles you love to admire up close.
"Care to explain that tone, mister?" you ask.
Arthur shrugs, leaning back, his tall figure towering over you. "Didn't figure you for the type."
You raise a brow. "The type to what?"
"Y'know," he drawls. "Frolickin' in the fields, dainty little flowers in hands." There goes that roguish smirk again. "Outlaw code and all."
You bark a laugh, almost losing your cigarillo in the process.
You suppose Arthur has a point; back at camp, you hardly ever pay attention to nature, too busy cleaning guns or trying to outmatch him or smoking your worries away.
And hell, maybe it's not even fitting for someone with so much blood on her hands to be holding something as fragile as flowers.
(Maybe your mother would be horrified by who you've become.)
Your laughter dies out. You stare at a point in the mountain ahead, the colors blurring at the edge of your vision. At your side, the bouquet slips out of your fingers.
"Hey," Arthur ushers, kneeling to your level and picking up the bouquet in your stead. "Where you driftin' off to, sweetheart?"
You shake your head, standing up. Arthur does the same. "Ain't driftin'."
"You're quiet," Arthur remarks. "Quieter'n usual."
You turn to him again, hating how right he is. Sometimes, Arthur seems to know you better than you know yourself, and you're not always sure what to do with that fact.
"S'just…" You hesitate, taking a long drag of smoke, then exhale harshly. "You ever think 'bout it? Carve a little piece of this for yourself?"
You gesture to the valley with its flowers and trees.
At that, Arthur presses his lips toegether and stays silent. Both you and him know that the gang, that his role within it—it's different for him than it is for you. Both of you know that a life far away from bloodshed would be near impossible. And yet—
"Wouldn't rightly know how," Arthur says.
Your eyes flicker to him and for the first time today, you're at a loss for words.
Because Arthur still has your bouquet—your mangled, weirdly hopeful collection of wildflowers that barely deserves the name. He glances at it, then back at you, and something about his gaze is enough to swallow down the knot in your throat.
"You could learn," you point out.
"Ain't never been one for learnin'."
"Ain't true... You learned how to draw, you learned how to shoot. Learned how to survive." At his dubious expression, you scoff. "I'd prefer not to list every damn thing, if it's all the same to you."
Arthur's jaw twitches. "Those things are different."
"Are they?" you murmur. "Don't reckon learnin' to settle is much different, one way or another. Just takes time."
Arthur doesn't immediately offer a response to that. Instead, he reaches down and straightens one bent stem of a flower, clumsy but careful, then gently lifts one of your hands into his. There, he cups your palm into his, so that the bouquet is tucked between your joined limbs.
"Reckon," he says, thumb grazing your knuckles, "if anyone could make somethin' grow outta nothin'… it'd be you."
"You're deflectin'."
"Yeah, well. Ain't the only one."
He's got you there.
You slip your hand away, looking to the side. The wind moves through the meadow again, bending the grass low before letting it rise again.
"That why you gone ahead and gone weed pickin'?" Arthur asks, voice lighter now, more curious. "Thinkin' of hangin' your hat and openin' a flower shop?"
"Nah." You snort weakly, thought tainted by your mother and the ache in your heart. "Just wanted a break and get my mind off things, 'suppose."
For a beat, silence stretches out like a wired thread. You busy yourself picking horsehair off your skirt, not quite trusting yourself to look at Arthur just yet.
You can feel his eyes on you all the same.
"Well..." he says, "I can think of somethin' else to get your mind off things, y'know."
Arthur's mischievous tone is impossible to miss. You raise a brow.
"Mister Morgan," your lips twitch, "how crass."
Arthur's mouth slowly curves into a sly smile.
"Out in the open like that, too?" you tut, placing a hand on his chest. "A lady might wonder about your intentions."
"Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am," he responds in kind, taking the cigarillo from you. He takes a long drag from it, never breaking eye contact with you. "Is the view not to your liking?"
It is to your liking, and he damn well knows it. You love this part of the country, with its mountains and rivers and nature.
Most of all, you love the sight of him.
Arthur steals the last drag of your cigarillo, then crushes it out in the dirt. He gently lets the bouquet down on the ground. Then, with a lazy sort of gait, he grabs your hand and lures you back towards the picnic blanket. You allow him to guide you, a smirk on your lips, and no sooner are you laying down does Arthur drop to his knees. There, your skirt hiking up, he parts your knees and his thick, callused fingers travel up the expanse of your thighs, advancing like a prowling wildcat, but perhaps lacking the full grace of one.
"I reckon," he murmurs, "you may be right. I learn quick, when it matters."
You huff at that, but your hands are already sliding up his shoulders, fingers curling into the worn fabric of his shirt. "Careful," you warn lightly. "Might be a hard lesson, this time 'round."
