He’s got your legs pinned back against your chest, fucking you nice and steady. Arthur — ever the lover boy — is panting above you like a damn mutt in heat. You’re spread open to him, pussy soaked and dripping, your walls sucking him in.
You’re moaning his name in a sweet voice. “Arthur.. oh Arthur… Arthur..” soft sighs escaping your kiss bruised lips. He could hardly register anything, could hardly form a thought. All he heard was the soft calling of your voice and feeling the flutters and squeezing on his cock from your velvet walls that had him ready to burst a hundred times over.
He was really in his own world. Arthur’s large hands kept your legs pinned back as he towered over you, cock sliding in and out of your hole at his own pleasurable pace. His eyes were shut and his head was tipped back as groans and grunts fell from his lips. Arthur was damn near a babbling mess, hardly forming a coherent thought before useless words slipped from his mouth.
A breathy tone he would sometimes murmur ‘fuck’ ‘oh Jesus’ ‘yes…yess..yes…’ or ‘sh-itttt’ before letting out a long groan that went straight to your pussy. You didn’t even care that he was using you for his own pleasure — too lost in the moment to remember your own. Seeing him a mess above you was your own type of heaven. It made your walls more slick and dripping.
And when he’d get close to coming, his eyes would finally open back up and snap down to where he was disappearing inside you. He’d make you take your own legs and hold them back so he could grip onto the sheets while he picked up the pace of this thrusts, his hips snapping quicker. Arthur would really be panting like a dog then as he fucked into you. His groans turned into moans that softly escaped his throat, eyes half lidded while watching his own cock and your boobs bounce.
With his cock twitching uncontrollably inside you, Arthur would fall forward into you as he came deep inside. His thrusts would slow, delivering slow but heavy thrusts to ride out his high. Moaning and grunting into your neck as your pussy squeezed and constricted around him.
You’d run your hands down his back, threading your fingers through his hair as he eased your legs back down to his hips. When he’d finally come up from the crook of your neck, hair a mess and a fucked out look on his face you’d smile up at him, kissing his cheek and jaw.
Arthur would grin right back at you, closing his eyes as you kissed his face. “Sorry..” he’d murmur while turning his head to capture your lips. You’d mumble back about it being okay, that you knew he’d make up for it in a gentle teasing tone.
And boy did he.
With his cock hardened again, Arthur would fuck you until you were the babbling mess. Hips drilling into your own, down right filth spilling from his mouth, guttural groans right in your ear. He’d make sure that you came twice or more before even thinking about himself coming again.
summary: Just a quiet collection of domestic moments shared in a remote forest cabin with a wanted man you happened to find bleeding in your kitchen. Somewhere between shared breakfasts, sketches in a worn journal, and the intimate hush of the woods, the dangerous stranger slowly begins to feel less like a guest and more like a husband you never planned on having.
status: complete
genre: 50% fluff, 50% smut, 100% Arthur is hot.
warnings: none (just small mentions of blood and stuff)
notes: Fulfilling your Arthur Morgan husband fantasy. Slow burn (patience is the longest yet most scenic road to smut.) Includes Arthur’s canonically perfect round ass naked in your kitchen. Includes Arthur enjoying a very ripe, very juicy, very pink peach in front of you. (I’m serious)
The journey from sleep back to your cabin was always a slow one for you—a gradual unfurling of the senses that usually began far earlier than it had today. You woke just as the first lavender shades of dawn bruised the sky, stretching your neck against the pillow with a long, bone-deep yawn.
You lingered beneath the warmth of the quilt, tempted by the soft crackle of the hearth to close your eyes again. An unusual indulgence for you, who were normally up and busy well before the stars had even thought of leaving the sky.
Your thoughts drifted back to the previous night. The distant, mournful howl of wolves in the heart of the forest had kept you awake far later than usual. It wasn’t the wolves themselves that had unsettled you so much as everything else that followed—the sharp snap of a twig outside, the creak of the porch floorboards beneath what you prayed was only a skunk or an opossum, the dull, far-off thuds of the forest that your mind insisted on turning into galloping hooves.
You remembered the way he had reacted to the first sound. You didn’t know if his heart had been racing like yours, but if it was, he never let it show. He’d gone quiet, a lethal alertness settling thickly into the room. From your place on the bed, you’d heard the metallic snick of his Volcanic as he readied it on the floor beside him.
“Go on back to sleep, butterfly. Nothin’s gettin’ through that door,” he’d murmured, his voice a low, steady promise in the dark.
Knowing he was there, a sentinel by the hearth, was the only reason you’d eventually found rest.
Slowly, you sat up now, blinking the last of sleep from your eyes. You glanced down toward the fireplace, expecting the familiar sight of a mountain of wool blankets and the steady rise and fall of a broad set of shoulders—details that had become as ordinary to you as the cupboard or the stove in your kitchen.
But the floor was empty.
The blankets had been neatly folded.
The thin mattress pad had been tucked away.
He was gone.
You slid out of bed more urgently than usual, bare feet quickly finding the cool floorboards as you padded into the kitchen. Through blurry eyes, you scanned the room until your eyes landed on two things that eased your racing heart: his satchel resting on your vanity, and his worn journal on the table, next to the heavy glass ashtray where a roll of cash sat forgotten.
He’d tried to press it into your hand after lunch on the day of your grocery trip to Manzanita. You’d refused, of course. Told him you were more than even—that he’d saved your life, your home, and your horse from the Skinners. Besides, the rabbit stew had been delicious enough to count as payment in itself.
But Arthur Morgan, as you’d learned over the two weeks you’d now lived together, was as stubborn as a mule.
He’d left the money there anyway, refusing to take it back.
When he’d stepped outside for a smoke, you’d quietly inspected the bills, and your jaw had nearly hit the floor. There were presidents on those notes you’d never seen before—not while working at the general store, not at the post office in Strawberry, not ever.
You glanced at the orchids in the vase—now wilted into a sad, muted mauve—and felt a slight twinge of regret. What if you’d sold them instead of keeping them for yourself? Perhaps you could’ve made the small fortune he’d mentioned.
When he’d come back inside and you’d asked how a “drifting draftsman” came by that kind of coin, he’d only given you that dry, unreadable smirk and muttered something about being “real good at findin’ ol’things that fences wanted to keep.”
You couldn’t help but wonder if the orchids and that contact of his in Saint Denis had contributed to that fortune too—or if he sold his sketches instead. You’d heard folks in the city paid a pretty penny for art.
You also knew people paid just as well, or even better, for things that later earned a face on a wanted poster tacked outside a sheriff’s office.
You moved toward the window to check the weather, more out of habit than intention—and your heart nearly plummeted straight into your stomach.
Someone was in the Basin.
At this hour? The sun hadn’t even climbed high enough to melt the frost from the air, let alone warm the mountain water. You stared for a long, breathless beat before realizing there was only one man in all of West Elizabeth insane enough to strip down and plunge into near-freezing water with half-healed wounds. No, you didn’t think even the Skinners were that crazy.
You sighed as you watched him disappear beneath the dark surface, your breath fogging the glass. You had officially given up on protecting his wounds. Or maybe not—maybe you’d try again later.
But not now. It was far too early in the morning to fight a battle you were doomed to lose.
Turning back toward the stove, you noticed the tin pot already sitting there. He’d warmed the coffee before heading out for his “dip,” likely knowing he’d need the heat to thaw his bones later. You poured yourself a cup, the steam rising to kiss your face with the rich scent of roasted beans and the promise of another quiet, domestic day tucked away in your little corner of the wilderness.
You added a spoonful of honey, watching the golden syrup bloom and swirl through the black.
And then you saw it again.
Sitting right there on the table.
Alone.
Looking far more tempting now that the strong scent of coffee had chased away the last of your morning drowsiness.
You didn’t mean to. You truly wanted to be a decent lady, a woman of her word.
You glanced over your shoulder. The Basin was swallowed in heavy morning mist, but you could still hear the faint splash of water carried on the air. He was occupied. He was far away.
Let him have his fun.
You would have yours.
He had given you permission, after all.
And your fingers simply could not resist the pull as they reached out—the chance to glimpse that vast, strange, unknown world through his eyes. A world you had yet to see…and likely never would.
Just a fingertip away.
Your heart leapt with a guilty, excited flutter, something forbidden tugging at the corners of your mouth as you opened the pages of his journal.
You landed on a two-page spread—a large, sweeping drawing of a group of people. It was a study in warmth. On the far right sat a woman with dark hair swept into a neat bun, her features rendered with such care you could almost feel the softness of the skirt she was smoothing over her knees. Beside her, an old man with a long, unkempt beard hunched over a banjo, his fingers caught mid-pluck. You could nearly hear it—the jolly, off-key singing, the laughter carried between notes, and the rhythmic clapping of the men behind them. One tall and broad, his angular face and thick braid suggesting unyielding strength; the other leaner and rough-hewn, so much like Mr. Morgan himself, dark hair brushing the collar of his shirt, scarred cheeks etched with familiarity rather than menace.
But it was the face in the foreground that stopped you—a young man, barely more than a boy, his eyes so surprisingly familiar you were almost certain you’d seen them before somewhere, though you couldn’t quite place where.
Beneath the drawing, written in flowing, graceful curves, was a single word:
Family.
The date sat just below it. Only a few weeks old.
You took a sip of your honey-sweetened coffee, the warmth blooming across your tongue and settling deep in your chest, making you smile. Mr. Morgan seemed to care for these people deeply; you could tell by the way his charcoal had lingered on every expression, by how patiently he’d trapped that peaceful moment of shared laughter on the page.
“You’re quite the family man, Mr. Morgan,” you giggled softly to the empty room. “I would’ve never guessed.”
The pages made a satisfying crunch beneath your fingertips as you turned them. A beaver, frozen mid-motion along a riverbank. His Shire grazing peacefully by a creek. A delicate prairie poppy, its petals rendered with surprising tenderness for such rough fingertips.
A snort escaped your lips when you saw the familiar sight of the Manzanita General Store, complete with the doctor perched on the porch in his usual, sour-faced glory. The resemblance was uncanny; he’d captured the man’s very essence in a few sharp, charcoal strokes.
You shook your head, smiling.
Then, you turned to the next page, and the sight took your breath completely out of your lungs.
This one was more detailed than all the rest.
It was a woman in a kitchen.
You couldn’t see her face completely; she was turned toward a window, her back to the viewer as she washed dishes. Yet, there was so much life drawn into her. He had captured the way her shoulders tensed as she scrubbed a stubborn pot, the loose strands of hair escaping their pins to dance in a breeze you could almost feel, the bubbles leaping from her hands mid-gesture as if she were speaking. The light spilling through the sketched window seemed to kiss her cheek with a soft, reverent glow.
