i will write: character x character, character x reader, MxM, FxM, ftm reader, gn reader, non binary reader, male reader, slight nsfw, fluff, angst, pet play
i wont write: fem reader, gross bodily fluids/substances
i write for the Van Der Linde gang, Angelo Bronte, Colm O'Driscoll, Eagle Flies, Mary Linton, Rains Fall, Lee Everett, Kenny, Clementine, Javier, etc (ask if others arent on here)
if u want me to write smth but its not listed, js ask!
also pls try and b a bit specific w ur requests, im not too good at building off of things😓
I love John Marston so much I could be sick. He's just my favorite little gunslinger who can't swim and barely read. He could do no wrong. Free my boy.
⸝⸝꙳𓂃˖♪ — f!reader、fluff、slight angst ( if you know you know )、suggestive ( ? )、mentions of death / killing、established relationship ++ not proofread !
Arthur Morgan was a mean man. Rough around the edges, short spoken and to the point and if he needed to get his hands dirty– he did. At the end of the day it’s kill or be killed, eat or be eaten. Survive or be washed away with the rest of the wild west that’s being tamed by blood soaked money and strings pulled across states and growing cities that polluted the skies with their toxic fumes. Arthur Morgan survived many things in his life, walked away from situations he shouldn’t have been able to walk away from and breathed air that should’ve been stolen from his lungs when weapons have been pointed at him. Arthur Morgan was a ruthless man, death followed him like a shadow and he was a cruel man you never messed with unless you wished to smell gunsmoke as your body went limp and a clean shot went right through your skull.
And yet, this was the same Arthur Morgan you welcomed into your home— time and time again.
The door swings open and startles you. A quiet gasp followed by a loud clank! As the metal cooking tray in your hands clammers against the wooden counter. You whip your head around, eyes on the front door where a man tall in stature and broad stands in the doorway. Your heart drops to your stomach where a sudden nauseating knot twists in your gut. Your pupils shrink, then dilate as you take in the familiarity of the hat sitting atop the man’s head and you sigh a breath of relief and shake your head as you collect yourself. A hand on your chest, where your heart still hammers against your ribs in a painful rhythm and you take a moment to let your eyes flutter shut, turning your head down with another quiet breath. You pick up on the sound of spurs clinking against the wooden floorboards, hefty footsteps that slowly draw closer– entering your quaint abode.
The footsteps grow quiet somewhere in the room. You smooth a hand over your hair, loosely tied up in a bun to keep it out of your face when you were in the process of cooking a couple moments ago. Free strands around your face dangle and sway with the movement of you lifting your head. “Arthur.” You breathe out and you’re unsure if you’re addressing him or reaffirming to yourself that it is him after all.
“Ma’am.” Ah, that roughened up voice speaking in a softer tone as he replied back. Your shoulders visibly relax and it’s now you take your eyes off the floor and cast them up towards his direction. He looks… different. The same outfit, same cowboy hat, same charmingly handsome face and yet– something felt off to say the least.
You notice the blood staining his hands, the bruised skin of his knuckles as he thumbs over his digits and stands in the middle of your rather small living space and the tiniest hints of a frown graces your lips as you take in the sight of him and every unspoken detail there was to offer. You round the small dinner table, hand ghosting over a wooden chair seated there as you stare up at him and you can’t quite tell what he’s hiding in those blue eyes of his when he stares back with an awkward half smile back. Your brows furrow together, lips turned downward as you take another step towards him, “Did you do something?” the wooden board beneath your sock-clad feet groans quietly.
He tilts his head with a raised brow before shaking his head. He reaches up and takes his hat off his head, “No… At least I don’t think so,” He steps forward, glancing at the floor before shooting you a wary look, “why?”
“Well,” You take another step forward, closing the distance between you two as your hands come up and grab ahold of the black bandana tied loosely around his neck and he lightly tosses his hat onto the small rocking chair to his right, the same rocking chair he usually finds you seated in while gazing at the fireplace and reading a book. Your fingers curl around the knot keeping his bandana around his throat as dust gathers on the pads of your fingers at the contact against the material. “you look guilty.”
His eyes widen, just the slightest, and then he laughs. It’s dry, airy almost as he pulls back with a step backwards. Your hands remain idle in the air for a moment before dropping by your sides with a quiet sigh. He shakes his head and gives you a grin, “Me? Guilty? I mean, there is a bounty on my head–” “You and I both know that’s not what I meant.”
The room grows quiet, and the grin on his face slowly falls as he glances between you and the floor. The fireplace crackles softly, wood kindling soft flickering flames and it crosses your mind to go stir up the burning wood to keep the fire going but you don’t move. You straighten up, an air of confidence about yourself and the smallest hints of genuine concern pinched between your brows, “I know you, Arthur.”
He sighs, heavy and deep as he glances up at you, “No,” He takes a step towards you once more and a roughened up hand comes up to twirl a loose strand of hair by your face between two digits, “y’don’t really know me, sweetheart.” There’s another beat of silence and something burns in your chest that wasn’t there before but now it's present, loud in an unspoken way and you try to ignore how blue his eyes look suddenly when he gazes down at you. There’s an invisible smoke in the air, charged and ready to spark but he won’t create the flame. You don’t know if it’s because he truly doesn’t want to or if it stems from fear but there’s a sudden urgency in the way your hands come up to rest against his chest and you make a mental note to clean his clothes for him when he goes to rest later.
He leans down and you lift up, toes pushing into the floorboards and heels lifting off in the same beat to gain a bit of height in an attempt to assist in closing the distance. Your lashes flutter and your tongue slides against your bottom lip without much thought, a flutter in the rhythm of your heartbeat that’s welcomed and pleasant. His breath mingles with your own, nose ghosting yours as his eyes cast downward and he pauses just shy of your lips and you’re left on the edge of a metaphorical cliff again. “I hurt some people today,” He starts and you don’t know if you want to listen to him now confess to what’s weighing on him or kiss him senseless and then let him continue speaking. “One of them, in particular, was a man, weak… looked deathly t’say the least.” Your brows knit together with more questions in your head now than answers, but you don’t speak. Your eyes glance at his lips and you notice the red adorning the left side of his mouth and instinctively you pull back and tug the cuff of your sleeve over your fingers to rub and smudge it off.
He hums gruffly in response to your action, eyes failing to meet yours as he ponders for a moment. Arthur had a problem of thinking far too hard on things, delving way too deep on subjects or topics that were too heavy to bear on the forefront of one’s mind and yet— all Arthur ever seemed to do was think, ponder, contemplate and never come to any conclusions he was content with. A repetitive cycle, one he fell victim to time and time again and you could see it all over his face. Arthur was terrible at hiding himself from you, perhaps this was a weakness in of itself to him, but to you it was a strength that you admired. You reach a gentle hand up to cup his cheek and he doesn’t pull away, sighing deeply as he blinks down at you, “I’m a bad man… You shouldn’t be welcomin’ me into your home like this.”
You roll your eyes with a scoff, “Oh, Arthur, we’ve been over this a billion times—” You stop yourself to tug him down, closer until his lips smush against your own. It isn’t graceful in the slightest, and your giggles are muffled against his lips as he grumbles into the lopsided kiss before gripping your jaw, firm but soft and tilting you properly into a kiss that melts you into putty in his hands. You pull away to steal a breath and when he leans down to meet your lips against you press a soft, delicate finger to his chin with a playful smile that turns softer as you continue, “— I love you. I always will, so, for as long as I do,” You pause again to press a quick kiss to his lips and his hands find home on your waist, tugging you closer to his front. “you’ll always be welcomed in my home, Arthur.”
He shakes his head, “You are g’na be the death of me.” the sound of your giggles that follow soon after makes his heart flutter in a way it hasn’t in quite a while and he wonders why he doesn’t leave his outlaw life behind for a quiet, peaceful life in this homey space with you and you alone. You pull away from him, grinning ear to ear as you walk back towards the small kitchen counter where you were previously working on dinner for yourself and the reality settles in his bones once again for God knows how many times now. The reality that you both live different lives, carry different burdens, different skeletons in your closets.