"Sure, but I'll manage."
Of that, you have no doubt.
Arthur bends down to kiss you—quick, at first, then slower—with a hunger that's been simmering since the heist, perhaps ever since you leaned closer this morning and brushed your cold fingers beneath his shirt. You giggle as his tongue darts past your lips; he tastes like peaches and the tang of cigarillo smoke and everything that makes you feel alive.
You place your hands behind Arthur's neck, anchoring him down, your mouth greedy and wild. Arthur's hands push up your skirt, and you arch up off the blanket so he can get a better grip, your own fingers curling into the hard plane of his shoulders. He kisses your cheeks, your forehead, your nose—no parts of you untouched—and when his mouth captures yours again, you nip at his lower lip playfully, drawing a small amount of blood as you do.
Arthur makes a low noise at the back of his throat, animalistic and unrestrained. The sound goes straight to your core.
"You're trouble," he mutters into the kiss, and you lick the blood away to make amends.
Arthur's revenge to your biting, as it were, is simple: he shifts impossibly closer, pressing his hips between your thighs, his hardening erection creating delicious friction against your cunt, enough that you're left gasping in the dry summer air.
Yes, perhaps Arthur Morgan is a quick learner; he sure got to learn you pretty quick.
Another roll of his hips, another delicious pang straight to your center. You groan, and Arthur's mouth curves into a wolfish grin. You attempt to move again, craving that sensation again, but this time, Arthur decides it's time for payback, hands falling to grip your waist and hold you in place.
You stare at him, baffled. His mocking expression is definitely too self-satisfied for your liking.
"Arthur," you whine when he still doesn't move, "Arthur, c'mon."
Arthur has the gall to feign innocence. "Hm?"
God, this man.
"You sure like to play dumb, Arthur, but you and I both know you ain't all that. If you don't move now, I swear—"
But before you can curse him further, his mouth—Christ, his mouth—presses against your jaw in a way that makes your thoughts go blank. Your breath stutters, just as Arthur's mouth descends down the hollow of your throat, mapping the edges of your collarbone. His stubble scrapes every inch he touches, and a shiver wrack down your spine. Your head tips back, eyes half-lidded, breathing in the pine and sweat in the air, and you think that if you were to die right now, well... you wouldn't have much complaining to do.
"No need to run your mouth wild, woman" Arthur says, all hunger. "Gonna take care of you proper."
And who are you to contest those words? For all your sharp edges and hard exterior, you sure do melt quickly when it comes to him.
It's painfully slow, the way Arthur proceeds to unbutton your blouse, exposing a strip of your skin. He presses a languid kiss there, and then, his hand slips into your bloomers and past the thick hair—
You nearly choke on your saliva as two thick fingers slide inside your cunt, his thumb flicking your clit just so.
"There she is," Arthur murmurs the moment you clench around him.
Not finding the words to respond, you comb your fingers through his hair, dragging the tips along the nape of his neck, feeling the sweat collecting at his scalp. Arthur makes another pass with his thumb, more insistent this time, and the wash of wet heat that follows is nearly embarrassing, nearly enough to make you want to bury your face into his neck. But Arthur's not the shying away type, never has been, and he leans back to see it all: the way your body arcs off the blanket, how his name tumbles out of your spit-glossed lips, how you go all loose and wanting for him.
He smirks.
Arthur's got you, and he knows it—knows you too well, in fact, because he knows to slow down just when you think you're about to come undone.
You glare at him the moment you feel his fingers leave your heat.
"What the hell, Morgan," you hiss. "Don't leave a lady hangin'."
"Thought you weren't no lady," he muses smugly, blue-green eyes shining enough mirth that makes you want to slap him. "'Sides, ain't you heard the saying? Don't rush a starvin' man."
And just when you're about to bite his head off (because, really, why the hell is he arguing with you right now?), Arthur does the most unexpected thing: he lazily raises his slick-coated digits into the air, his scarred fingers glistening in the sun, and then—
Proceeds to lick them clean, one by one.
Your mouth hangs open.
Seeing your delayed reaction, Arthur's smirk widens, his fingers reaching back to your swollen cunt, thumb lazily stroking your clit. “Still feel like threatenin' me, sweetheart?”
That damn tease. You scoff, grinding yourself against his palm and sinking onto three fat fingers.
"Just…" you mutter, "just finish what you've started, will ya?"
"As my lady commands."
And oh, does he ever. Arthur's rhythm is merciless in an instant, fingers curling wide and deep, while his thumb reaches for your clit in a way that instantly tightens the coil in your belly once more. You whimper, hips rutting up to chase his touch. You grab onto his suspenders, pulling him impossibly closer until you sink your teeth into his shirt.