A sister?
A friend?
A lover?
You wondered what she’d been telling him about.
Beneath the drawing, the handwriting was rougher—pressed hard, almost hurried. Most of it had been scratched out with a sharp, regretful line, but you could still make out the words underneath.
‘Sweet lady. A bit air-headed, maybe, but kind. Soft hands. Pretty eyes…and even prettier lips. If I’m allowed to say that last part. Probably not. What a low-life years of driftin’ have made of a man.’
“Who’s this sweet lady with the pretty hands and pretty lips and pretty everything, Mr. Morgan?” you whispered, lifting your coffee and taking a sip, only to realize it was actually a little more bitter than you liked. “Must be nice.”
Life must come so easy if everythin’ about you’s pretty, you thought as your eyes dropped to the date at the bottom of the page.
The cup nearly slipped from your fingers.
He’d drawn this just last week.
Your heart thudded alive against your ribs as you turned the page again.
It was the same woman, this time seated by the water. A cloud of butterflies dominated the foreground, their wings rendered so delicately they looked ready to flutter straight off the paper. She sat beyond them, in the distance—a small, graceful silhouette against the vastness of the water.
You realized it wasn’t just any shoreline.
You knew that rock.
That tree.
Your cup met the table with a soft clink as you placed it down. Your forefinger trembled, as you slid it beneath the words written below the drawing.
‘Feel like a fool ‘round her. Can’t help but bein’ mean and nasty and stupid when she talks to me. Today I decided to complain about that flowery smell of her soap, Lord knows why, and she told me if I wanted to smell like a swamp, I could go sleep on the pier. Deserved, gotta admit. What an idiot I am. Though I reckon the pier sounds nice. I’ll try swimmin’ tomorrow. Miss the feel of it. Miss feelin’ fresh, like only nature can make you feel.’
Dated two days ago.
You shut the journal with a soft, final thud and lifted your coffee again, your hands unsteady.
You remembered that conversation.
Vividly.
Heat bloomed red across your face, and you knew it had nothing to do with the steam curling from the cup.
Wrapping your shawl tight around your shoulders, you pushed the door open and stepped onto the porch, your breath blooming white in the biting morning air.
You leaned against the railing, cheeks still warm—still burning—and the cold did nothing to soothe them. To numb them. If anything, it only made you more aware of your own skin.
And his.
Out there.
Moving through the Basin with long, steady strokes, well-muscled arms cutting through the glass-sharp water as if it were no obstacle at all. The lake was bitter enough to numb bone, bitter enough to steal the breath from a lesser man—but Arthur Morgan swam like he’d been sculpted from the very mountains surrounding the lake.
He glanced back toward the cabin, lifting a hand to wipe water from his eyes when he caught sight of you.
“For a man who couldn’t even button his shirt last I checked,” you called out, forcing your voice to play teasing instead of reverent, “you’ve turned into quite the mermaid, Mr. Morgan.”
A grin broke through his stubble as he angled toward the pier, water lapping at his waist. “Water’s fine, ma’am,” he called back, his voice carrying over the misty surface. “Better than coffee for wakin’ the soul.”
“I’ll stick to the bean,” you replied, lifting your cup in a mock toast as he reached the shallows. “I prefer my heart stay inside my chest. Not frozen solid in the Basin.”
He waded through the reeds, water sliding down his chest in shimmering sheets. You told yourself—briefly—that you ought to look away. Now while it was still foggy and easy. Before he got any closer.
You didn’t.
The early light caught every bead of water as they kissed the slope of his broad shoulders, then the iron-forged plane of his chest, clinging to every dark hair they found along the way, following the thick, coarse line that disappeared beneath the waistband of his long johns, riding low on his hips with every step he took.
The scars you’d spent over a week tending gleamed stark and pink against his skin, now missing the silk stitches he had stubbornly removed last night under the firelight after complaining they were too itchy. His muscles tightened reflexively against the biting air, solid and alive as he climbed the porch steps. Wet fabric clung possessively to the powerful lines of his thighs, the veins below his navel more pronounced and detailed now that he was close.
Close enough that you could smell the clean sharpness of lake water and the lavender of your own soap on his skin.
“Seems a waste,” he drawled, stopping directly in front of you. Pearls of water were sprinkled over the golden hairs on his chest, exactly like dew did on the flower baskets back home in Strawberry. “How come you have a private lake this beautiful and you don’t never use it?”
“I’m not a good swimmer, Mr. Morgan,” you replied, your voice steadier than your pulse, forcing your gaze to stay on his face so it wouldn’t linger where it so desperately wanted to—on the slow rise and fall of his chest mere feet away, comfortable, completely unashamed of his state
“Is that so?” He tilted his head, dripping onto the porch boards. His eyes flicked to your lips for just a second—long enough to remind you of his words, inked and honest, in that journal on the table. “Well, I’m a patient teacher. Come on in. I’ll hold you up.”
Heat bloomed at your neck and crept higher until it burned across your entire face, and you knew it had nothing to do with the sun now spilling gold across the floorboards. He looked at you, his blue eyes dark and searching, and for a brief moment you wondered if he could read the lingering traces of his journal in your expression.
You let out a forged, shaky laugh, tightening your grip on the mug. “I don’t think that’d be appropriate, sir. I’m a married woman, remember?” You said the words, but your eyes betrayed you anyway, catching on a lonely droplet sliding along the thick vein that disappeared beneath his waistband. “I shouldn’t be touchin’ water with a half-clothed outlaw.”
A low chuckle rolled from his chest, vibrating through the damp air between you.
“Who says I’m an outlaw?” he murmured, stealing another glance at your mouth, subtle but unmistakable. “And who says we’d be half-clothed?”
Your face caught fire—heat traveling fast down your body, lower still, curling tight and heavy in your belly. You knew this wasn’t what a decent, married woman should say, but reacting to his teasing felt like a slow-burning rope you had no desire to loosen.
“Tell me, Mr. Morgan,” you began, something forbidden tugging at the corner of your mouth, “is all this talk… this generous invitation just an excuse to get a lady to undress in front of you?”
His lips curved—dangerous and unhurried—as he leaned back against the porch post. His hair, usually a wind-tossed mane of sunlit brown, was slicked back now, dark with water, clinging to the sharp line of his jaw and the nape of his neck. You preferred it when he let the wind have its way with it, but this suited him, too. Standing there dripping wet, looking like a god of the wilderness, something dangerous that had decided, just for a moment, to be peaceful.
“Why would I make the lady undress herself in front of me, when I could do it with my own hands?” he asked quietly, the fire-blue in his gaze threatening to melt both the frost off the porch boards and your skin all alike. “That’s the fun part, ain’t it, butterfly?”
The air vanished from your lungs completely. The steam from your forgotten coffee curled into the mist as you stared at him, your mouth slightly agape. The sheer, blunt honesty of his remark sent a jolt of delight straight through you, between your thighs. Delight you hadn’t felt in a while, years perhaps, making your fingertips tingle against the tin and your toes curl against the boards.
“I wouldn’t know, Mr. Morgan,” you managed at last, gripping the railing with your free hand and shifting your weight so he wouldn’t notice the way your legs dissolved like liquid beneath his expectant gaze. “A lady’s allowed her secrets.”
You broke the spell first, not trusting yourself to remain decent a second longer. You snatched the towel he’d left on the railing and pressed it firmly into his hands. “A married woman doesn’t just shed her skin because a gentleman asks nicely. No matter how patient he promises to be.”
You offered a small, playful smile and turned toward the door, trusting, with every fiber of your being, that he would follow you inside.
-
The rest of the morning passed in a strange, heightened blur. You found yourself uncharacteristically careful with the placement of your hairpins and more attentive to the way your skirt creased when you sat. It was foreign behavior within these familiar walls, but then again, no one had ever sketched your profile before. No one had truly observed you like this, translating every little detail about you into lines and paper.
Each time you passed the mirror, you caught yourself lingering on your own reflection—touching your fingertips to your mouth, wondering exactly what he saw when he looked at your “pretty lips.”
The thought alone was enough to make a giggle tickle in your throat, threatening to escape. It lingered there all morning until, sometime after lunch, his voice startled you clean out of your reverie.
“You look just fine, ma’am,” he said, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror’s reflection from where he sat at the table, journal splayed open in front of him.
“You’ve spent half the day lookin’ at that mirror like it’s liable to tell you the lottery numbers,” he went on dryly. His charcoal was poised between his thumb and forefinger, expectant, ready to return to the drawing he’d been working on since noon. From your angle, you couldn’t quite make out the shapes on the page, and the not knowing made your curiosity ache.
You wondered if—
“You remind me of someone I used to know,” he murmured, quieter now, more to himself than to you, before lowering his gaze back to the paper.
You let out a shaky sound—half breath, half giggle—trying to ignore the flutter of delicate wings in your belly. You were being silly, you knew that. But it had been so long since you’d felt the weight of a man’s attention resting on you like this. And longer still since you’d returned it.
Your thoughts drifted back to Strawberry, to one summer too many laps around the sun ago, when Mr. Cooper’s eldest son had started helping out at the family store. You remembered the smiles, the furtive glances shared across the crowded saloon on payday, his sun-warmed cheeks when you helped him load the delivery wagon and your fingers accidentally brushed.
Silly young things, the both of you. You’d been barely more than a cub then—a girl not yet finished becoming herself.
This was different.
It felt different.
You were a woman now. Had been for a long time. And the man making you smile these days was no shopkeeper’s boy.
“And who would that be, Mr. Morgan?” you asked lightly, feigning an ease you did not quite feel as you crossed to the shelf to gather your supplies. You’d decided to spend the afternoon knitting a new quilt. Winter had long since loosened its grip—you didn’t truly need another—but sitting across from him on a breezy spring afternoon felt like the only plan you could imagine wanting today.
“I hope that ‘someone’ was pretty,” you added playfully, taking your seat at the table.
He only chuckled—a low, private sound—and left you to your knitting as he returned to the page.
The flutter in your belly had eased by the time the sky began to blush pink, replaced by the rich comfort of the duck stew he’d made for dinner. The sun sank low on the horizon, your belly pleasantly full, your hands already itching to return to your needlework. He’d volunteered to wash the dishes before bed, but you’d only allowed him to help with the drying. You doubted his hand was healed enough for soaking—considering it was the only wound he’d taken the care to keep stitched, you assumed it was still far from mended. That injury had seen enough water for one day.
But the dirty dishes could wait in the sink.
Right now, you were content with the crackle of the fire on the other side of the room, the distant hoot of birds as they sang their final songs outside, and the soft rustle of pages as he turned them across from you.
“What a fool,” he muttered, the candle between you flickering as he spoke. “Actin’ all tough when we all know his momma’s expectin’ him home by supper.”