There’s a foolish part of him that wishes to whisk you away and hide deep in the woods in the west, living the rest of his days out accompanied by you and maybe a kid or two if he could ever consider himself worthy of being a father one day. And then there’s the realistic, cold, harsh part of him that feels that this is his punishment for his crimes. To have a freedom so sweet and inviting dangled in front of him yet just out of reach. Just visiting you like this is enough danger put on you that you aren’t even quite aware of. He wonders when you’ll stop letting him in despite your words, wonders when you’ll realize he’s a bad man and nothing more and leave him for someone better, more deserving and able to give you the life you wish for.
“You’re thinking hard again,” You call out, turning to look over your shoulder at him. You nod your head toward him with a reassuring smile, “C’mere, you can help me make us dinner.” Us. He thinks he likes the sweet tune of the words you string along that make it easier to breathe and his shoulders feel a little lighter. Heavy footsteps move with quiet haste, until his chin rests on the top of your head— messing up your already disheveled bun —and big hands grip at your waist again as he lets out a heavy sigh and relaxes in the space you provide.
You grumble under your breath, “This isn’t really the help I meant.” To which his fingers poke at your sides until the skin beneath your shirt tingles in a ticklish manner and you yelp, swatting his hands away. “Arthur Morgan.”
He chuckles, a smile evident in his voice, “Ma’am.”
It’s quiet for a couple seconds before he moves to be by your side and you shoot him a soft glare to which he raises his hands in surrender. Your eyes fix on the sight of his hands and you grimace, “Wash your hands first— then you can assist me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” There’s a bite of a smile in his voice still and your brow twitches at the tease in his voice as he moves around you towards the sink. You grumble to yourself, something along the lines of is this really an outlaw and he can’t help but grin, cheeks sore from smiling as much as he has by now and he thinks he can let himself soak up this moment for a while longer, no thinking, no gunning people down, no robbing or stealing— just you. You and him in your small abode. You and him in your own little shared corner of the world.
cw/tw: size difference, unprotected sex, reader is part of the van der linde gang (but thats not rly relevant), reader has curly hair and arthur washes it, reader and arthur smoke cigarettes and drink alcohol, reader wears feminine clothes (nightdress, a skirt, stays), friends to lovers, nonsexual sleeping together, mentions of canon typical violence
— “I’ll take the floor,” he says, leaning against the dresser and rubbing the towel carelessly over his hair.
You stand, crossing your arms over your chest, “Like hell you will, Arthur.”
“Well, I ain’t lettin’ you sleep on the ground.”
“Arthur.”
He huffs your name with the same exasperation.
You huff and drop back down to sit on the bed, hands in your lap, “Can’t we just share?”
Arthur blinks, stops drying his hair, “Really?” —
First one drop on your cheek, then another on your shoulder. You turn in your saddle, glancing back to the forest you’d spent the better part of the afternoon hunting in; a successful hunt, thankfully. The sky above has roiling, dark clouds close by, part rain and part the start of the evening. Not above you just yet but you know soon the rain will be pouring down. Not enough time to make it back to camp, but enough time to set up a tent if you stop now.
“Arthur,” you start, wiping the errant drop of rain off your face.
“I know,” he replies, not turning back to you. He flicks his head, using his chin to point at the path ahead of you both, “We’ll stop in Valentine.”
Thunder rumbles miles behind you, close enough to make your horse burr and pick up her pace, getting you right beside Arthur. You pat her neck then make sure the rabbits you have tied to her saddle are secured, after the rain you’ll still be expected to bring in some food for the gang. The buck strapped down on the haunches of Arthur’s mare Temperina stays snugly in place even as she joins your horse in a canter.
“It’s alright, Rio,” you soothe, scratching the side of your mare’s neck, “You’ll be alright.”
It only takes a few more minutes to reach town but by then the rain has started, a light shower that makes you shudder as it dampens your clothes. Thankfully the stables have room for your horses, the kills will have to stay on their saddles until tomorrow but they’ll keep. Arthur takes both your saddlebag and his off the horses, slings them over one shoulder and walks towards the open door. You feed Rio an apple from your palm and kiss her nose before joining Arthur at the exit, sighing when you realize the rain has picked up. It falls in fast, heavy drops, turning the dirt roads of Valentine into mud. People run inside and dogs snap their jaws trying to catch the water in their mouths, the rain muffles all the sounds of the town into a dull, steady thrum.
“Let’s go,” Arthur says, pushing his hat down on his head then lifting his arm for you to duck under.
You curl up under his jacket as you two run to the hotel, mud gets kicked up to your knees but the rest of you makes it out unscathed, Arthur takes the brunt of the rain without complaint. The door shuts behind you, Arthur's arm brushes down your back as he returns it to his side. A tremor runs through you, sucking in a hard breath makes you realize you and Arthur smell like sun baked brush and sweat. You don’t mind it at all.
You both do your best to scrape all the mud off your boots at the entrance mat before you enter any further, you give the clerk a smile as he greets you both, “You’re in luck, we have one last room available,” the man chirps as he takes the key off the hook and holds it out to you, “Perfect for the happy couple!”
Something about being mistaken for a couple makes you want to burst into nervous laughter. Not that the thought is unpleasant, the opposite, in fact. You wait for Arthur to correct him. He doesn't. Arthur just rebalances the saddlebags on his shoulder before reaching into his satchel and pulling out a dollar, placing it on the counter with a muttered thank you then taking the key. He hurries up the stairs and you’re quick to follow, apologizing to the clerk over your shoulder for the mud.
The room is outfitted with a single bed. Not ideal, but it’s warm and dry, its own fireplace and two windows that tinkle with the sound of falling rain. In short, you think it’s perfect. Arthur puts your saddlebags on the dresser and starts to peel off his wet jacket.
“Go order us some baths,” he instructs, the leather of his jacket squeaking.
“Excuse me?”
Arthur huffs a laugh and gives you a smile over his shoulder, “Please, order us some baths.”
“That’s better,” you nod, “Start a fire for us, would you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Arthur replies with a nod of his own. He turns to hand you some coins for the bath out of his bag before facing the vanity again, shrugging his suspenders off his shoulders.
You smile at his back then turn on your heel to head downstairs.
You return from the baths before Arthur does, feeling shiny and clean and exhausted as you pull a nightdress from your saddlebag. The cotton is pleasantly scratchy against your body, you wring out the ends of your hair with a towel as the rain pattering against the window makes your eyelids grow heavier. It can’t hurt to sit for a moment, you think. The bed is soft and cushiony compared to the saddle you’d ridden in for hours today and the fire Arthur started washes the room in a warmth that seems to encourage sleep.
You’re not sure how much time passes before a knock against the door makes you sit up, startled awake after dozing off, “Yes?”
Arthur cracks the door open and peeks inside, his eyes soft and as sleepy as yours, “Don’t worry, ‘s just me.”
“Hey, just me. Come on in,” you smile sleepily and continue toweling off your hair.
Arthur’s hair is still dripping, leaving tracks of water trailing down into his collar. One drop travels from his temple, through his stubble, down to his collarbone, a slow drag along his skin you follow with greedy eyes. He eases the door shut before you throw your towel at his head, fighting a grin when he laughs, his nose wrinkling attractively.
“I’ll take the floor,” he says, leaning against the dresser and rubbing the towel carelessly over his hair.
You stand, crossing your arms over your chest, “Like hell you will, Arthur.”
“Well, I ain’t lettin’ you sleep on the ground.”
“Arthur.”
He huffs your name with the same exasperation.
You huff and drop back down to sit on the bed, hands in your lap, “Can’t we just share?”
Arthur blinks, stops drying his hair, “Really?”
“They already think we’re a ‘happy couple’,” you shrug, “Unless you can’t be a gentleman for a few hours.”
He scoffs, “What? Of course I can!”
You laugh at how affronted he gets at your little tease, “Dunno, Arthur. I’ve been told I’m quite the lady, I’ll understand if you can’t resist.”
“Shut up,” he rolls his eyes before crossing the room to toss another log into the fire.