To Arthur's credit, his fingers never waver, even when your hips jerk and your legs start kicking like a bucking bronco and he curses from your biting. It's all you can do to keep breathing, to keep from crying out with how good it feels—his meaty fingers unwinding the tension out of you, one slick movement after another.
"That's it, darlin'," you hear him praise once you start to clench around him. "Let yourself go. Just like that..."
And you do, melting into the dirt and blanket, boneless and sated, and in the wake of your orgasm, you call out to him, like he was the litany whispered in the darkness in your search for light.
For a second, you can't move, can't even think, except maybe, "you utter son of a bitch". All the while, Arthur just watches: soothing you, cradling you, waiting for your breathing to slow. It's the prettiest you've felt dragged through the dirt and damn, if you wouldn't do it all over again.
It is like this that you watch the dusk unfurl overhead—blue spilling into pink, then rust, then the first hints of silver. And when at last you come down from your high, clutching his wrist to keep him there inside, Arthur laughs. You scramble weakly to kiss him—first the corner of his chapped lips, then his nose broken once too many times, then his crow's feet deep set from days spent in the sun, and finally, his stubble—your favorite part, with patches of clear skin and scars you've learned to commit to memory.
When you come back to your senses, Arthur's still there, stroking your hipbone, thumb making lazy circles, and he's got that lovey look in his eyes that never fails to make you feel too vulnerable.
"I can't believe," you harrumph, "that you had the nerve to eat it off your own damn hand."
Arthur shrugs, not at all apologetic. "Didn't feel right, wastin' it."
"Hmph." You feel yourself growing flustered. You need the spotlight away from you, and quickly. "Then I reckon it's your pleasure we shouldn't waste next, huh?"
"Sweetheart—"
You've already moved.
With ease, you've pushed him back and swung your legs over his waist. Arthur groans as your weight settles on him. You make quick do of his pants, of his suspenders and shirt, of his union suit, all in the quest to have him naked and beautiful. Through it all, Arthur could easily stop you, have his way with you, but he never does. He lets you make quick of his clothing and admire him from up close.
And what a sight he is.
In the end, Arthur's barrel chest might be your favorite thing in the whole world, each rib and tendon corded with purpose. There's a splay of golden hair over his chest, and his belly is soft from food and mead and the good life when you can seize it. You rake your nails past an old gun wound, just so you can see his muscles jump, and when he look up at you, smug and sheepish at once, the world seems brighter for it.
You waste no time, wrapping your hand around his cock—the hard, hot thing in your palm. Arthur curses, body contorting the moment you begin to slowly stroke him, thumb brushing the vein that protrudes there.
Your grin widens as your eyes flicker up, catching Arthur looking at you like you were damn holy. A flush has risen to the tips of his ears, and his Adam's apple jerks as you stroke him one last time and climb closer, greedy for it all.
"You alright there, Morgan?" you coo.
"Oh, sure," he says, the edge of his voice betraying his emotions.
The first time you sink down, savoring the stretch, his head tips back and he lets out an honest-to-God moan, all restraint lost in a heartbeat. The start is slow at first, both of you finding a rhythm that works, but neither of you seems to mind. In fact, Arthur never stops staring at you, one palm pinning your thigh with reverence, the other traveling up your side, across your ribs, cupping your breast.
Your blouse is quickly discarded, exposing you to the open air, and Arthur's mouth is hot as his mouth connects with your nipple. He suckles, teasing you, his teeth occasionally nipping at the soft edge in an obvious attempt to get you to focus on your own pleasure first, but this time, you don't let him.
Instead, you ride him hard, with the sun bleeding out behind the horizon.
"Christ," he rasps as you plant your hands on his chest and angle your hips to take him deeper. "J-jesus."
"Don't you die on me now, Morgan."
Just for good measure, you roll your hips again and feel him groan beneath you.
His hands fly to grip your ass. "Y'know… Knew you was trouble the first time I heard you talk. Knew I was in trouble."
The sudden confession has you stilling momentarily; you widen your eyes, lips parting as you look down at him. This is the first time Arthur's talked about his first impression of you, and you're unsure what to do with the intimacy offered to you.
Before you can linger on Arthur's words and how to respond, however, the outlaw reaches for his hat splayed out near and places it firmly on your head.
"Guess," Arthur says slightly out of breath, tapping the crown, "guess I was right."
You grin.
It gets wilder, then: you ride him with abandon, relishing the way Arthur and you explore each other. The two go from laughing—laughing, because you're out here, in a flower field, fucking—to feeling desperate as you rut against each other like the world is ending. It's not graceful and maybe that's the point; the world is dirty and so are you.