You chuckled, fingers caught mid-stitch in the heavy wool. Since the very first chapter, he’d been verbally attacking the novel’s protagonist—over the course of a single afternoon, he’d called him a fool more times than he’d called your imaginary Saint Denis husband over the span of two weeks. Still, you were convinced he secretly enjoyed the drama—the twists, the mess of it all. You’d lent him the book earlier, right after he’d finished the drawing he’d refused to let you see.
“I thought you’d enjoy a good story,” you teased, your eyes focused on the growing quilt. “But maybe I should find somethin’ else for you to read. The newspaper, maybe?”
“Oh, I enjoy a good story, ma’am,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. “But this guy’s a piece of shit.”
You shook your head, a smile tugging at your lips as you looped the yarn over your needle and pulled a fresh row of stitches tight—practiced and sure.
“Say, Mr. Morgan,” you began, still not looking up from your work, though you could feel his attention settle on you. “You said earlier I reminded you of someone. May I ask who that was?”
He set the book down on the table, his movements deliberate as though he needed the pause. Then, he spoke again.
“It was the mirror. Not the physical resemblance exactly,” he explained, his eyes traveling somewhere far beyond the cabin walls. “I used to run with a…gang…back in the day.”
I knew it, you thought.
This was the “ugly secret” he’d been hiding. This was why he’d refused a doctor even as he was shedding his weight in blood.
An outlaw. It made sense—the money, the scars, the way he carried himself like a man who always expected violence to find him. Still, you chose not to interrupt, sensing the rarity of this candle-lit honesty.
“There was a very elegant lady. Irish. Sharp as a whip,” he explained, a ghost of a smile touching his mouth. “Used to spend the whole day lookin’ at her reflection in a little mirror she carried. Brushin’ her hair, checkin’ her pins… just like you were doin’ today.”
You smiled under the warm glow of the room, drowned in the pinks and lavenders of the sunset, cherishing the fragment of his past he’d decided to share with you today. You wondered if that lady had also suspected she was being sketched and simply wanted to look her best for the artist.
“Where is she now?” you allowed yourself to ask.
He shook his head, just once, and you understood immediately.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured.
You’d heard stories. The outlaw life was brutal. Very few survived the transition into the new century, and even now, they were still being hunted. You remembered the newspaper headlines from back then, the way folks in Strawberry used to bolt their doors when the O’Driscolls or the Van der Lindes were mentioned in the same breath as Big Valley, Riggs Station, or Owanjila.
Hell, you even remembered walking by the massive, blackened hole blown through the town jail—the one the Van der Lindes had left behind while breaking one of their own free. It had stood as a jagged scar on the town for years. And to make matters worse, right in front of the mayor’s house. It used to make him so mad. You wondered if they’d ever fixed it.
And then there were the O’Driscolls too, whose hooting laughter and off-key singing could be heard coming from Hanging Dog Ranch on quiet nights when you camped in the Valley, gathering lavender. You’d stopped going there because of them; the fresh air always reeked with the threat of them.
“You keep in touch with ‘em?” you asked, thinking of the sketch of the family by the fire—the one he didn’t know you’d seen—and wondering whether they were his true kin…or just the ghosts of his gang. “The others, I mean. From back then?”
He sighed. It was a heavy, soulful breath, the kind that seemed to draw the very air from the room. The candle flame flickered violently in response, shadows leaping across his features as if he were momentarily transported back to a campfire long since gone cold.
“Some of ‘em,” he answered quietly after a moment. “The best of ‘em.” He smiled then—pure and genuine. It reached his eyes and made them crinkle at the corners. You had never seen him like this. So peaceful. So unguarded. So…vulnerable.
Your own lips curved without permission, mirroring his. You could tell that despite the violence, the bloodshed, and the years spent looking over his shoulder… he loved these people with everything he had.
“I was on my way from visitin’ a few of ‘em when I stumbled across your cabin,” he admitted. “Then ‘em damn pelt-clowns cut my journey short.”
“Oh really?” Curiosity threaded through your words like the needles in your hands. “They live ‘round here, mister?”
“Near Blackwater,” he said after a beat, studying your features as though weighing a decision. Concluding, perhaps, that a woman who’d crossed Skinner territory to fetch him a doctor—and then nursed him back to health with her bare hands—wasn’t someone he needed to guard his loved ones from. “They’ve got a ranch there. I stay with ‘em every now and then.”
Your breath caught.
You finally knew why the boy in his drawing had felt so familiar.
“Beecher’s Hope?” you blurted.
He blinked, surprised. Then gave a slow nod. “You know the place, butterfly?”
“I do,” you nodded eagerly, trying not to smile at the pet name that, these past couple of days, had begun to slip from his tongue as easily as the sweetest syrup. “I buy eggs from them sometimes. Never met the couple, but their boy always lets me pick the biggest ones. Sweet kid. His dog, too.”
Your words earned a quiet chuckle from him, his chest lifting with something warm and unmistakably proud.
“The boy’s my nephew,” he said.
“Well, would you look at that, Mr. Morgan!” you smiled wide. “Small world, after all.”
And it was. Of all the far-flung, forgotten corners of the world… life had carried him to your door. You let the thought linger, wondering at the impossible odds.
“Where were you headed?” you asked after a moment. “Before you decided to stop and loot my peaches?”
He snorted.
“I was headin’ for the MacFarlane’s Ranch. Figured I’d rest a spell. Then head south. See the border.” He sounded like a man mourning a plan that never came to be, listing an itinerary that never fully materialized beyond the paper. “I heard the country’s wilder down there. Law hasn’t managed to tame it yet.”
“Must be nice, mister,” you smiled, your needles clicking rhythmically on your lap. “Just driftin’ freely wherever the wind takes you.” You paused, gaze lifting to the wooden beams above. “I’d love to visit Big Valley again someday. Set my tent by Little Creek like I used to… fall asleep to the sight of the stars and the lullaby of the water on my ear.”
You let your mind travel there for a moment—your bare feet threading through the purple fields of the Valley, the cool grass brushing your ankles, the air smelling of perfume and freedom.
You looked back down, and the beautiful transition from the lavender of the flowers to the blue of his eyes made you smile.
“That sounds nice, ma’am,” his lips mirrored your own, his voice dropping an octave—weighted by something unspoken that you began to feel, too, the longer you stared into those blues. “Real nice.”
Real nice.
You agreed, realizing it wouldn’t be difficult to imagine him riding beside you, in the Big Valley reverie. Setting his tent next to yours, warming his hands around the same fire, spending the night under the same stars, drinking coffee from the same pot in the morning mist…
That’s when you knew—with quiet, unsettling certainty—that whatever was growing between you had already drifted far beyond harmless conversation.
Would he mind if you pulled your chair a little closer?
Close enough that the warmth of his chest—broad and inviting beneath the tight embrace of the shirt you’d chosen for him—could chase the early evening’s chill from your bones. Close enough to rest your cheek against the solid, gold-furred planes of him; to find out if his heart rose and fell as fast as yours, to listen to the stories his heartbeat might tell as those iron arms wrapped around you. Arms that looked as though they could break you into a million pieces if he held too tight.
But he wouldn’t hurt you. He was a gentleman.
There was something about the crackle of the fire in the hearth, the cold pressing in from the orange-pink windows, the way his eyes held yours from the other side of the candlelight. As if you were made of mist, of imagination rather than flesh. A creation of candle smoke and memory instead of bone. A vision he’d once conjured in a distant dream and never expected to see brought to life.
You just wanted to—
His stitched hand shot out suddenly, his fingers firm—possessive—as they closed around your own across the table.
You froze.
The needle stalled halfway through a stitch, your body locking in place. Only your heart moved now, hammering wildly, so frantic it felt as though it might splinter your ribs from the inside. The flutter in your belly returned in full force—a storm this time, curling hot and low.
Did he want it, too?
“Mr. Morgan, I—”
“Shh,” he hissed, utterly still, his head tilting sharply toward the door.
You stayed quiet, as still as you could manage. Your heart continued its painful hammering, though now it had nothing to do with the protective warmth of his hand gripping yours tight.
“Arthur—”
“Quiet, butterfly,” he commanded. His other hand reached for the Volcanic resting on the table, his fingers ghosting over the cold steel.
The smile was gone.
The storyteller was gone.
The menacing eyes you’d met that first day in this very kitchen had returned, icy and lethal.
At first, you heard nothing. Only the soft pop of the dying fire, the distant hoot of an early owl high in the pines, the untroubled lap of water against the pier outside.
But then…
Then, it came.
That high, discordant whistle.
That low, rhythmic thudding that trembled through the floorboards. And this time, you were certain your mind wasn’t making it up.
Galloping. Not the skittish clip of a stray deer, but the heavy, coordinated beat of multiple horses.
And they were coming from the south.
From the deep woods.
“They’re comin’,” you whispered, the words tasting like ash in your mouth.
He was already on his feet.
His chair scraped back with a harsh, grating shriek that made you flinch, the sound too loud in the small cabin. He didn’t even wince as his side pulled—only a sharp, involuntary jolt through his body that told you everything you needed to know.
He wasn’t healed.
The adrenaline had simply burned the pain away for a moment.
“They’re close,” he muttered, moving toward the back door with the silent, measured grace of a wolf. He cracked it open just enough to slip his arm and head outside.
“Go! Now!” he whispered into the setting sun.
You heard him whistle—low, sharp—and seconds later the thunder of hooves broke away toward the northern woods, both your horses fleeing into the trees.
Good.
You dropped your knitting where you stood, lunged for the table, and blew out the candle in one breath, plunging the room into the amber-and-ink shadows of the fireplace. There was no time to douse the hearth.
You rushed to the center of the kitchen, where your knees hit the floor hard. You dragged the woven rug aside, fingers fumbling against the familiar boards. The cellar latch felt heavier than ever, slick beneath your sweaty palms.
He crossed the room to the front window. He didn’t look out—not fully. He stayed to the side, peering through a narrow slit in the curtain.
“Six, maybe seven of ‘em,” he announced.
“Do you see ‘em?” you whispered. Terror—old and familiar— boiled up from where it always lived, coiled tight in your gut. You’d be all right. You just needed to hide. You’d done this before.
“Not yet,” he said quietly. “But I hear ‘em.”
So did you.
The sound was unmistakable now. Heavy. Coordinated. Closer.
“The cellar.” You lifted the hatch wider until the sturdy wood fell back against the floorboards. “Come with me. They won’t find us here.”
He glanced at the dark mouth of safety, as if weighing your plan against his own, then back at you. You could see the internal war raging in his eyes—the tactician, the outlaw versus the gentleman who didn’t want to bring yet another war into your kitchen.