The rain continues as you slide into bed, increasing in strength steadily but slowly. Even if the moon was full it would have no chance at shining any light down through the clouds. Thunder cracking and booming with no particular rhythm makes for the perfect symphony to pull you down into sleep. You shift onto the far side of the bed, leaving the covers folded over for Arthur. The bed dips slightly with the weight of him sitting. You wait for him to lay beside you but he doesn’t, you crack an eye open to find him staring pointedly at you.
“I can take the floor, really,” Arthur whispers.
You roll your eyes and drag him down to the mattress by his elbow, “Get some sleep, Arthur.”
Your eyes slide shut as he settles, very consciously leaving space between you two. You wouldn’t mind him laying closer to you but you don’t tell him that.
Instead you say, “Good night.”
Arthur hums back, “Good night.”
-
It hasn’t been too long since you joined the Van Der Linde gang, a few months shy of a year, you’d guess. You’re still not sure whether it was good luck or back luck that set you on a path that merged with theirs, but you’re grateful for the company, for the friends. In spending time with the group you’ve taken a liking to Arthur, a fondness for him that only grows with everything he does. You’ve taken joy in learning more about him, stockpiling little things like how he sneaks sugar into his coffee. Watching the way he moves, the way his hands move, deadly and precise against a trigger then clumsy, warm and friendly with a drink in his hand when he’s around friends. The way he thinks, performatively oafish even though he couldn’t hide his sensitivity and intelligence if he tried. And, oh, he tries. As if you wouldn’t notice the way he enjoys learning, drawing new plants and animals in his journal, the way he listens and engages with people.
You know Arthur is a bad man, thief and conman and killer like his fathers, both biological and not. Doesn’t matter to you, you’re just as bad as the rest of the gang. The same thieving and killing under your belt as everyone else, you’re no angel. You don’t care anyhow, you’ve seen how Arthur has a kindness folded into him for the ones he loves, even strangers on occasion, and a romantic streak a mile wide if you know where to look. You’re looking out for it, always. Sometimes you find it when you catch him holding the framed picture of his mother, when he’s singing by the fire and bringing people gifts, when he’s sketching with that focused yet easy and open expression on his face. You catalogue everything, how it feels to have him smile at you, to touch you, the pleasant warmth that sparks in your chest. It’s nice to trust him, to be his friend. You certainly wouldn’t share a bed with most of the men in camp, that’s for sure.
-
“I told you not to come,” Arthur barks over the wind, the fabric of the tent whipping around as he tries to wrestle it into place.
You grunt, cursing him under your breath but knowing he’s right, “How was I supposed to know it would snow?”
You should’ve thought something was coming when the cool, fresh scent of the breeze turned icy and sharp, but then the snow started pelting down from the sky before you could say anything. It takes a few more matches before you manage to get the fire lit, the sticks you’ve gathered mercifully catching quickly and providing a small wave of heat on your bare hands. You stand and tug your coat around you even tighter, grumbling something nonsensical to yourself about letting your crush on Arthur getting you wrapped up in a fruitless hunting trip.
The sounds of Arthur working stops, tents are all set up now, and he slots himself beside you, shoulder to shoulder.
You do your best to not let your teeth chatter when you ask, “Got a cigarette for me, Arthur?”
“For you? Sure.”
He blindly rummages in his satchel for his pack of cigarettes then shakes one out into your waiting hands. You hold it up to your lips as Arthur takes one of your matches then bends down to strike it against his boot, the pop of orange flame against the monochrome white snow feels impossibly bright as Arthur holds it up to your cigarette. He doesn’t manage to light it though, your hand is trembling too much to keep it steady. Arthur follows the dance for a few seconds before he plucks it out of your fingers with a soft grunt. He puts it between his lips and lights it himself, cupping his free hand around the match to keep the flame alive. The small fire lights his face up in warm tones, his eyelashes have countless snowflakes that melt against his cheeks when he shuts his eyes and takes a short drag before he tosses away the match into the snow.
“Here,” he utters softly, just barely audible over the wind.
Arthur holds the cigarette up to your mouth and his fingers just barely graze your bottom lip and chin when he pulls away, you find yourself swaying forward slightly to follow the touch. You steady yourself and shove your hands under your armpits, mumbling a thank you around the cigarette.
Arthur’s eyes find yours then flick down to your arms before he starts to rummage around his satchel, finding what he needs before long. He tugs at your elbows until your arms drop and he can take one of your wrists in his hand to shove a glove over it, too big yet perfectly toasty.
His gaze is heavy when you meet his eyes as he puts the glove on your other hand, his cheeks flushed red from the cold, “Told you to buy some gloves, stubborn girl.”
“Yea,” you smile around the cigarette as you take a drag, wiggling your fingers in the oversized leather, “But yours are nicer.”
Arthur rolls his eyes, rubbing your hands for a moment before he shoos you away, “Go lay down, try ‘nd warm up.”
“It’s too cold to sleep, Arthur,” you whine, knocking the ash from your cigarette.
He huffs and scratches the back of his neck, “There’s a fire…” he starts, losing steam quickly and trailing off into silence. A beat passes, you take a few more drags from your cigarette before you toss it into the snow, then Arthur’s up, taking the few steps towards his tent to reach inside. He comes out with his bedroll and blankets in hand, a man on a mission..
“What are you…?” you start to ask.
Arthur doesn’t reply, just shoulders his way into your tent and lets the opening close behind him.
“Arthur?”
“Well, come on,” he shouts through the fabric, “Let’s get warm!”
You follow him into your tent and find the bedrolls side by side, just a few inches between them, Arthur is already sitting on his and laying out blankets. The heat from the fire manages to seep into the tent’s space, not quite cold but not quite warm just yet. You sink down into your bedroll, settling down on your side with a huff, smiling at the way Arthur appears to be already halfway to sleep. His chest rises and falls steadily, his breath coming out in little visible puffs through his nose. You study his face, the freckles along his cheeks, the scar on his chin, you think he’s the one of the most handsome men you’ve ever seen. Arthur’s hand rests in the minute space between you two, it’s easy for you to follow your impulse and slip your hand into his. Arthur curls his fingers around yours as he cracks an eye open. You steel yourself, trying not to shrink back even though embarrassment makes heat creeps up your neck.
“What?” he grunts.
“I’m cold,” you answer quietly.
“C’mere, quit yer bellyachin’, girl,” Arthur says gruffly, tucking the blankets around you and dragging your bedroll towards him, bringing you into the fold of his arms.
With your face pressed into his solid chest you feel, somehow, that there's a line somewhere between you two and this is getting you both nearer to it. For a moment, you try to follow the thought but sleep comes in. Heavy, dark and warm, smelling like Arthur.
-
“Rum is far better than whiskey,” you muse as you raise your glass, wincing at the pain in your shoulder before you knock back the shot, “Dunno how you drink that swill, Arthur.”
Your arm aches something awful after Rio bucked you off earlier today. It’s not her fault, bullets started flying when bandits tried to rob you and Arthur on the road. No more worries now, you’d both made short work of them and managed to drag yourselves to the nearest saloon to drink.
Arthur laughs, “Whatever you say, princess.”
He’s standing close enough to touch but he takes care to keep your injured arm in a protective little bubble as he drinks his whiskey. You wrinkle your nose as his taste in liquor, he just chuckles again and plucks almonds from the bowl, popping them into his mouth one by one.
“Can I get you folks rooms for the night?” the barkeep asks while he cleans a glass.
Arthur answers, “Sure, we’ll take one.”
Your stomach flips with surprise, then with pleasure. He didn’t bother to ask about availability, just decided to share a bed with you again. Arthur must realize it at the same time you do, his posture going stiff and awkward beside you as he looks at you sideways and catches you eyeing him. He puts down a few bills on the bar, enough to cover the room and the drinks, then makes like he’s going to touch your shoulder. He starts to reach for you, then aborts the gesture, changing direction to rap his knuckles on the countertop twice.
“I’ll be upstairs,” he mutters.