Through it all, Arthur is there—repeating your name like a damn sinner at church—and when you clench around him during the wave of your second orgasm, he picks up the pace, fucking with a rhythm that makes your mind go blank. You feel the moment he meets his end, the veins on his neck standing on end, and then with a great hiss he surges upward and wrenches you off of him, and you can only grab at his hair for purchase, yanking him down so his lips crash to yours. You swallow the moan that tears out of him as he paints his stomach with his spend.
When all is said and done, you hold him, or maybe he holds you—you're not entirely sure. You've both made a real mess of yourselves, that's for sure, but you're too far gone to care.
All you know is that Arthur's gaze is on you, forehead to forehead, and that somewhere above, a hawk screeches.
"You feelin' better?" he asks with a raspy voice.
"Yeah."
And this time, you mean it.
Eventually, you prop yourselves apart and get yourself cleaned up. You get dressed. You fumble for the flask in his bag. The whiskey burns so good on the way down you have to close your eyes and hiss through your teeth.
"Pass it over," Arthur grunts. He's half upright now, his shirt open and his hair a real mess.
You oblige, watching the column of his throat as he finishes off the last inch of the drink. There's a contented grunt, then silence, filled only by the distant chitter of bugs and the grazing of the horses.
"Reckon we oughta set up here for the night," he says after a moment. "Think there's a river not far to wash up."
You raise a brow at him. "What about Dutch? Ain't he expecting us?"
And Arthur stares at you, a silent understanding passing between the two of you that you know you will remember later on.
"Dutch can wait," he says.
And this time, he's the one to mean it.
The next morning, Arthur wakes up to find you picking flowers again. This time, you've gone ahead and selected only the nicest flowers you could get your hands on—a cluster of bluebells, pale yarrow, and even a bright purple lupine.
His inquisitive gaze is enough to make you speak up.
"These are for little Jack," you tell him. "I wanna teach him what my momma taught me about flowers."
"Flower education?"
"Uh-huh."
And so you do just that for a while. You pick your way through the meadow, Arthur at first busy with his journal, then focused on finishing to pack. All the while, you are in another world: you pluck one, two, three yellow yarrows and strip them of their greens, pause for a battered echinacea. You walk down the valley on a quest for untouched flowers.
It is there, fifteen minutes in, that you see a hand pop in your peripheral. It is filled with a handful of wild lupine so deep purple they seem black at the center.
You look up, squinting at the sun, only to notice Arthur standing there.
"Watcha doin'?" you ask.
"Helpin' you, 'course."
You grin.
And this is how you spend the next minutes, enraptured in selecting a large array of different wildflowers you think Jack will take a liking to. Daisies for luck, bluebells for gratitude, yarrow for courage, and lupine for imagination. You talk about their meanings, real or invented, Arthur's baritone chiming in with stories of his own. At one point, he claims a weed is called "pricklebutt" and insists it means resilience in adversity.
It's the kind of moment that makes you ache inside, because you know it's a borrowed one. Tomorrow or the next day, Arthur's going to get shot, or you're going to get caught, or Dutch is going to get some bad notion in his head and run the whole gang off a cliff.
Or maybe, just maybe, you might get lucky and keep finding these tiny, improbable pieces of heaven scattered through the mud and blood of your lives.
When at last the morning comes to an end and you're finished packing camp and turn around, wiping your hands on your trousers, feeling crumbs of earth and leaf stuck to your palms, you notice Arthur close to you.
He has something in hand.
You raise a brow. "What you hidin', mister Morgan?"
Arthur offers you a flower, a yellow thing you instantly recognize. The man tilts his head, hides his flustered state by pinching the tip of his hat and turning away.
"S'for you," he says simply.
You bite back a smile. "D'you know, buttercups are a bad omen. Matter of fact, they're given when a man wants to break off an engagement with a lady."
Arthur looks back at you then, all affronted. Reaches like he's about to pluck it away—
You pull his hand down, slipping your fingers between his own. "I'm just teasin', Arthur. I quite like your attempts at wooing me, don't you worry, and like I said yesterday… I ain't no lady."
Arthur relaxes, a sheepish smile tugging at his mouth. For a moment, the gruffness slips away and he looks almost bashful, his thumb brushing against your knuckles.
"Reckon you got me actin' a fool out here."
"Naw, don't need me for that," you tease, pulling him alongside as you make your way back towards the saddled horses. "Though... you may be right; we really do need to get your flower education in."
"In case you open shop, you mean?"
You stop walking and look back at Arthur. His eyes are earnest and blue, all for you.
A grin tugs at your lips, and your next words come out soft, softer than you've ever allowed yourself to be.
"Yeah. Just in case."
Hope you enjoyed! Arthur has become very precious to me and I look forward to exploring him more in my writing.
Feedback is always welcome (and appreciated!).
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