“Look, I’m gonna shoot ‘em dead as they come. Clean. One bullet to the head,” he promised. Calm. Cold. Rehearsed—as if reciting rules he’d learned long ago. “You hide. Don’t come out till I say so.”
The gentleman who picked you flowers…
The man who offered to teach you how to swim…
The artist who’d drawn beautiful renditions of you in lines of charcoal…
He was gone.
The outlaw had won.
This was the man who made a living out of death.
But you weren’t giving up just yet.
“Absolutely not.” You rose to your feet. Your breath was so scarce, so thin you could barely form the words. He was not going to make you talk reason into him now, of all times. Was he? “Come with me. Arthur, please.”
“I ain’t hidin’ in a hole and lettin’ ‘em think they can barge whenever they want into a lady’s home,” he growled, cocking the pistol with a terrifyingly efficient click that made your pulse spike. “I’ll put ‘em bastards down as they come through that door. Solve your nasty neighbor problem for good.”
You rushed to his side before he could step away.
“I know, I know,” you said quickly, grabbing his free hand with both of yours. “But you’re not healed. If they’re lookin’ for the man who killed two of their own—maybe more—and they see you here, they’ll burn this place down just for the sport of it,” you pleaded, your brow furrowed so tightly it hurt. Just as tight as your grip on him.
You had no doubt he could kill an entire horde of those freaks on his best day.
But this wasn’t his best day. His body was still mending. His shooting hand still shook, just barely.
“Ma’am,” he spoke softly now, eyes dark with something heavy, urgent. “You need to hide. I can’t protect you if you’re up here.”
You recognized that feeling.
It was the same one clawing at your own chest—raw and desperate—trying to reason with someone stubborn who refused to listen, yet whose life you deeply wanted to protect.
“They’ll loot a few things and leave,” you said, voice shaking but insistent. “They always do. I can replace a few tins of fruit. A little coffee…”
But I can’t replace—
The shouting and laughter outside grew louder.
At least seven. He’d been right.
“Look, if they do find us in the cellar,” you added quickly, grasping for his arm as if it were a tether to logic, “the angle’ll be better for shooting ‘em, won’t it?” You didn’t know much about guns, but it sounded right. You’d be in the dark, and they’d be silhouetted against the orange glow of the world above, easy targets for him. “I promise I’ll let you shoot ‘em as much as you want then.”
He stared at you, then toward the door as the hollering grew louder. Closer. Uglier.
“Fine,” he muttered at last, exhaling sharply through his nose. “But know you’re as stubborn as mules go.”
Relief hit you so hard your knees nearly gave.
“You’re one to talk,” you breathed, already moving.
You snatched up the half-finished quilt from the chair and tossed it into the darkness below. Then his journal. His satchel from the vanity. If you were going underground, it just felt wrong to leave such vulnerable, personal things behind for them to paw through..
You descended the ladder first. He followed close behind, pulling the latch closed over your heads with a practiced finality. You knew the rug had fallen neatly into place because no ring of light leaked through from above. You’d tied the rug to a small hook on the underside of the latch long ago, ensuring it stayed “glued” to the wood. It had worked every time; those bastards never noticed the hollow floor beneath their feet.
In that moment, despite the terror clawing at your ribs, a flicker of grim pride sparked in your chest. You felt like the cleverest person in all of West Elizabeth. Or at least in these woods.
Darkness swallowed you whole as Arthur landed beside you with a soft thud. You couldn’t quite see him, your eyes still adjusting to the gloom, but you could hear the rasp of his breath—shallow, controlled, carefully measured. The scent of sun-kissed leather and premium tobacco clung to him, mingling with the smell of damp earth and old timber from this dark, cool tomb you called your cellar.
Your eyes were just beginning to make out the shapes of your storage crates when the unavoidable thud hit.
Not a knock.
Not a push.
A brutal, splintering crack as a boot slammed into your front door.
The impact shook the very earth above you, shuddering through the cabin and down into your bones. Directly above your head, you heard the clatter of ceramic and metal as your dishes rattled in the cabinet.
They were inside.
Your blood ran cold. Your jaw locked so hard your teeth ached, your body turning into a single, rigid wire of nerves.
Heavy boots tromped across your wooden floor. Not one pair. Not two. Rough, guttural voices filled the cabin—a nightmare of slurred words and jagged, harsh laughter that scraped your ears raw. You never understood what these clowns found so funny.
“Well, look at this,” a voice boomed, thick and grating. “Seems that old idiot Finney was right.”
Through the narrow cracks between the floorboards, you watched a shadow pace back and forth directly over your head.
“Said he saw a pretty little thing ‘round here,” the man continued. “Looks like this is the place.”
Another voice, further off—near your vanity, perhaps—sniffed loudly. “Smells like a whore’s been livin’ here. All them flowery soaps and such,” he drawled. You heard the violent wrench of a drawer pulled too far, wood protesting under careless fingers. “Oh, look at this. Too clean.”
Your stomach lurched. You prayed they hadn’t found your lacy cotton.
“Just the gift we need,” he went on, pleased. “Big Buck said he wanted a new girl for the camp. Man’s gettin’ old and lonely.”
A sharp laugh followed. “Make her wear only this when we take her to him.”
A wave of nausea washed over you. Big Buck? Who the fuck—
“Reckon he oughta treat ‘em toys better if he wants ‘em to last,” another voice chimed in. It was higher-pitched, and even without seeing his face, you knew you wanted to punch it. “Let’s say we find this one, assumin’ she exists and Finney had at least half of his brain when he saw her, we take her to the boss and then what? She won’t be breathin’ by the time the sun rises. Last one was a cowgirl, yet couldn’t even take a little group ridin’ by the fire.”
They burst into laughter, a jagged, wet sound that made your stomach coil into a tight, sick not. You knew what happened to women who fell into the hands of the Skinner Brothers. You’d seen the charred remains along the road, the heads missing their scalps, you’d heard the screams that occasionally echoed through the Basin on the wind.
Beside you, you heard Arthur shift.
The movement was subtle—but it carried weight. You felt it more than saw it, the way his body tightened, coiled like a spring pulled too far back. You brought your hands to your lap, wringing the wool of your skirt just to feel a bit of heat. The cellar was far colder than the world above. That was why you always stored your quilts down here in a cedar box, tucked between jars of candied tomatoes and preserved plums. Ready, meant to smother cold, sound and fear alike.
You’d heard these conversations before. It was never easier, but not as paralyzing as the first time it had happened, a few years back, just months after you’d moved here. There was no such thing as getting used to strangers with sick intentions barging into one’s home at dinner time, but it had happened enough that you knew the rhythm of this nightmare far too well.
You glanced at the man next to you, silhouetted under the thin slivers of amber bleeding through the boards above. His eyes were burning like fire, fixed with a predatory intensity on the filth walking over your heads.
You didn’t truly need what you wanted. You’d survived this nightmare alone before.
But now—
Now you wanted it.
His warmth. His solid presence. The iron strength of the arms you’d spent the better part of the day pretending not to imagine around you.
Arms that could turn lethal in a heartbeat without hesitation.
“Think she’s here?” One of them grumbled. “Ain’t no horses outside. Cabin looks empty otherwise. Finney’d lost a lot of blood and an eye when we found him. Claims he saw a woman comin’ outta the woods, but it was probably just the bastard who shot him.”
“Or Death herself, comin’ for his old smelly ass.”
A low chuckle followed. “Yeah, looks like one o’them traveler’s shacks to me. Nobody stays out here long. We never find anyone. Don’t know why we keep comin’.”
“Yeah, and the only time we do find someone, bastard shoots Finn—”
“Fools!” the first voice snapped, sharp with irritation. “Fire’s still burnin’ in the hearth. Dishes piled in the sink. Her damn cunt wear is still in the drawer. And look at whatever this trash is!” Something slapped against wood. “Who reads this kinda stuff if not a woman?”
The book. Your stomach dropped. Poor thing. You’d forgotten it on the table.
“You know how to read, Billy?”
“Course not, but one look at the cover and you know it’s for the ladies. Point is, she ain’t been gone long,” he explained, his voice thickening into something uglier, crueler. “Her and her cowboy husband probably heard us comin’ and ran into the woods. I don’t know ‘bout the bastard, but tremblin’ legs ain’t carryin’ a woman far.”
The mental imagery made your skin crawl, a cold and invasive shiver racing down your spine.
“Aye, she won’t run far,” the high-pitched voice snickered. “When I find her, I got a special treat in mind. Boss won’t even notice his new plaything’s already been used.”
You heard Arthur’s breathing next to you—controlled, lethal. His body turned toward yours, heat and tension radiating off every muscle. You looked up just as the last light of day fractured through the gaps in the floorboards above, shattering across his face like a million fire embers.
“If they ever touch you,” he whispered, that fierce, molten glow in his eyes promising you that in this moment you were his to protect. “I’ll find ‘em. Every last one. And God help 'em then.”
You nodded, certain that as long as there was lead on his belt and air in his lungs, no one was going to touch a single hair on your head. You believed him. And that certainty was what moved you next.
Carefully, quietly, you pressed yourself against him without permission. Your arms slipped around his broad frame, your hands meeting behind his back, your fingernails clutching the fresh fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to safety. You buried your face in the warmth of him, your cheek resting against his chest—solid and comfortable, breathing him in.
He reacted instantly.
His free arm came around you, firm and sure, pulling you so close not even a whisper of air could’ve fit between you. You felt the hard shape of his off-hand Volcanic pressed against your side in his holster, its twin sister still gripped firm in his other hand. His body a wall of tense, unyielding muscle shielding you from the world above.
And somehow, you knew you’d be alright.
You had never felt so safe.
Not once in your life.
Not even back in your bed in Strawberry—when there were no Skinners to fear.
A sudden, loud creak groaned from the other side of the room, followed by the coarse rustle of fabric.
“This bed’s soft enough for me,” a new voice grumbled.
The bed.
One of them was lying on your bed. You could almost smell the lingering stench of him through the floorboards—the stale sweat, the dried blood, the rot of an unwashed body seeping into the mattress you’d slept on night after night.
“Maybe I’ll let the whore offer me the full service on this very mattress, once we find her.”
You felt Arthur stiffen around you, every muscle in his frame turning to steel. A low, vibrating growl rumbled deep in his chest, right beneath your ear. You felt it before you heard it—he was a heartbeat away from detonating. His grip on you tightened until it almost hurt. You knew he wanted to erupt from that hole and paint the kitchen red like he had before.
You clung to him harder in response, burying your face deeper into the heat of his chest—a silent plea to stay hidden. To stay safe.
To stay with you.
“I’ll keep watch here,” the voice above continued lazily. “You boys go scout the woods for that little bird. Bring her back quick. And if you find the cowboy, tell the bastard Big Buck says hello.”