You laugh into your glass, heat blooming in your cheeks as you watch him hurry up the stairs.
“Newlyweds?”
You nearly choke on your rum, sputtering out, “What?”
“Sorry, miss,” the barkeep apologizes, but gives you a smile and a wink anyway.
You take a few coins out of your own bag and leave them on Arthur’s pile of bills, “A bath, please.”
The barkeep pockets the money and hands you the key to your room, tells you where the baths are and assures you yours will be ready shortly as you walk away. You find Arthur lingering in the upstairs hallway, pacing until he sees you at the top of the stairs.
You smile and wave the key in the air, “Forgot something?”
He huffs a laugh and nods, moving aside to let you lead him to the door. You and Arthur work around each other as you set things down in the room, shedding gear and coats and laying them wherever there is space for them. The only hiccup arises when taking off your bandolier, raising your arm over your head makes it throb dully, enough to make you let your gear fall to the floor with a wince.
“Shit,” you hiss, rubbing your shoulder absently.
Arthur flits by your side at once, “You okay?” he asks, hands hovering around your body, assessing.
Mother hen, you think, smiling as you soothe him, “Just a bruise, honest. I’m gonna take a bath, I’ll be back soon.”
Thankfully the bath is right beside your room and, as promised, ready for you. You try not to make any more sounds of discomfort while you undress, taking sharp breaths and biting the inside of your cheek instead. For a while, you manage to hold it in. Going through the motions of bathing without a hitch until you notice the leaves and dirt in your hair. No doubt from hitting the ground earlier today, something you’ll have to take care of before you go to bed. You sink below the water to wet your hair before you rise and start to scrub your scalp. Well, you try to, it soon becomes too uncomfortable and painful to be manageable.
“Damn it,” you curse, letting your arm slide into the water with a frustrated groan.
Two sharp knocks at the door have you sitting upright in a jolt, bath water sloshing as you start to speak, but the voice on the other side of the door talks first.
It’s Arthur’s voice, “It’s just me.”
You relax back down into the bath, letting yourself slip in until the bubbles are at your chin, “Come in, just me.”
You barely hear his little chuckle over the door opening, he keeps his eyes on the floor as he comes inside and shuts the door behind him. He clears his throat, still pretending like the floorboards are the most interesting thing in the world, “You alright?”
“Sure,” you shrug then grimace at the way your arm twinges, “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Sure,” he parrots with a hum before he comes around to kneel beside you and cross his arms over the edge of the tub, resting his chin on his arms so he can look you in the eye, “Can I help you anyway?”
You make a noise in your chest, hiding your smile in the bubbles as your heart skips a beat. You think of the line again, that line friends probably shouldn’t cross, think of how this gets you both even closer to doing just that. You wonder if Arthur feels it too.
“Yea,” you breathe, “Okay, Arthur.”
Arthur nods, shifts in place then lowers his hands into the water, “Scoot up, right here.”
You do as he asks and he gets to work, starting with his hands at the nape of your neck, cradling your head for a moment before he starts to detangle your hair. Pleasure washes over you, prickling your scalp and sending goosebumps down your arms and legs despite the temperature of the water and the heat of Arthur’s hands.
Arthur works slowly, methodically, with the kind of gentle care you knew he was capable of. Every knot and tangle gets pulled apart, his fingers combing through your curls and washing away the dirt. His nails scratch gently at your scalp, pulling pleased little sighs from your chest as you let your head move in any direction Arthur directs it in.
“Keep your eyes shut, sweetheart,” he whispers, a thrill zipping through you at the pet name.
You hum and let him tip your head back, his hand on your forehead stops the water from getting into your eyes as he rinses your hair. Arthur’s thumbs drag across the shell of your ear for a moment before he presses his lips to your cheek and stands.
“All done,” he murmurs, then makes a noise somewhere between a cough and a choke.
You open your eyes and find him pointedly staring at the ceiling, the faded painting on the wall, anything but you. A glance down shows you the bubbles have dissolved enough to leave your chest exposed. Chuckling, you rise out of the bath, wringing out your hair and smiling at how Arthur turns all the way around to put his back to you.
He coughs nervously again, scratching at the back of his neck as he asks, “Is there, uh, anything else you need?”
You reach for your towel and step out of the bath, “Nothin’ else, Arthur, thank you.”
“I’ll leave you to it then,” Arthur says before quickly slips out the door.
By the time you’re dressed for bed and back in the room, you find Arthur on the floor in front of the fire shuffling cards.
“Wanna play?” he asks with a look over his shoulder, almost like he’s nervous you’d still be dressed in nothing but soap bubbles.
You nod and sink down across from him as he deals the cards for what looks like rummy. A few hands get played in comfortable silence, you lose a couple, win a few more, smiling at the way Arthur studies the cards like anything more than his pride is at stake.
“Got anything to drink?” you ask after a while, eyeing him over your cards.
Arthur rummages around in the bag by his feet before pulling out a half full bottle of gin and holding it out to you.
You sigh, “That’ll do in a pinch.”
You drink straight from the bottle, groaning unhappily at the burn then handing it over to Arthur while trying not to wrinkle your nose. He drinks the same way, hissing after he swallows. He pushes the bottle across the floor to rest by you.
“Rum is definitely better than this,” Arthur grunts. For some reason it feels like the funniest thing he could’ve said, you’re giggling before you know it, only rising in volume when Arthur starts to laugh too. He wipes a hand down his face and haphazardly sets his cards down on the floor, face up, “Let’s go to sleep,” he orders gently, taking your hand and pulling you up from the floor.
The cards show you would’ve lost the round but it makes you smile harder anyway, you figured he was letting you win, “Okay.”
In bed, Arthur slots himself along your back, mindful of your bad arm as his hand rests on your hip, his bare legs tangled against yours. The heat of his palm seeps into your bones as you drift off to sleep, thinking of a charming little saying you remember your momma reciting now and then, something about silverware snug in a drawer.
-
“I got you somethin’,” Arthur says in lieu of a proper greeting, vying for casual nonchalance as he sidles up to you in camp one morning.
You look up from your book and blink at Arthur’s silhouette against the sun. He reaches out to you and you meet him halfway, letting him slip something cool and smooth into your palm, his fingers brushing yours as he pulls his hand back.
It’s a necklace, a mother-of-pearl cameo pendant on a pretty silver chain. You let out a pleased gasp as you trace your finger over the woman’s pearlescent features, over the delicate carved ringlet of her hair falling along her neck. Your lips twitch upwards at the thought of some rich woman being robbed of her jewelry, your smile growing into a grin when you think of Arthur pocketing it just to gift it to you.
You stand, setting your book down beside you so you can get on tiptoe to throw your arms around Arthur’s neck, “It’s beautiful, thank you.”
His hands go to your waist as you hug him, lingering there when you don’t step too far away.
“Put it on me?” you ask, looking up at him through your lashes.
Arthur nods and you turn around, holding your hair out of the way for him. His fingertips grazing your neck as he clasps the necklace makes you shiver, preening with pleasure when the pendant settles on your chest.
You turn back to him, rising on tiptoe again to kiss Arthur’s cheek, “Thank you.”
Arthur opens his mouth to say something but seems to think better of it. He simply tips his hat to you and walks on by.
-
There’s still at least half a day's ride to the next town even though you and Arthur have had the horses galloping on and off all day. You know you should be focused on scouting ahead but your eyelids keep drooping despite your best efforts. The rhythm of the horses trotting seems like it's purposefully hypnotizing you to slip into unconsciousness. You jerk upwards a few times in your saddle when you start to nod off, desperately fighting the urge to lay down on Rio’s neck and fall asleep.
“Alright,” Arthur calls out when you startle awake again with a little yelp, turning his horse to stop in front of yours, “We should set up camp.”
“No!” you shout, straightening up and rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, “I can stay awake!”
Arthur ignores you and hops down from Temperina, taking the reins from your hands to lead both horses off the road.
You groan and half heartedly try to tug the reins back into your control, “Arthur, I promise I can!”