Boots scuffed across the floor, moving toward the door—its hinges rattling, wood slamming heavy and final as several of them spilled back out into the trees.
One stayed.
The remaining Skinner shifted on your mattress, settling in. The springs groaned beneath his weight, a sound that felt like a physical violation.
Your poor bed.
Your poor home.
You drew in a slow, shaky breath, forcing your pulse to steady as you breathed in Arthur’s scent—clean cotton, sun-kissed leather, fresh lavender from your soap. They weren’t gone, but the odds had shifted.
“Your cellar’s cold as hell, butterfly,” Arthur lowered his head until his chin rested gently against the crown of yours.
A soft, involuntary chuckle escaped you. You knew a man who swam half-naked in frozen waters for the sport of it wasn’t truly bothered by a root cellar’s chill. And the warmth of his thumb, stroking slow circles at the nape of your neck, told you the truth anyway.
He wasn’t complaining,
He was anchoring you.
Pulling your thoughts away from the rot and filth lingering above. And it was working. The dread was so much easier to endure like this—against his chest, held, shielded—his fingers brushing the fine baby hairs at your nape in a gesture so careful, so tender it didn’t seem to belong in a night like this.
“Let’s get you warm, Mr. Morgan,” you whispered back, tilting your head up toward him. “One would assume the cold in my humble cellar is no match for the mermaid I saw swimming the ice waters of the Basin this morning.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, relief flickered across his expression at the tease woven gently into your words.
“I’ve got just what we need to survive a night like this,” you murmured.
Letting go of him felt wrong. Your arms protested as you eased back, every movement deliberate, careful not to betray yourselves with the wrong sound. You crossed to the cedar box, lifting the rigid lid with agonizing patience. The quilts inside were thick, a little dusty beneath your fingers—but heavy. Warm.
Perfect.
You spread them in the corner against the wall, where thick tree roots grew in harmony with the foundation of the cabin. Kneeling, you arranged them into a soft, uneven nest on the cold floor, silently praising not just your needlework—but the foresight of keeping them here.
Arthur lowered himself beside you, his broad frame filling the narrow space you’d left for him between the jars shelves, the stone wall, and your body. The moment his back touched the rustic wall, a sharp, aching urge clenched through you. Your muscles tensed with the need to nuzzle closer, to lean back into him, to reclaim the safety of his chest and let the world vanish again.
But you opted for restraint.
You didn’t know if that sort of closeness would be allowed a second time. Didn’t know what he would think of you. You’d told him you were a married woman, after all.
So instead of seeking his warmth, you settled for the wool’s, pulling the edge of the quilt over your knees.
“You were right, ma’am.” He set his main Volcanic down on a low shelf within easy reach. “These clowns ain’t even thought of the possibility we’re hidin’ right below ‘em.”
“Most folks don’t,” you whispered, rubbing your hands together, savoring the small bloom of warmth between your palms. “Not unless they see the entrance from outside.”
“That’s why they’re clowns.”
A faint smile tugged at your mouth. “And would you know, Mr. Morgan? If you were the one barging into my home in the middle of the night, and I were hidden here, right under your feet… would you know to look?”
He huffed softly, mock-offended. “First of all, m’lady, I would never barge into a lady’s house in the middle of the night without permission.”
His hand drifted to a nearby shelf, fingers closing around one of the jars. He turned it slowly, squinting at your handwriting in the fractured light.
“And second,” he continued, “yes, I’d know. I’ve looted cellars like this.”
The honesty of his answer almost made you chuckle. For the briefest moment, you wondered if he’d slip the jar into his satchel and call it his, bold as brass, right in front of you.
“Robbed an old lady once in Big Valley,” he said easily, as though recalling a pleasant afternoon. “Had a cabin and a cellar just like yours. Got a nice shotgun outta it, too. But don’t worry, it was a peaceful robbery, and I ain’t that man no more.”
You muffled a snort against the back of your hand. “I thought you said barging into women’s homes without permission wasn’t your style, Mr. Morgan?”
“It ain’t,” he said. “The lady gave me permission. Told me to deliver her groceries down to the cellar. Thought I was a delivery boy or somethin’.”
You shook your head lightly, wondering if you’d known that woman—if you’d passed her on the road, shared a nod in town. If she was from Big Valley, you likely had. You were convinced you’d seen every face around Strawberry back then. You wondered if you ever passed him, too. To think he’d been roaming those same woods and fields while you were working shifts and doing laundry. The thought that your lives might’ve brushed past one another before this…Life was strange, twisting, folding in on itself and—
A sudden, heavy thud overhead shattered the thought.
The Skinner on the bed had rolled over. The springs shrieked—a sound burned into your memory—followed by the sharp crack of glass breaking against the floor.
You jolted despite yourself, your shoulder bumping into Arthur’s arm.
“Where’s that damn woman…” the Skinner groaned, his voice thick with sleep and filth. You heard him shift again. “I’m hungry,” he muttered, seconds before the wet, rhythmic rasp of snoring settled back into the silence.
You looked at Arthur. He shook his head slowly, weary and unimpressed, as if the absurdity of it all offended him more than the danger.
“That’s right,” he whispered. “Just go back to sleep, fool.”
His hand reached for his satchel. “Reckon I’m a little hungry myself.”
“Mr. Morgan,” you hissed, watching him angle the bag toward the light so he could see inside. “We had dinner an hour ago.”
“Ma’am, this useless body’s recoverin’, remember? It needs the energy.”
He reached into the shadows of his bag and emerged with a large, perfectly formed peach.
You gasped—half-surprised, half-scandalized. “Why you still hidin’ my peaches in that satchel? You can just take ‘em from the basket like a normal person.”
“For moments like this,” he said simply, lifting the fruit to his lips.
You watched the flash of his teeth sink into the plump, velvet skin. The peach was overripe—heavy with a summer’s worth of sugar—and it showed in the way its pink walls yielded, surrendering precious juice to the indulgent pressure of his lips.
A single drop of nectar escaped, glimmering like liquid sunlight beneath the fractured glow from above. It trailed down the corner of his mouth, a glistening path that disappeared into the sandy scruff of his stubble.
He licked his lips clean, a slow, distracting flick of his tongue.
And you couldn’t look away.
Not when his jaw worked like that in front of you—a solid, steady rhythm, eyes darkened, half-lidded and intent, focused entirely on the tender flesh kissing his lips.
He caught another stray drop with his thumb and brought it to his mouth, licking the rough pad clean. The wet sound of it vibrated through the narrow space between your bodies, igniting the slow-burning trail of gunpowder he’d been laying since morning—perhaps before—all along your skin, coiling hot and heavy in the lowest, hungriest depths of you.
Under the quilt, you discovered your hand resting against the soft flesh of your inner thigh, dangerously close to the summer blossoming between your legs. Your mouth watered, and it had nothing to do with the fruit.
The air in the small, cramped cellar felt suddenly ten degrees hotter, the weight of the quilts forgotten as your gaze followed the corded line of his throat as he swallowed.
He lifted the peach once again—then abruptly stopped mid-bite.
His eyes flicked to yours, noticing your attentive stare. Under the scant light, you saw the exact moment the outlaw vanished, replaced by the gentleman who couldn’t bear to see a lady wanting for anything.
He held the fruit out to you—a silent, sticky invitation that you couldn’t resist.
The tips of his fingers brushed your chin as you leaned in, your eyes locked on his as you took a bite from the exact same spot his lips had claimed just seconds before.
Juice spilled down the side of your mouth.
His gaze tracked it—hungry, intent—as it threatened to journey down the column of your neck.
He didn’t let it.
He reached out, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.
Cleaning.
Lingering.
Tempting.
Pressing just firmly enough against your lip to force the bud between your thighs to bloom.
You swallowed the sweetness, still holding his gaze, basking in the warmth of his hand against your cheek—slightly sticky with nectar. In the haze of the orange glow and overripe fruit, it was impossible to tell whether he was drawing you closer or you were already leaning in.
His lips met yours with a gentle touch.
Sweeter than the fruit in his hand. Twice as intoxicating.
It was the softest brush, a feather-light caress that made you wonder how lips that told stories about looting old ladies’ cellars could taste so smooth, so impossibly sweet.
You parted your mouth just enough to catch his lower lip between yours, tugging gently, patiently. The wet sound when you released it echoed through the dark like the softest kind of sin.
He followed, pressing another careful peck to your sticky lips. Your hand found his face, palm rasping against bristle as your fingers slid into the caramel strands at the nape of his neck.
And that’s when you opened for him—wide and hungry. His tongue accepted the invitation to dance with yours—a slow, unhurried waltz tasting of summer fruit and premium tobacco. A delicacy that didn’t last long.
He did say he was hungry, after all.
His hands found your waist, arms closing around your frame, fingers digging into your hips as he pulled you closer. Urgency bled through the cracks of restraint as his tongue explored your mouth with a desperate, starving curiosity. Suddenly, you were straddling him, your knees finding purchase in the narrow space, thighs settling on either side of his hips. Your fingers tangled in his hair as if it could anchor you there forever. His hands kneaded your back, drawing you flush against the hard, muscled truth of him.
Peach. Cedar. Lavender. Smoke. Danger.
His taste was tilting your compass wild.
You shifted without thinking, finding the unyielding iron of his thighs beneath you. When you angled just right, the aching heat between your legs brushed the hard, delightful evidence of his own desire, trapped under a rough layer of fresh denim.
A moan slipped free at the sweet contact.
Soft. Obscene. Unforgivable.
A sound so sinful, so ungodly for a married woman to make against the lips of a man who wasn’t her husband. It cut through the dusty air of the cellar like a gunshot.
You both froze.
Your hand remained in his hair, the other pressed against the frantic rise and fall of his chest as you listened. To see if the monster on the bed had awaken to the sound of your undoing.
After a heartbeat of agonizing silence, you both helplessly leaned in for one final, lingering peck—a desperate, bruising claim in case you both decided this could never happen again.
You climbed down from his lap, settling back against the wall. Your chest heaved as you fought to remember how to breath. Besides you, Arthur was a mirror of the same storm, his silhouette a jagged rise and fall of muscle in the dark.
For a long while, neither of you said a word. The cellar held only the uneven rasp of air filling lungs that had forgotten their purpose. You looked at him—hair tousled, lips still glistening—and the sight made you ache to crawl right back into his warmth. He looked at you too, caught between the urge to apologize and the temptation to pull you back against his lips.
But the world above did not wait for his decision.
The bedsprings creaked.
A sharp, sobering squeal of metal and reality. Followed by a low, guttural groan. Then the heavy thud of boots hitting the floor.
Summary: Arthur missed you during his travels... 18+ MDNI
Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female Reader
Word Count: 1.0k
AO3 Link | Masterlist
Nothing out there, not the milk white moonlight nor the gentle sway of flowers in the sweetgrass stirred by the breeze, could compare to the softness of the pair of strong hands that held your face. Arthur’s mouth pressed against yours as he sought to satiate an aching hunger that hollowed his fractured soul and had intensified during the hours he was away.
With tender kisses and ‘I missed you so much’ and ‘Promise to never leave me alone again,’ that fell from your lips between those kisses were enough to overflow the hollowness and mend the cracks.
It was clear to him that throughout his travels, the details in the world had reminded him of you, whether in the blush of pink carnations or the glorious sun’s warming descent upon his skin.
In everything, there was you.
He had returned to find you waiting in the same spot, and the weight of his exhausting journey seemed to lift. You never set foot into the house until you saw the appearing form of your Arthur, running to him breathless with your skirts gathering the wind before he even made it past the fence. He dismounted his horse, and the sight of you, flushed with anticipation, had softened the sternness he carried with him. From his saddlebag, he always brought home something that reminded him of you. This time, it was a cluster of dainty wildflowers, and he took one to place behind your ear.
Stumbling footsteps and falling clothes, along with throaty chuckles, filled the room bereft of light. The firm bow of your corset was unraveled with practiced ease from his work-scarred fingers, the troublesome mechanics of its knot no longer an unfamiliar nuisance to him. A creak of the mattress sounded throughout the once quiet space, and the satin sheets creased as you lay upon them. Strands of hair splayed and stuck to the beads of forming sweat on your neck, and you watched as he fully discarded his shirt, revealing his brawny chest covered with a plentiful amount of faded scars. No matter how many times you had seen him undressed, it always stirred you beyond words and rendered you breathless.
With a slow tug pulling him forward, he planted the gentlest of kisses upon your lips and on your jawline, and he enveloped you in his warm touch. The sensation of his weight against you was almost far too much to bear and all that seeped into you was the addicting scent of his natural musk with a faint smokiness of gunpowder, leather, and pine. You pulled him closer, exploring the muscles of his back, tracing the lines of his form.
Arthur only pulled back to gaze into your irises behind half-mast lids to find any hint of reluctance or regret and even asked aloud, but there was nothing in them that spoke of such an idea, and your nod confirmed that. He dwelled dreamily at your parted lips, which awaited his kiss once more and, wishfully, forevermore. The edge of his calloused thumb brushed the side of your face lovingly and down to the seam where shuddering breaths escaped.
He brushed your hair away from your ear, moving down to whisper, “I could spend the rest of my life looking at you.” It caused goosebumps to erupt on your skin from his low and vibrating tones. And before you deliver a quip, the words dissipate as he reconnects with you, and your mind goes vacant.
Smooth, dreamlike moans elicited from your throat as he began moving down to your neck and your sternum. He trailed kisses along the curve of your waist, following the soft dips of your hips. Each kiss had sent ripples of anticipation through you, and you slightly dipped your head back at all of this, closing your eyes and softly smiling. His caresses on your skin left you boneless, while his mouth wandered senselessly, and he smiled to your song.
Ribs flared to that of a bird's wings as your lower back arched, spine curving and bending to the will of want of its ever flourishing desire. His touch glided through your veins, reminding every single cell of this moment. Your fingertips nestled into his hair, and the placement of his kisses fell between slender legs. To the serpent’s apple. Arthur takes his time, savoring every moment and your taste, and he can’t help but shower you with praise.
“Arthur…” You breathed, pressing yourself into him instinctively. Your voice, once so gentle and sweet, was now needy and desperate. He moaned against you, gripping your thighs tighter, large fingers digging into your soft flesh. And you took in a deep breath, coming undone and loosening your grip on the sheets. He looked up for a moment and gazed at the way the moonlight had fallen over you through the gossamer curtains.
And tonight remained similar to the many shared nights between you and Arthur, where he’d continue to show you his love in many ways, ways in which you couldn’t imagine possible, nor would you want it any other way or with anyone else. He’d leave you always in a state of pure bliss that you wished would remain forever, and you were soon wrapped in his arms beneath the sheets, the rise and fall of his chest lulling you into a peaceful sleep with soothing dreams of nothing but him.
Songbirds arise, low and hopeful. Arthur pressed a languid kiss upon your bare shoulder and trailed his finger along the shell of your ear and soon moved down to rest his head between your breasts, inwardly swearing that your chest was his resting place. He was determined to remain in this moment of stillness with you for as long as time would allow. Lying on you like that was one of the few times Arthur could truly feel at peace, and feeling the beat of your heart beneath your sternum and the way your chest rose and fell only further brought his thoughts to an ease.
Omg is it okay if you write headcanons on what Arthur Morgan from rdr2 would be like as your father with the reader as his teen daughter who's kinda like Ellie from the first tlou game
Arthur Morgan & daughter!Reader - headcanons
A/N: dear Nonnie, my requests are permanently closed unless it’s for a commission but this time, I decided to let yours slip through. It just sounded so sweet, and since writing for RDR2 is still something new for me, I couldn’t resist giving it a try. Hope you enjoy these little headcanons ♡
RED DEAD REDEMPTION M.LIST
1. You were raised on the move
You don’t remember staying anywhere long enough for the dirt to settle on your boots. Your childhood was a blur of campfires, cold creek water, and the smell of leather tack drying in the sun. Arthur and the rest of the gang raised you under open skies - taught you to keep your bedroll dry, your revolver clean, and your mouth shut when Pinkertons or O'Driscolls were near. He never promised you a permanent house, but he gave you the freedom instead. “Ain’t ‘bout where we stay, kid. It’s about who’s ridin’ beside ya.”
2. You and Arthur argue like thunder
Arthur’s patience could stretch a mile, but you somehow always found the end of it. You got his fire - his sarcasm, that stubborn streak that could kick down a barn door. One minute you’re riding quiet, the next you’re yelling about whether you’re old enough to ride into town armed. He never stays mad for long. Just sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re just like me, goddamn it,” he mutters, and you can’t tell if it’s a curse or a confession.
3. He calls you everything but your name
Your full name only comes out when you’re in serious trouble, and when it does, you freeze mid-step, ‘cause that means you’re gettin’ the talk. But most of the time, your father's voice call you all cute names.
“C’mon, troublemaker.”
“Watch that mouth, girl.”
“You eat anythin’ today or just attitude again, pookie?”
4. He doesn’t say I love you
Arthur ain’t much for words like that. He never learned how. But you see it: in how he fixes your stirrup before a ride, or how he keeps you on the safe side of the road when strangers pass. He saves the last biscuit for you, even when he’s hungry. Sometimes, when you’re half asleep, you feel him tuck the blanket up under your chin. He never says it but it’s there, solid as the ground beneath your feet.
5. You’re one hell of a shot - and he’s damn proud
Arthur taught you how to breathe properly before pulling the trigger, and how to listen to the quiet between heartbeats. The first time you hit a rabbit clean, he tried to play it cool, but his grin gave him away. “Guess I ain’t wastin’ my time after all, little one. That was a great shot,” he’d said, shaking his head. But at the same time, Arthur’s also the one who reminds you, softly, that killing - no matter how small the target - always leaves a shadow he’s seen far too many times himself.
6. You make fun of him for bein’ old
You tease him for groanin’ every time he sits down or for squintin’ at letters like they insulted him. He grumbles, but there’s always that twitch of a smile forming on his lip. “Keep talkin’ like that, missy, and I’ll have you muckin’ every damn stall in camp.”
7. He worries about you constantly
If you’re gone too long, he paces holes in the dirt. When you come back scratched up from a brawl, he looks ready to burn the world down. He’s seen too much loss to ever rest easy, and on some nights, when he reckons you’re asleep, you can still hear him by the fire, voice low and rough, whispering quiet prayers to Heaven itself, asking it to keep you safe.
8. You remind him of what he’s lost
Sometimes, when you’re laughing too loud or talking too bold, something shifts behind his eyes - that mix of pride and grief only a man like Arthur carries. You’re proof the world ain’t all bad yet, but also proof he’s got something to lose again. You, of course, remind him of your mother too - the woman he loved and lost the day you came into this world. Though the grief of her passing never truly left him, somewhere along the way, he learned to smile again - for you, his little babygirl.
9. The two of you share a song
He hums it sometimes when the camp’s gone quiet - that low, gravelly tune rolling from his chest like the wind through pines. You’ve known it all your life, that melody. You’re certain it’s the same lullaby he used to hum when you were just a baby, cradled in the crook of his arm while the firelight flickered against his tired face.
10. You’re the only one keeping him human
When the gang starts splintering, and when the world turns mean, it’s your voice that drags him back from the edge. Your stubbornness, your jokes, the way you refuse to see him as anything but your old man. And one night, when you sit beside him by the fireplace in the middle of the camp, the sky darkening slowly, he finally whispers, “You saved me, kid. More’n you’ll ever know.”
11. Your arguments could entertain the whole damn camp
Arthur will grumble about you wasting bullets; you’ll sass him about getting old. Half the camp listens in because it’s pure entertainment - a back-and-forth of Morgan growls and your smart-mouthed comebacks that sound just a bit too much like his own.
“You ever stop talkin’ long enough to listen, lil' one?”
“Do you, Pa?”
Uncle swears it’s better entertainment than any saloon fight he’s seen. He’ll lean back in his chair, hat tipped over his eyes, muttering, “Ain’t nothin’ like a Morgan family dispute to spice up the mornin’.”
Javier laughs every time and sometimes starts strumming his guitar just to give your arguments a “soundtrack.” He says it’s like watchin’ thunder and lightning bicker over who makes the louder noise.
Sadie, on the other hand, grins wide and eggs you on. “Don’t let him win, kid. Man needs someone to keep him humble.” Arthur always shoots her a look that says she’s not helping but she just winks at him.
Dutch pretends to scold you. “We’re supposed to be a family, not a war camp!” But you catch him smirking behind his cigar, proud that Arthur raised someone who can sass him right back.
12. Everyone loves you
Uncle calls you Morgan Jr caressingly.
Jack idolizes you, calling you his best best friend.
All the girls in camp love to spend time with you, even if most of them think you’re a bit too rough-and-tumble, too much boyish-like for a teenage girl.
Even John Marston likes you a lot, despite all the teasing you throw his way, just like your father does.
13. You’re why Arthur fights to live right
When the sickness comes, he hides it from you at first: coughin’ into his sleeve, claimin’ it’s just the dust from the air. But you notice. You always do. When you confront him, eyes blazing and voice cracking, he just cups your face with those rough, trembling hands. “Guess I raised you to be too damn sharp,” he says softly.