Still, he ignores you, at least until he finds a clearing he must deem suitable to spend the night in. Then, he stands at your side gesturing for you to jump down into his arms. You sigh but do as he asks, hopping down and letting him catch you and lower you to the ground.
You two move in orbit around each other as you set up camp, brushing hands and arms alongside each other as you both grab supplies from your saddlebags. Arthur sets up the sleeping arrangements while you start a fire just a few feet away, taking a peek at him with hazy, tired eyes. There’s only one tent, bedrolls set up inside. They’re not side by side, far too close for that. The edges are placed one atop the other, two bedrolls made into one. Turning back to the fire, you bite your bottom lip and wonder why he’s still keeping up with this habit you two have developed. You try not to think about it too deeply, fighting a smile as you feed a few more sticks into the flames, an owl hooting somewhere far away.
The sky has darkened to the color of blue velvet as you two eat. Dinner is just whatever you have in your packs, neither if you in the mood to cook. The fire is more for warmth and light as you two wind down, shedding your outer layer of clothes before settling down for sleep. You climb into the tent first, dropping down with a huff and tucking yourself under blankets. It’s snug, comfortable, your eyelids are heavy as you peer out of the tent to watch Arthur.
He’s still by the fire, journal spread over his lap as he scribbles. Writing or sketching, you can’t say from where you’re laid down. Either way, you find it charming, almost domestic. Like you’re waiting for your husband to come to bed. Like he can sense your thoughts, he lifts his head to look at the tent, startling you. You squeeze your eyes shut and hope he didn’t see you watching him. A minute passes and you hear rustling, cracking an eye open in time to watch him slip out of his shirt. The muscles in his back bunch and flex as he pulls the fabric over his head, tucking it away in his saddlebag with no regard to if it’ll wrinkle.
You shut your eyes before he turns back around, focusing on keeping your breathing slow and even. Through your eyelids you can see warm firelight goes out as Arthur stamps out the fire and cold, pale full moon illuminating the inside of the tent, a slice of light coming in from the opening. Arthur steps inside carefully, leaving the fabric untied and open behind him as he lays down beside you. You fight to keep your breath from hitching when you feel his knuckles brushing up your forearm, the scent of him so close by it feels like you can taste him. His fingers drag upwards, almost teasingly slowly, before his fingers wrap around your wrist. The contact is brief, his thumb rubs over your pulse point only for a heartbeat before it’s gone. It feels like the moment before the next touch takes days in the silence between you two, but then he’s taking the cameo pendant on your chest between his fingers. He lets out a trembling sigh and sets it back down gently on your chest before rolling onto his back, so close his shoulder presses against your slack fingers. The steady rhythm of his breaths guides you to sleep.
-
Nothing in particular wakes you up in the middle of the night, you just rise to wakefulness. A slow, syrupy awakening that has you facing Arthur’s broad back. He’s rolled over in his sleep and now moonlight illuminates his back like a fine mist. In the almost ethereal light you can see freckles and scars, the musculature under his skin, even the evidence of the weight he’s gained in the past few weeks, something you’ve noticed before with a healthy appreciation.
Without thinking, you reach for him, shy fingers at the base of his spine barely touching before pressing down and moving upwards. Your palms slide along his back, feeling the way he breathes, the rumble of his snore makes you huff a quiet laugh, the domestic familiarity of it warming your chest. At the base of his neck you start feeling your way down, following the notches of his spine with one of your thumbs. His next breath comes deeper, the sound of someone waking up, then he starts to lift his head.
“It’s just me,” you whisper, still following the curve of his spine.
“Hey, just me,” Arthur answers as he settles back down, you can feel his sleep-rough, deep voice just as well as you can hear it, “What’re you doin’?”
You don’t answer for a few moments, a wave of embarrassment heating your cheeks, “Dunno.”
Your thumb passes over a beauty mark and you almost ache with the desire to kiss it. The imagined feeling of his sleep heated skin under your lips makes you bite the inside of your cheek, but you’re not brave enough to make it real, to cross that line. Instead you shuffle forward to drape yourself against his back, curling your arm over his waist like he has done to you.
“Go back to sleep,” you murmur with your cheek squished against his shoulderblade.
He grunts softly in acknowledgment and puts his hand over yours where it rests on his stomach, his thumb passes back and forth over your knuckles until you fall asleep again.
-
Sunlight draws you back up towards consciousness against your will but the light shrinks back when you squeeze your eyes tight and bury your face into the warmth in front of you. A deep breath tells you it’s Arthur, still smelling of last night’s campfire, but with an undercurrent of mint and moss. You hum and press in closer, taking in another deep breath and smiling against his back when he rubs up and down your arm with a little hum of his own.
“I know you’re awake,” he rumbles, you feel it more than you hear it.
You shake your head a little, tightening your arms around him uselessly as he starts to roll out of your grip. Arthur sits up, sneaking a hand into your hair to scratch at your scalp before he clicks his tongue.
“C’mon, girl, it’s mornin’.”
“Wait,” you grumble, “Just a minute.”
Arthur hums while you slowly swim back to consciousness, pressing your head into his touch like a dog would. You still feel his warm skin under your fingertips from last night, the memory has you surprised at yourself for your boldness and feeling embarrassed about it all at once. Arthur thankfully doesn’t seem put off, maybe he doesn’t remember it. Either way, you’ll have to wake up and face the day sooner rather than later.
“There she is,” Arthur encourages as you sit up, “I’ll make you some coffee, sleepyhead.”
He leaves you curled up where you are as he does as promised, starting a fire and setting a pot onto the flames as you lethargically crawl out of the tent. You stretch and blink against the sunlight, joints popping in time with the morning’s birdsong. You’ve scrubbed your face and yawned most of the sleep away by the time the coffee is ready, joining Arthur by the fire as he pours a cup for you. Arthur curls your hands around the tin of the coffee mug before he dips down to press a kiss to your forehead. You stay perfectly stock still, the feel of his lips on your skin has you almost dizzy, startlingly awake all of a sudden, but Arthur seems entirely unaffected. He goes to his things and begins tugging on his boots, not a hitch in the routine.
“I’ll be back,” he says as he plops his hat onto his head.
“Where you goin’?”
Arthur scratches his beard thoughtfully before he answers, “A walk, I guess,” he answers, “Clear my head.”
“Go on,” you tell him, waving him off, “I’ll set us up.”
“Thank you, darlin’,” he grips your shoulder briefly before he walks off, grabbing his coffee cup before walking off into the woods.
It doesn’t take long to break down the tent and pack up the bedrolls, even as you nurse your cup of coffee lazily, the only thing left to return to the horses are your day bags. You go to get Arthur’s satchel and see that his journal is resting atop it, a pencil between the pages to mark his place. You take it in hand thoughtlessly, pausing briefly as you worry your bottom lip, but you open the book anyway. You know it’s wrong but you can’t help yourself, months of curiosity suddenly begging to be satiated.
The page it opens to is a drawing of a fox, a sprig of thyme drawn a few inches underneath the black lines of the bushy tail. Before you can stop yourself, you’re flipping back through the pages. You try not to linger on the words, telling yourself you’ll afford him as much privacy as possible. His drawings of birds and plants and a proud buck leaping across the pages makes you smile at the reverent sort of care put into every pencil stroke. You do skim the words you find, try to spot your name anywhere you can. There aren’t any entries with you in them, not really, your name is here and there but nothing substantial. But where there aren’t words, there are portraits.
There is more than one drawing of you in the pages, scenes sketched out in graphite. You, fast asleep in a saloon bed, blankets and pillows around you making you look like the princess from that story about a pea. You, a soft smile on your face and fingers playing with the cameo pendant on your chest, something written then scratched out in the margin. You, in the process of putting up your hair, a pin between your teeth, careful detail put into your curls where they cascade over your hand.
It steals the breath from you, partly winded from the intimacy of these drawings and partly swaying from the wash of shame for peeking at his journal. You hear branches and leaves crunching underfoot, the sound moving closer. You scramble to return the journal to how you found it, pencil between the pages just so, before you rest against a tree in what you hope reads as casual relaxation. Arthur breaks the tree line back into the clearing with a nod, eyes already questioning.
“Ready to go?” you ask from behind the rim of your mug, trying not to sound breathless.
Arthur eyes you with a funny little smile on his face, taking the time to slowly sip at the dregs of his coffee as he walks towards you. He stops about a foot in front of you, a hand on his hip as he tilts his head like he’s trying to figure out a problem. You suppose he is, surely trying to piece together why you look as guilty as a child caught stealing sweets. Arthur steps forward into your space, raising a hand to check your temperature with fingers on your forehead, “You okay?”
Your lips twitch into a small grin, half nervous and half pleased. It would be so easy to tilt your head to the side, to catch his wrist with a kiss. The thought of it thrills you, but all you can manage is a quiet, “Yea, ‘m perfect.”
“Alright, girl,” he hums, patting your cheek before he smiles, “Let’s get goin’.”
-
“Like this, watch.”
Arthur drags his hunting knife against the flat top of the bullet, leaving behind a deep, straight line in his wake. He turns the bullet in his fingers to make another line, crossing it through the first to leave an X in the lead.
“Here,” he says, holding the knife’s handle out to you where you’re seated beside him, his fingers pinching the tip of the blade.
You take the knife, blinking at the surprising weight of it. The detailed engraving’s silver vines swirl under your fingers as you drag them along the flat of the blade, looping up and around the twin birds in a way that almost looks like they’re moving in the firelight. You press a fingertip to the face in the center of the engraving, smiling at the blank yet stern expression before you shift the knife so you can work. It’s slow labor, there’s no way you can do it as fast as Arthur does. While he has far more practice making split point bullets, you’re not terrible at it. A small heap of ammo forms by your feet, almost enough for two rounds in your revolver.
Arthur picks up a bullet from your pile, studying the cuts you’ve made with careful eyes. He sucks his teeth and taps your lines with a fingernail, “Gotta go deeper, can’t just be for show.”
Your eyes flick up to him then back to the bullet in your hand, angling your wrist to be able to press the blade in deeper just like he did. It takes some effort to press down into lead but you feel when the cut is deep enough, hollowing out the bullet exactly how it needs to be. You finish and hand it over to Arthur, smiling when he nods at your work. You start on another one, confident now. Maybe too confident. A brief but sharp sting of pain pricks one of your fingertips when the knife slips and nicks you. Blade and bullet fall to the ground as you yank your hand to your chest and hiss, sucking air harshly through your teeth with a fat, gem bright drop of blood blooming on your fingertip.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Arthur murmurs as he comes to your side, kneeling and gently pulling your hand away from your chest, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright,” you assure him through a grimace, letting him inspect your finger, turning it this way and that, “Not your fault.”
There’s no time to react as he lifts your hand to his mouth, putting your fingertip between his lips without a thought. The heat of his mouth shouldn't make you jolt with surprised pleasure, but it does. You can’t feel anything other than his tongue dragging across the flat of your fingertip, can’t see anything but the dark of his lashes kissing the tops of his cheek, can’t hear anything but the thud of your heart in your ears. It can’t be more than a moment before he pulls away, checking your finger before he looks at you, it feels like the seconds have stretched into minutes.
“Won’t even need a bandage,” Arthur says definitively, easily, like he hasn’t just woken your whole body up. He squeezes your wrist once before letting you go, offering you a little hangdog smile at the way you’re looking at him, “Sorry, wasn’t thinkin’.”
You don’t say anything, just keep your eyes on his face, the slope of his nose and the divot at the end of it that you’ve always found maddeningly charming. Arthur says your name quietly, bringing your focus back to his eyes as he tucks a stray bit of hair behind your ear. His fingertips drag along your skin, down your hairline and down the column of your neck so slowly it makes a slight shudder zip up your spine. Without thinking, you cradle his face in your hands, thumbing at the scar on his chin as his beard scratches your palms.
“Sweetheart?” Arthur breathes, brows furrowed.
“Are you ever gonna kiss me, Arthur?”
He blinks up at you and takes a sharp breath in, holding it a moment before he asks, “Do you want me to?”
A grin cracks your face with a bright laugh, “Stupid man,” but the words aren’t unkind. Arthur’s eyes soften, brows easing back down as you take his shirt in hand, fingers flexing in the fabric of his collar, “Kiss me.”
It doesn’t take more than a heartbeat before he shifts, tilting his head with a flutter of his lashes before he presses his lips to yours. There it is, you think, the line finally, blissly crossed. The kiss is soft, a question still obviously on his mind, one you answer with enthusiasm, wrapping your arms around his neck as you deepen the kiss. Arthur’s lips part with a surprised little moan, your heart squeezing in your chest at the sound. You chase it with your tongue, sliding it into his mouth with a moan of your own, only growing in volume when Arthur sucks gently on your tongue. The kiss breaks with both of you breathing heavily but Arthur doesn’t give you a chance to catch your breath, he surges upwards to kiss you again, his hands coming around your waist.
“C’mon,” you whisper against his lips before yanking him to his feet, “Let’s go to bed.”
You slip your hand in his and lead him into the tent, biting your lip to tamp down your giggles at the way Arthur drops to the floor without a second thought, dragging you down to join him before you can think. Between the fire and the moon, the tent is illuminated enough for you to see the glimmer in Arthur’s eyes and you throw a leg over his hip. You feel him start to unravel beneath you the moment you straddle him, the hard planes of his body beneath you going pliant as he pets over your body, his hands trailing up your hips and over your waist. You hum, pleased, and ruck up your skirts, letting his hands explore you in his own time. He looks at you, almost dazed with surprise before you nod, and his hands go to your thighs, petting upwards.
“You sure this is okay?” he asks breathlessly.
You nod your approval with a smile, letting it turn into a peal of laughter when Arthur pulls you to him, flipping your positions so you’re the one pinned underneath him instead. You bracket his hips with your knees, heat blooming up your neck and onto your face at feeling so exposed, with Arthur it’s thrilling. Arthur returns his hands to your inner thigh, sliding high enough for you to feel the heat of him against your core, his knuckles just barely touching the hair around your cunt.
You gasp and he pulls back, startled, “We don’t gotta—”
You shut him up a buck of your hips and a whine of his name, “Please,” you tug him closer by his shirt, heart skipping at the way his hot breath fans across your jaw, “Please, I want it.”
“Alright, alright,” he purrs, nudging his nose into your cheek. His fingers gently part your folds, his touch soft but confident, petting along your slit for a few moments. Arthur pulls back as much as you allow, meeting your half lidded eyes with his own, a whisper of a smile on his face as he finds your clit, “Jesus, honey, you’re so wet.”
A breathy laugh escapes you, “Your fault.”
His fingers don’t dip into you more than an inch, just enough to feel your slick and drag it up to your clit to draw maddening shapes into it. Arthur tries a few methods before he finds the one you like best, swallowing your moans with kisses when you start to roll your hips.
“Take this off,” you order, tugging at his shirt until it comes untucked from his trousers.
He obeys with a little laugh, pulling it over his head and throwing it aside before he returns to playing with your pussy. You let him toy with you a while longer, enjoying the hot, easy pleasure of it, letting his chest press against yours with every all encompassing kiss. It takes a little work to get your hand between you two to touch him, but you manage it after a minute or so, finding his cock hard and trapped under his jeans. Your mouth opens with a soft gasp, he feels big in your hand even through the denim, and you squeeze him gently. Arthur groans into your mouth, hips bucking into your touch before he stops himself and jerks back a bit.
“Wait,” he grunts and gently moves your hand away, sitting back on his heels.
“What is it?” you sit up too, worried you did something wrong.
“Didn’t want it to be like this,” he stammers as he pushes his hair out of his eyes, “I was gonna do it right— in a nice bed, flowers and everything, honest.”
“Shut up,” you cut in, wrapping your arms around his neck to bring him in for a soft, encouraging kiss, “This is perfect.”