You try to shove him off, angry and terrified, tears rolling down your flushed cheeks but he only pulls you into a tighter hug, comforting you, “It’s alright, kid. You’ll be alright, I promise."
14. And after Arthur's gone, you still carry him with you
His worn and battered hat on your head. His old journal in your saddlebag where you doddle and note your thoughts. His damn stubbornness deep within your heart.
Folks whisper about the gunslinger girl who used to travel with the outlaw, and who has his eyes - piercing blue, too sharp, too wild, yet still too kind for her own good. They don’t know he never really left your life.
He’s there in every step you take beneath that big, merciless sky of wild west - the ghost of your father, ridin’ just beside you.
Summary: Arthur Morgan cares for his newborn daughter, reflecting on his past mistakes and vowing to protect his family at all costs.
wc: 1,681
ao3 link
a/n: Literally cannot get enough of hot father Arthur Morgan/John Marston right now. I'm ovulating.
The storm rolled in fast, the low rumble of thunder following Arthur Morgan as he urged his horse forward, the reins tight in his hands. His heart was pounding—not from the gallop of the horse beneath him, but from the fear gnawing at his chest. He had been gone longer than he should’ve been, out scouting for supplies, and now he was racing the clock. Racing fate.
And racing to you.
The moment Charles had found him in camp, breathless and shouting about how you were in labor, Arthur felt the air rush out of his lungs. He hadn’t said a word, just mounted his horse and took off like a bullet, the world blurring around him. All he could think of was you—your face, your voice, and the child you were bringing into this wild, dangerous world.
The cabin came into view, nestled in a clearing just as the rain began to pour. Arthur pulled his horse to a stop, leaping from the saddle before the animal had fully stopped. His boots hit the muddy ground, splattering his pants, but he didn’t care. The soft glow of the lantern in the window was his beacon.
"Did I miss it?" he calls out to whomever could hear, fear laced in his voice.
“Arthur!” Abigail’s voice called from the doorway as she stepped outside, shielding her face from the rain. “You’re just in time!”
He pushed past her with a muttered “thanks,” his heart pounding as he crossed the threshold into the small cabin. It was warm inside, the air thick with the scent of herbs and something sharp, almost metallic. The midwife—a kind-faced older woman who had been passing through camp—was kneeling by the bed where you lay.
You. His heart nearly stopped when he saw you, your face pale and damp with sweat, your hair sticking to your forehead. You looked exhausted, your body trembling as you gripped the sheets beneath you, but your eyes snapped to him the moment he entered the room.
“Arthur,” you whispered, relief flooding your voice. “You made it.”
He crossed the room in a heartbeat, dropping to his knees beside you and taking your hand in his. His calloused fingers enveloped yours, rough but steady, grounding you as you held on for dear life.
“‘Course I made it,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
“You almost did,” you teased weakly, though your grip on his hand tightened as another contraction wracked your body. Your face twisted in pain, and Arthur’s heart ached in a way he’d never known before. He wished he could take it from you, bear it himself, but all he could do was be there.
“Breathe, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “I’m here. I got you.”
You nodded, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes as you did as he said. He pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his thumb brushing over your skin in a gesture that spoke louder than words. He was here. He wasn’t going anywhere.
Time became a blur after that. The midwife gave instructions, Abigail hovered nearby with clean cloths, and Arthur stayed rooted by your side, his hand never leaving yours. He whispered words of encouragement, reassurances that you could do this, that you were the strongest person he’d ever known.
And then, just when you thought you couldn’t take any more, a sharp cry filled the room.
You collapsed back against the pillows, tears streaming down your face as the midwife held up the squirming, wailing baby. Arthur stared, his breath catching in his throat as he took in the tiny, perfect life you had brought into the world.
“It’s a girl,” the midwife announced, her voice warm with pride. Arthur let out a shaky laugh, his hand still gripping yours as he turned to you, his blue eyes shining. “A baby girl,” he repeated, as if the words were foreign to him. “We got ourselves a daughter."
Arthur Morgan had a daughter.
The midwife cleaned the baby quickly before wrapping her in a soft blanket and placing her in your arms. You looked down at the tiny face, your tears mingling with laughter as you marveled at the little life you had created.
Arthur leaned closer, his large hand hovering over the baby’s head as if he was afraid to touch her. But when he finally did, his fingers were impossibly gentle, tracing the curve of the baby’s tiny cheek, then her nose.
As the baby settled in your arms, Arthur stayed close, his presence a steady warmth at your side. The storm raged on outside, but in that little cabin, all was calm. The three of you were together, and for the first time in a long time, Arthur felt like he had something worth fighting for.
-
The morning sun crept through the cracks in the cabin walls, casting golden rays over the small room. The air smelled of wood smoke and fresh pine, mingling with the faint scent of baby powder. Arthur Morgan stood near the hearth, rocking the tiny bundle in his arms with a tenderness that seemed almost out of place for a man of his size and reputation.
He hadn’t slept much the night before—not that he minded. Every sound the baby made, every soft whimper or rustle, had him awake and alert, ready to jump to your side or pick up the little one himself. But now, with you finally getting some well-deserved rest in the small cot across the room, it was just him and his daughter.
“She’s got your nose,” Arthur murmured, his deep voice quiet, as if afraid to break the spell of the moment. He traced a finger gently over her tiny features, marveling at how small and delicate she was. She stirred slightly, her face scrunching up in a way that made his heart ache.
“Already got a temper, huh?” he said with a small chuckle. “Guess that’s from me.”
He settled into the old rocking chair by the fire, cradling her close to his chest. The rhythmic creak of the chair mixed with the soft crackle of the fire, and for a moment, the chaos of the world outside seemed far away. He hummed a low tune, the same one his ma used to sing when he was a boy, his voice rough but steady.
“You’re somethin’ else, y’know that?” he whispered to her. “Didn’t think a man like me deserved somethin’ this good.”
She let out a small sigh, her tiny fist curling against his chest. Arthur stilled, his breath catching. It was the smallest thing, but it felt like the world to him. He hadn’t known he could love anything this much again, not since Isaac and Eliza. But here she was, proving him wrong with every beat of her little heart.
He glanced over at you, still asleep and bundled in blankets. You’d been through so much bringing her into the world, and Arthur had been there every step of the way. He’d held your hand, whispered reassurances in your ear, and wiped the sweat from your brow when you thought you couldn’t do it. And now, watching you sleep peacefully, he felt a surge of gratitude that he couldn’t quite put into words.
“She’s got your strength, too,” Arthur said softly, glancing down at the baby again. “Hope she’s got more of you than me. World could use more like her ma.”
The baby let out a small cry, her face scrunching up again. Arthur’s eyes widened, and he quickly stood, bouncing her gently in his arms. “Alright, alright, easy now,” he murmured, his voice soothing. “What’s the matter, huh? You hungry?”
He walked over to the small table where a clean bottle sat waiting, quickly warming it by the fire. Once it was ready, he settled back into the chair and offered it to her. She latched on immediately, her tiny lips working with determination. Arthur couldn’t help but laugh softly, his eyes crinkling with affection.
“There you go,” he said. “Ain’t no need to cry when your pa’s gotcha, huh?”
As she drank, Arthur leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. His mind wandered, thinking of everything he’d done, every bad choice he’d made, every road that had led him here. He wasn’t a good man—not by a long shot—but holding her, he wanted to try. For you. For her.
When she finished, he placed the bottle aside and held her up against his shoulder, patting her back gently. “You’re gonna have a good life,” he promised, his voice thick with emotion. “Don’t care what I gotta do. I’m gonna make sure you and your ma are safe. Always.” Arthur couldn't make the same mistake twice.
The baby let out a soft burp, and Arthur chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “That’s my girl,” he murmured, settling her back into the crook of his arm.
A soft rustle from the bed caught his attention, and he turned to see you stirring, your eyes fluttering open. You smiled sleepily when you saw him, your gaze drifting to the baby in his arms.
“How’s she doin’?” you asked, your voice still thick with sleep.
Arthur smiled, his expression soft. “She’s perfect. Just like her ma.”
You sat up, stretching before crossing the room to join him. Arthur shifted slightly, making room for you to sit on the arm of the chair. You leaned against him, your head resting on his shoulder as you both gazed down at your daughter.
“She’s gonna have your heart, you know,” you said teasingly, though there was warmth in your voice.
Arthur let out a quiet laugh. “Reckon she already does.”
For a long moment, the three of you sat there together, the fire casting a warm glow over the room. The outside world could wait. Right now, all that mattered was the love shared in that little cabin—Arthur, you, and the tiny miracle cradled in his arms.
Waiter! Waiter! More chubby Jack Marston please!! 🤤🤤
ᢉ𐭩 𐔌 𝐃𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐲 ꒱
Jack x fem reader
warnings!!: oral (receiving and giving), playful slapping, name calling (mutt, etc), p in v, edging, overstim (kinda), lemme know if there’s more !!
AN + tag: ok I tried to feed you guys well.. tell me if it’s good!!! @n0b0dykn0ws44
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈
Jack was being stupid, an idiot, mad at you for… god knows, you sat on the bed, looking at him “are you serious?” You scoff out, glaring at him. “Yes I am, do you have a problem with that?” He grumbled out, eyes rolling, you sat next to him, petting his ear, knowing that was a sensitive spot for him, he flushed slightly and leaned into the touch, chewing his bottom lip.
“Fuck..” he mumbled under his breath, gulping, adjusting his belt, glancing at you with those sad eyes. “You don’t play fair. Not at all..” he grumbled out, staring at you, whole body facing you now. “You’ve forgiven me that quick?” You giggled at him, scratching his scalp and tugging him closer by his collar; you kissed his jaw, nipping and biting along the softness.
“Pervert, already hard..” you tug his hair, making him choke out a whimper. “You- fuck-“ he tried to act bratty, but your hands on his belt killed off any resistance, he couldn’t fight you, he adored you.
The sight was funny, a big, mean outlaw, leaning into your touch and whimpering like a kicked dog, his eyes wide and pupils blown out. “We haven’t started and you’re already panting.” You said as you ran your hand down his soft stomach, tugging on his belt to make him react.
“What can I say, I’m a mutt for you.” He huffed softly, licking your neck which turned into him sucking hickeys into your skin. You let him, undoing his belt, squeezing his cock through his boxer briefs, making his hips thrust up and making him moan.
You slowly tugged his briefs down to see how cock tip dripping with pre-cum, running down the side of him. You leaned down to lick it up, making Jack let out a breathless swear. As your tongue swirls his cock tip, your hand pumps- Jack bites his lip, closing his eyes so they wouldn’t cross or roll back, his chest heaved as he started to sweat already.