Somewhere between the myriad of traded kisses you both strip each other down to your underclothes, Arthur waits to help you out of your stays and drawers until you prompt him, nipping his bottom lip encouragingly. He spends a few minutes after that cradling your chest, tweaking at your nipples and squeezing the weight of your breasts in his hands, murmuring against your lips about how perfect you feel. Your brain stutters when he switches gears without prompting. He lays you back down without a word, shouldering his way between your legs with a very obvious mission in mind.
“Arthur!” you gasp in surprise, knees knocking against his head as you make to close your legs.
He rubs his temple and laughs a little as he says your name, “I just wanna taste you—”
“You don’t have to,” you insist nervously, reaching up to rub his other temple apologetically.
He takes your wrist and pulls your hand down to kiss your palm, “Do you… not want me to?”
“No,” you breathe, feeling the way you squeeze around nothing involuntarily at the way his eyes darken. While it’s not the first time you’ve been with a man, it is the first time a man has offered… this. Girls had giggled about it before, you’d always been curious about what it would feel like. And now that the thought of Arthur’s mouth on you has materialized, your heartbeat seems to have moved to throb in your clit. You swallow harshly and finally tell him, “I… I want it.”
He kisses your sternum before he croons, “Relax, sweet girl, it’s just me.”
Arthur turns to kiss the side of one of your breasts with a smile playing on his lips, catching your eye before he presses his face into your chest and making you laugh at the tickle of his beard. He takes a moment to give your chest more attention on his journey down your body, laving his tongue over your already sore nipples for a moment before he moves on. Arthur leaves a hot trail of kisses down your body, biting the fat of your stomach once along the way and gently parting your thighs to make space for him. He shuffles downward, letting your thighs drape over his shoulders as he brings his mouth to your pussy, beard scraping against your inner thighs.
The first hot stripe of his tongue against you makes unexpected heat flicker through your core and up your spine, your eyes go wide and your hands fly to his head, tugging at his hair without a thought. Arthur hums against your clit in a way that has you keening and pulling at his hair again. It’s too much, nearly overwhelming with Arthur’s single-minded focus, like he knows the exact steps to get you brainless and boneless with pleasure. You do your best to bite back a whimper when he lifts his head, taking the warmth of his mouth away. He meets your eyes when you lift your head to shamelessly beg him to keep going. The slick wet smile on his face makes your thighs twitch around his head.
“Gonna cum like this, sweetheart?” Arthur asks, voice rough and sweet as he brings his hand up to circle your clit with quick fingers, “When I haven’t even filled you up yet?”
You don’t even have it in you to rise to his teasing, you just brokenly moan and arch your back to push into his touch, “Please, yes, Arthur—”
He lowers his head between your legs again, humming against your clit until your stomach tightens and you’re falling over the edge. Your fingers tighten in his hair as he follows the roll of your hips, tongue flat and perfectly firm for you to hump against until you tire yourself out. You drop back to the floor with a shuddering sigh, tremors buzzing through you as you catch your breath. Arthur crawls up your body, petting the curve of your hip as he settles beside you with a satisfied little sound. You reach for him when your breathing settles, giving him a hard kiss before you shimmy down, raking your nails down his hairy thighs with sound in your chest like a purr.
“Let me touch you, alright?” you hum, grinning at how Arthur nods enthusiastically.
Arthur’s breath comes in ragged and rough as your fingers curl around his cock, right at the base where his wiry hair is a dark bush. You drag your hand up, then back down, his foreskin gliding back over his tip when you stroke him. A perfect pearl of precum rests along his slit, tempting you to taste. It’s easy to dip your head and gently suck his tip into your mouth, curling your tongue around his cock with a hum. Your head bobs, just a few inches going in and out of your mouth, the angle has his cockhead pressing against the inside of your cheek. He tastes like the salt of sweat, of gunsmoke and musk, it’s so perfectly Arthur that it makes your head spin.
Arthur's hand moves to stroke his thumb over where your cheek bulges, “Jesus,” he groans as you swallow around him, “You’re an angel. C’mere.”
You make a noise of confusion but let him move you, his cock still resting against your lips, “Don’t want me to…?” you ask, pressing your cheek into his hand as he cups your face.
“Not tonight,” Arthur murmurs softly, letting his tip spread more slick against your lips for a moment before he shifts, moving you along with him.
You let yourself be rolled onto your back, humming with delight as Arthur slots himself between your legs, his cock catching on your inner thigh just for a moment before it prods at your entrance, leaving a spot of saliva and precum along your skin. Arthur dips his head down for a kiss, hips tilting just so until his cock catches at an angle that lets him press inside you. The stretch of his cock isn’t unbearable, just enough to have your eyes pop open, wide and unfocused as you try to relax around him. Arthur nuzzles your cheek with his nose as he whispers mindless, encouraging praise, telling you how well you’re doing, how you only have a little bit left until you’ll have taken all of him. And before you know it, you have, Arthur’s hips flush with the cradle of yours.
“There’s a girl,” Arthur purrs as he pulls out, easing back into you with a sigh, “You’re so good to me.”
Stars blink in and out of your vision when Arthur shifts his weight onto his arms, straightening above you to watch where his cock disappears into you while he keeps his hips meeting yours in steady, even strokes.
“Touch yourself,” he groans, hair in his eyes as he nods down at you, “Please, I wanna feel you cum around me, sweetheart.”
What can you do but obey?
“That’s my girl,” Arthur moans at the feeling of you tightening around him when you start to cum, “Perfect girl, that’s it.”
He waits for your orgasm to die down before he bowls over, curling atop you with your knees in the crooks of his elbows folding you nearly in half. You claw at his back, his ass, his arms, curling forward to sink your teeth into his shoulder when he plants his knees more firmly into the ground. He doesn't stop his rhythm at all, knocking against the deepest parts of you with a strength that makes you dizzy.
“Hellcat,” he laughs breathlessly into your hair, the word dissolving into a groan when you cant your hips to better meet him, “I’m gonna cum if you keep that up, baby, oh—”
You nod into his neck, something in your chest clenching at the thought of it, “Please,” your voice is unfamiliar to you, desperate and almost pathetic with need, “Cum for me, Arthur, please.”
It doesn’t take long before he does, the barest brush of his lips against your ear as he moans your name, hips pistoning as he fills you. Your eyes roll behind your eyelids at the feeling of the spill of him inside you, hot and delicious, pleasure warming you down to your toes. Arthur’s hips keep bucking with little aftershocks for a minute or two before he settles with a deep sigh, his hands coming up to cradle your head as he peppers the side of your face with quick pecks until you’re humming with contentment.
Arthur moves to get up but you pull him back down, “Stay,” you sigh, and he does.
His body is a comforting, grounding weight on you, pinning you down exactly like you’d imagined he would. It seems like he knows when your eyelids start to grow heavy, he starts to move away. Arthur kisses your whine away as he slips his softened cock out of you and moves you until you’re half laying on his chest. The mess between your legs is warm and pleasantly sticky, easy to ignore with the wave of sleepiness that falls over you. You tilt your head on his chest, looking at his flushed cheeks through hazy eyes.
“You ever get tired of bein’ so pretty?” you ask, combing your fingertips through the hair on his chest.
Arthur’s chuckle rumbles through his chest as he thumbs at your hairline, “Do you, darlin’?”
You both fall asleep like that, sweaty, naked legs tangled up together in the light of the full moon, heartbeats in perfect rhythm.
Whenever I stumble upon a good x reader fic I giggle with joy out loud and inwardly clap and jump like a rich Victorian child repeating the word “huzzah” because he just saw the jester do a cool trick
Despite his rare interactions with you, Charles knew your weird habits—after all, you never made any effort to hide them from the camp. Maybe you’d been with the gang for so long that your shame just disappeared whenever you were around them, how they saw you mattered little to you. In any case, he knew that Van der Lindes were an odd bunch, as odd as thieves and murderers could be. Not to mention that it was harder for him to miss your habits, considering your tent was next to his, Charles was bound to get used to them sooner or later.
Unconsciously paying attention to those around him was a skill he had improved long ago.