“You- fuck.. you know how to play me sooo… soo well..” he whined out, his hand pushing your hair out the way so he could see your face when you were preforming on him. Each time his eyes would flutter open, he’d try to focus them on you, only for them to ultimately roll back.
Raspy moans came from his chest as you pumped him quicker, your pulled your mouth away from him, lips against your neck as he took your treatment. “P-please darlin’ please.. don’t tease me, I-i need you to kiss me.” He sobbed out pathetically, fingers still tangled in your hair.
Jack tried to lean forward to kiss you, but you leaned away, you enjoyed watching him mewl for you, how his eyes were so dilated they were almost black- sweat dripped from his face as you sped up even more, his thighs jerking and contorting. “Ohgosh-ohmygod-“ he cried out, eyes laser focused on your lips, “darlin’ you’re being so mean, I deserved it.” He leaned forward, you let him take control.
His lips were sloppy and messy, moaning loudly into your mouth as he fucked your hand dumbly. “I-I’m so close, so so close.” He rambled out, you pull away.
“Stop- cmon why’d you do that???” He grabbed your wrist, kissing you deeper, as if to convince you. Which didn’t work, you had a plan however. “Between my thighs, now.” You ordered, a sick grin on your lips, Jack complied immediately.
He immediately started to work on your jeans, tugging them down along with your underwear, left hanging off your ankle. He immediately got to work, kissing and licking at your entrance, panting and moaning as he humped the mattress.
You slapped his face playfully, a low moan coming from him, he continued to eat you out, suctioning around your clit as his tongue flicked erratically, his ring and middle finger pushing into you, pumping. breathy moans slipping out your mouth, Jack was so good with his mouth and fingers, especially if it meant pleasing you. You tug at his hair, scratching at his scalp.
He let out a pleased hum at the sensation, opening his eyes to look at you, rutting faster into the mattress as he gets eye contact he so badly needs, he noticed how flushed you looked now, he doubled his efforts- you choke out a whimper as you reach your orgasm, forcing his head down as you finish, suffocating him slightly.
When you let go of his head, he pulls away, gasping and huffing his face wet with you, “did I do good?” He drawled out, eyes half lidded. “Perfect.” You groan at the sight of him, slapping him playfully again, watching his hips buck at the slap.
Jack flopped onto his back as you straddled him, giving him desperate, wet kisses. You grind together, breathing heavily into each others mouths, both of you sensitive.
You reach down, pushing him down; a hiss leaving you, you always forgot how big Jack was. You roll your hips, lips practically glued together as you wrap your arms around his neck, using his body for leverage, Jack let out grunts, eyes closed and jaw slack, panting like a dog. “Mhm- m’already close… please can- can I cum now?” He groaned out, eyes opening to focus on you, you cupped his cheek, petting his sore cheek as you rode him.
“Yeah- you’ve been good.” You bite his bottom lip, kissing hard. Jacks hips start to buck and thrust, loud, unhinged noises leaving his throat as you let him orgasm. He bit down onto your shoulder, his whole body shaking as he finished inside of you.
He let out loud whines, face buried in your neck, hips rolling up, eyelids fluttering. “You did so good Jack- so good.” you coo out, pressing kisses to his forehead. “That was so good.. mhm.” He said breathlessly, body quivering from the after shocks.
(four of the photos are mine, the ones that aren’t (molly, javier, landon ricketts, and grimshaw photos) are from the rdr wiki)
Hi, I’m Blaze! Felt the need to reintroduce myself just in case this is the first post you’re seeing from me.
This’ll be my first time participating in kinktober and even my first time participating in @flufftober I’m actually super excited!!!! I’m an avid smut reader but in no way am I an avid smut writer, but! I’m trying to be. So I took it upon myself to do Kinktober. Flufftober was a last minute addition because Bee (@pressgforgoodgirl, thanks again btw💕) had suggested I do it alongside kinktober and I loved the idea! I have to clarify, I am not going to be doing every single day. I’m in college so having class work alongside a very overactive mind doesn’t exactly allow me to sit down and write 31 fics, as much as I wish it did. So, I’m writing for ten of the prompts (five for kinktober, five for flufftober and maybe a little extra if I get the inspiration). I combined some of the days and even switched them around cause that’s what worked for me, but I do hope you enjoy nonetheless!
Oh and of course,
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
Day 1: Masturbation - Javier Escuella x f!reader
Day 2: “Is that my hoodie” - “…No?” - Charles Smith x gn!reader
Day 3: Exhibitionism/Oral sex - Arthur Morgan x f!reader
Day 4: First Dance/Late Night Talks - Molly O’Shea x gn!reader
Day 5: Handcuffs/Punishment - Susan Grimshaw x Black Belle
Day 6: Caught in the Rain - Karen Jones x f!OC
Day 7: Outdoor sex/Humiliation - Landon Ricketts x f!reader
Day 8: Set in Another Time/In Vino Veritas/“Can I Kiss You?” - Sadie Adler x gn!reader
Day 9: Threesome - Arthur Morgan, Mary Gillis, and f!reader
Day 10: Anniversary/Stuck or Lost Together/And They Lived Happily Ever After - John Marston x Abigail Marston
But yeah, that’s about it! Let me know if you want to be added to a taglist for all of them or even just one of them (and let’s just hope I can actually get these done, if some of them have to be posted in November THEN SO BE IT!!!!)
synopsis: after ur horse bucks u off after a fright and ur now left stranded alone in the forest across roanoke valley. unsure of what to do, u settle down for the night before hearing some heavy footsteps... and u froze.
tags ͡˚̣̣̣𓎟𓎟 naive femreader, mid to low honour, dated and typical period idealogy a.m ౨ৎ ⋆ ｡ ˚
chapter 2
u weren't sure what to do anymore, completely lost since ur home was in the middle of literally nowhere. u were out on ur horse, hazel going on another simple ride through the beautiful scenery that roanoke ridge had to offer. a pretty view within a prettier country. only for something to scare ur horse, causing u to be bucked off before hazel ran far away and u sighed softly. what can u do now? it's not like u can just walk home as u were maybe a few miles away? just a guess…
u were walking aimlessly in the woods by now, not even sure where u are or what u should do, especially since the sun was beginner to disappear. there were little rips below ur dress due to the branches attaching themselves to the fabric, and ur shirt was following that same fate. the only hope u hoped for is that nature would be kind to u and kept the hungry animals away. soon, u felt ur legs beginning to get tired with each step u took.
u gave up, accepting defeat as u settle down in the clearing of a forest, the wooden pricks pressing against ur back uncomfortably but there's nothing u can do now, until the morning came and you could walk some more. luckily, it wasn't too cold, but u did feel the breeze of the night air. u didn't like how eerily quiet it was either or if u just couldn't hear anything or.. anyone for miles, u were in the middle of nowhere after all.
but then, u heard a twig snap, like it broke under someone's heavy footstep and caused u to be alert. although u couldn't see anything in the darkness, something in ur gut was telling u there was someone here, someone horrible. u didn't move, like a deer in headlights. being struck with fear, ur breathing quicken slightly as ur eyes fell onto a tall figure coming towards u. ur lips quivered with fear as u did ur best to get up on ur feet before tripping over a branch, causing u to go back to where u started, on the ground.
“woah there, i ain't gonna harm ya..”
ur soft but scared gaze remained up at him as u backed up to another tree. u didn't even talk back in case he was one of those bad men u have heard about, the murfree brothers?... or something like that? u weren't too sure. since it was only a glance that u would take to the posters on ur travels through annesburg.. they were some scary men in this world, and he looked like he was one of them. or were u wrong?
to him, it was maybe wrong to think of u like this in this moment since u were absolutely terrified of him, but u were a very pretty girl. ur face remained him of those porcelain dolls he saw by the window of shops in the big city of saint denis, with those big eyes and rosey cheeks. ur hair looked soft as silk, just what he'd do to comb his thick fingers through ur hair just once.
“...are ye lost? i could help ya, if ye let me, that is.”
should u talk? or should u get up and run away as fast as u possibly could? despite feeling the tiredness that already runs through ur body. u needed to rest, and u were at least smart enough to know there was no way that u could outrun this man. he looked like he was a traveller of sorts, a hunter, perhaps? either way, u knew he wasn't the type to be easily fooled. he seemed nice enough, but u just weren't too sure about what to make of him.
“... my horse bucked me off, somethin’ scared my girl and she ran off, leavin’ me… could you give me a ride home? please, sir?” u didn't consider urself a religious girl, but u prayed and prayed mentally that he'd help u, although something in ur gut was telling u that u should run—
“‘course. i don't mind, miss. d'ya need help up?” he says, the gruff in his voice showing through before he gives u his hand. he must be a hard-working man, callous and hardness make their appearance on his hands as u look at them for a second.
u hesitantly took a hold and he pulled u up to ur feet, a small sigh left ur lips, glad that he had the kindness in his heart to help a girl like u out, despite how scary the outside was during nightfall.
“do you know where reed cottage is? near the valley?”
“yes i think i do, miss. ‘nd don't worry, yer okay.” he replied before u felt his hand rest on the small of ur back, guiding u back to the clearing of the main road and u see a beautiful brown horse, big and brooding.
“she's a stern girl but yer alrigh’.” the older man added with w chickle before he helped u up onto his horse. he hitched up no long after. with a small “hyah” the horse began to trot along the road, and ur arms rested around his torso as u didn't want to fall off, either.
u were quiet, he wasn't much of a talker either and that u didn't mind, just didn't expect to see anyone out at this time of night. although, u couldn't but shake the feeling that u should say something, break the silence between u two, but u were too nervous. u didn't want to anger him, and he tells u to leave him alone. u were just a skittish and shy girl. been on ur own for as long as u can remember. now, ur staring, and u didn't mean to. it was a habit of urs. his hair was long, and he had a big stature to match his broad shoulders, like he was swiftly shielding u away. he was wearing dark gloves that matched his dark hat.
“y'got a name, miss?”
“... [name].”
“a pretty name for a pretty girl, suits ya.” he replies, looking over his shoulder for a moment just so u can hear him better, and u did.
did he… give u a compliment? u weren't even sure how to react before ur rosey cheeks got more of a red hue to them. shaking urself out of ur thoughts, u hesitantly spoke back.
“what's ur name, sir?”
he didn't say anything for a few moments, like he was now the one hesitating. do u know who he is? there's no way that u do since he hasn't done anything illegal here, yet. he should be okay, right? only one way to find out…
“... arthur. arthur morgan.” he replies as he returns his gaze back to the road. and to his fortunate luck, u had no idea who he was, and he was determined to keep it that way. he didn't want u to find out… all that.
“thank you for your help.. um, mr morgan.”
“‘s nothin’. just doin’ what any other man would do.”