That knowledge about habits, however, came to him later than he’d like to admit—around the time everything went astray with the gang. When there were no songs left to sing along to, no semblance of companionship, only the remnants of each member scattered around Beaver Hollow, and a tension that seeped into every interaction. You weren’t an exception—your once easy-going voice had shifted into silence or quiet withdrawal every time you returned to camp, empty-handed, lazier than you used to be—that is, if you returned at all. Charles doesn't blame anyone for leaving, he too decided to get his priorities straight after Lakay. However, when he did find time to come back—usually ushered by Rains Fall to return to his family—you weren't there. Your spot next to his tent empty and cold.
Unlike in Clemens Point, there was no one to side-eye when he woke up in Beaver Hollow, sweating from the heat and disturbed by the sight of a thick blanket over your shoulders—still draped over you as if you were trapped in a snowy hellscape called Colter. Only the empty fabric of that blanket, neatly folded under the tiny table, met his gaze in the morning. Untouched. Unused. He remembered overhearing your justification to Susan. He had been busy skinning a pronghorn Arthur had dragged in when the elder lady decided she had a bone to pick with you about the heavy blanket being too difficult to wash in this swamp. Your answer was an odd one—something about the pressure and warmth helping you sleep. It didn’t matter that you were in Clements Point, where the heat made everyone just a tad more prone to violence.
At least it kept the mosquitoes away. He reckoned you a self-inflicted masochist—someone who’d take the hard way out simply because you could. If it ain't broke, don't fix it.
There were no shuffling sounds coming from your tent late at night to signal that you were wide awake—no unbuttoning of the flap, no soft steps to count on your way to the fireplace, feeding the flames with the wood he’d chopped. He never managed to stay awake long enough to witness your return to the tent. Embarrassingly lulled to sleep by your quiet humming.
And there was no one to accompany him late at night, when everyone else was asleep—him alone, sitting around the fire with a sharpened knife in one hand and a lump of wood in the other, slicing away into a shape he couldn’t even recognize. Sometimes, the restless shuffling from your tent would pause, giving him the false impression that you’d finally fallen into unconsciousness—but then you’d emerge, and he’d return to his sculpting, keeping an ear out for any tune you might hum under your breath. Charles wasted away the nights in conversations whose topics he couldn’t even remember. It helped him get to know you—to realize that you were a decent person, the kind he could respect and trust to have his back, if not in battle, then outside of it because despite sticking close to the gang, you didn’t seem to care much for murder—a notion further reinforced by the fact that you were a poor shot.
No wonder you were permanently banned from guard duty.
Charles missed those times, although deep inside he knew they wouldn't last.
You left sometime after Uncle did. It was a miracle he was still in the camp. You only bothered to inform Charles of your departure, making sure to slip in an apology to Arthur and asking Charles to deliver those words for you.
Of course, he wished you well, just as he did Uncle. You might've been a masochist but you were clever.
He didn't think too much about you after that. Too caught up in doubting Dutch and dealing with the consequences of it all. His mind felt heavy, but Arthur's rotting body felt heavier in his hands.
Helping the tribe was good for him. Even with the stares he got after the whole gang fell apart, it kept his mind and body occupied with something other than anger and violence. He still needed to pull his weight, and for that, he was desperate for money—money for the tribe and a selfish outlet for himself.
He found work in the city, where there’s always someone in need of an extra pair of hands. He wiped tables, hauled cargo, broke horses—and took his time indulging himself away from Rains Fall’s heavy yet caring, almost concerned gaze. But none of the honest work satisfied him. The pay was meager, the effort endless, and it all made his hands itch, even though he hates to admit it.
Violence has a way of finding him, no matter where he runs. It found him young, surrounded by his people. It found him again in the slums of Saint Denis. And this time, Charles welcomes it.
There’s always money to be made, and someone’s face to be pummeled.
He hones his hand-to-hand combat skills—not that he was ever bad at it, but there’s no harm in improving. He pushes himself harder and harder, until a coach finally takes him under his wing. He remained occupied after that. No longer did he have the time to think about the past, not Mary-Beth or Sadie or Pearson or John. Although he had learned that Tilly was somewhere in Saint Denis, the last he’d heard, John had killed a man. Maybe it was a good thing—actually lying low for once.
When his knuckles were scarred beyond recognition and calluses bloomed on nearly every inch of his hands, he came across—or was discovered by a familiar, scarred face. John pleasantly surprised him, not only with news about setting himself straight, but also that Uncle and you, of all people, were sharing the property. Abigail and Jack nowhere in sight. One match and a shootout later, he was riding with him to the sad shack Marston called home.
Despite what he’d thought about reunions years ago—when the wound was fresh and the anger was raw—he’d never imagined it would feel as oddly soothing as it did. Uncle—well, he was Uncle, always keeping his wits about him closer than his bottle of booze. John—alone now, taller, with an air of sourness around him. Charles likes to think he hasn’t changed much, aside from growing his hair out the same way it was seven years ago. He might seem rougher, tougher, and more reclusive to strangers, but never to you, John, or Uncle. He was the same quiet man.
Although you. You seemed grown, healthy in a way you couldn't be with the gang. Hair styled in an unfamiliar, put-together style. It's a change and a nice one at that. Even your voice sounds lively as you welcome him, standing next to the run-down shack, so unlike the memories he recalls. No longer is he staring at a person weighed down with hollow promises and vile mood of the camp, forced to guard themselves from people they'd considered family not too long ago. Instead, you're open than ever and more notably—happy to see him alive.
It remains as a reminder of how good it was, even though he'd spent less time with the gang than most.
But it's over now, that time is long buried with the casualties, and for once, sitting around the campfire, with Uncle's banjo accompanying the cheap booze in his hand, the memories don't tighten the wires around his throat.
John’s somewhere behind him, occupied with something or other while you sit directly across from him—hair mussed from the day’s work, despite the men insisting you should step aside and leave the heavy lifting to them, you keep at your quiet organizing throughout the day, putting nails where they belong and explaining the blueprint to the men. Trading glances his way in the process.
Charles' cheeks are faintly flushed, but the spark that leaps between you whenever your eyes meet, cuts straight through the haze.
Amidst Uncle's singing, he hears that familiar hum return.
Taking another gulp of booze, he can feel your eyes flicker between him and the fire—observing, waiting for him to join. In return, his gaze wanders to you, admiring your features now painted in the oranges and yellows of the flame.
And for the first time in seven years, with the last few people who still know the man he used to be, Charles stirs, voice emitting from somewhere deep inside his heart.
Ahaha haha, what no I'm not thinking about Charles throwing Micah to the ground within seconds, I swear I'm not thinking about how easily he'd throw you over his shoulder or pull down your pants while you're clinging to his torso mid-air, you're the one thinking that not me
hybrid!arthur morgan who you found abandoned after his old gang disbanded. he was sickly, thin and shivering on the dirty streets. it took some coaxing but you managed to get him to follow you to your ranch where you fed and clothed him. arthur was wary, ears pinned back and barred teeth. last man that had clothed and fed him betrayed him, left him to die. why on earth would he trust some stranger?
you gave arthur time to adjust, getting him teas and medicine as well as feeding him a good diet. things were looking up. his eyes were brighter and his tail and ears shinier, fluffier. however, he was territorial as ever, not letting you near the heap of blankets in the corner he’d chosen to be his place in your home. not you could blame him. whoever abandoned him had clearly traumatized the poor man.
months went by and arthur warmed up to you. he would have his meals with you, would let you clean and wash his bedding, and he’d even help around the ranch hearding sheep and carrying hay for the horses. soon enough, arthur was your shadow. he’d return, sweaty and dirty in his suspenders with his tail whirring behind him at the prospect of a reward. your praise.
“thank you for carrying the feed, artie,” you cooed, tiptoeing to scratch between his fluffy ears, much to his delight. He followed you inside for a rest, plopping down on your lap, shirt untucked from hus jeans and bunched up at his chest. you giggled, rubbing over his chubby tummy which made arthur pant and squirm happily. “Mm…more of that,” he grunted, fluffy tail wiggling. of course, you obliged. anything for such a good boy.
