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chaiishere · 5 months ago

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A Fine Predicament

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader 3K words | smut | 18+ mdni Heat in the shadows featuring drunk, horny Arthur, public sex

a/n: i got stuck in a crowd and had a whim of plotless filth that got out of hand i apologize

He’s here somewhere.

Far below, the regulars of the Parlour House swarm into a Friday evening’s reveling sprawl, clamoring and plotting, carried to their notions and impulses by the cascade of the piano and a strong current of whiskey and shine.

From the upper level, where you stand at the railing, the crowd of hats and heads winds and swirls within itself like algae, and as a bark of laughter overtakes the piano, you spy Sean on both elbows at a table, where he spouts wise on politics at Trelawny sitting back from him with patience wearing thin though manners ever stalwart. The crown of Dutch's hat is a quiet black spot near the bar.

In all that crowded, smoky haze, Arthur is nowhere to be found. You lost him ages ago after the second clink of glasses, and Missus Adler hooked your arm for a third, though he had stood there looking half-amused, halfway rankled as you were stolen away. Ever since, through the interior and the night outside simmering with insect chirrups and the scent of night blossoms, you had circled and loitered, almost jumpy with hope that around the side of the building he’d startle you just by standing there, one boot back on the wall, his brim angled low. Or sitting lazily on the hitch post talking to Georgia. Or leaning by the jasmine vining the trellis, smoking a cigarette and waiting for you to find him, having watched with keen amusement all along, you clearly hunting and hoping as he kept just out of sight. Climbing the stairs outside. Crossing the balcony, checking left and right as you wandered back in.

Now stalking along the rail. Where you turn sideways to slip past two middle-aged men in their summer linen. And where, from between a fig tree and a fountain of ferns, a hand darts out, snags your waistband, and drags you, shimmying backward, like a trap, into the lap of an outlaw.

He grunts contentedly as you land back against his chest and his big paws immediately push up and curve around your breasts. “Took you long enough.”

Jesus, Arthur, they’re right down there –

His left hand claws overtop yours on the arm of the chair, and his fingers begin to curl and stretch between your fingers to the web. Casually, he gazes over your shoulder as he takes a long and humming taste of your neck. “Who. Where.” Blindly untucking the side of your blouse to slip his warm hand inside. “Ain’t no one watchin.”

When he’s drunk and has a feasting handful of your breast like this, he gets more careless with his words, like you debase him in the very depths of his substance. He holds you closer still, and you’re forced to straddle his lap as you watch for any noticing stares on the upper level.

Where girls all around laugh and touch their swollen hearts in the company of dull-faced men, whose eyes and thoughts slide into dark places, but no one appears to pay you any mind behind the scant veil of greenery. Where, at your back, Arthur fumbles with his fly under the cover of your full skirt, and you sit pretending you don’t feel his strong wrist beneath you, which holy god is not his wrist at all, you discover as he pulls his hand free to find your breast again. And it dawns on you now he might have had this in mind when he asked you earlier to put on that damn skirt.

“You wearin drawers?”

“This isn’t what I thought you meant to happen.”

He sits higher, his whiskers scraping your cheek as he surveys the room over your shoulder from the armchair and calmly kneads and fists your breast. “Well I thought about rentin a room,” he drawls, shifting and compelling his erection harder into your ass cheek as he takes a casual nip at your jawline. “But I don’t think I could stand up.” He smirks.

“You better hope you don’t have to.”

“Nah. Javier and Charles are busy talkin to them belles at the bar. Sean’s…piss-drunk somewhere. Dutch won’t come lookin himself without Hosea, and him, I got no idea.”

He leans you forward while he wrenches the fabric of your skirt and petticoat behind you out of the way, and with a small waft of air you feel freshly exposed and poufy, cooled between your legs as his hand burrows underneath, and he finds and immediately grips your inner thigh. When he feels the cotton of your drawers already soaked through, his middle finger strokes longingly up the center seam, and his voice is born of whiskey and smoke. We’ll be quiet, he barely whispers, humoring you if anything, nipping at your neck. “Unless you ain’t.” And he begins to work the waistband of your drawers down over your hips.

“The bath is right over there.”

“You need one?”

“No –”

“Rear up a second –”

And in one jaunty buck he lifts you up several inches, slips them down to mid-thigh, spreads his legs, and pulls you back between them as you blush furiously and grab the arms of the chair.

“It’s got a door for god’s sake.”

“Skirt’s doin a pretty good job.” He clears his throat softly, settling his hips and a thrilling swell of temptation underneath you.

“You are drunk and crazy, Arthur Morgan.”

“That I am, milady.” He pecks the side of your neck, and with no doubt in his devilish mind, the scratch of his smile and the heat of his mouth immediately begin to wear you down. The tip of his tongue tests your earlobe before he swiftly sucks you there. And when he adjusts himself, you pant to feel the full naked staff of his cock now standing hot and tacky between your legs and his fingers tenderly parting your lips around him. “Ain’t that drunk though.”

You frantically fluff the front of your skirt to cover his noticeable protrusion. “You sure about that?”

“Are you?” he teases, darkly.

With a huff, you glance over your shoulder, and find yourself suddenly staring into his eyes, your noses inches apart. A breath longer than you’ve ever dared before. The mirth diminishes in his face, and the vitreous luster of green and gold in his eyes shines dear, and his lips part like your name half brought to mind now lost in a stolen breath.

It doesn’t break the spell when you reach for his glass on the side table. Take a drink while he watches your hand, the glass to your lips, the burnt little kiss of whiskey. The swallow clutching your throat; he swallows likewise dry, and takes the glass away. And biting your lip, you dare to rock just slightly up and down his rigid shaft, squeezing him between your thighs, and he moans into your neck as you face forward again.

And with your eyes on the blurring patrons all around, and no one seeming to pay you any mind, and his fond breath at your ear and his full desire caressing you constantly, wantonly, his hand full of brazen confidence gripping your upper thigh, all risk begins to kindle, and catches you with a searing rush.

Christ if I could, I'd lie between your legs right now, he confesses at your ear - oh lord, you feel yourself melting, you are going to melt right here behind the backs of the old men sitting at blackjack, in view of the younger man and his companion in the banquette, and a flow of unashamed honesty at your ear released in warm whiskey fumes - Sit on my mouth. Lower yourself on my tongue and I will lick you till you cry my name.

This outlaw, getting bold, running his dick between your slick-wet thighs. Make you come so hard I’ll have to carry you back to camp. He groans. Fuck that’s pleasant –

Can we do this? you pant, already nervous and trying not to squirm with need. Picturing yourselves caught the moment he comes, through his quiet seething exhalations, a flush painted over the tops of his cheekbones, sweat shining his crushed expression.

Only one way to find out. He kisses your neck again. Your say.

Whatever the hell you think you’re doing, against every protest in your mind, you find yourself nodding, and he’s gladly raising your hips, and with a gratified hum guiding his head solid and smooth between your lips to the warm notch of your body and starting to slide through, his full length carving up inside until you’re sitting on his lap so tight his balls bulge under your cunt.

For a moment, you’re frozen, all at once nerve-wracked and weak and aching to writhe, scanning the crowd for any watching eyes.

Shh, don’t move, now. Don’t make a sound.

And there in the rowdy noise and low gaslight flicker of the Parlour House, his left arm belts heavily over your waist as he gives you a slow thrust and his opposite fingers under your skirt stroke up your thigh and seek your clit.

Slowly, clenching his legs, he pushes up deeper, and lowers, one agonizing thrust after another, lifting and sinking with your body in this secret act, his breath shaking. You have to keep closing your mouth as every slow surge threatens to spill your moans like warm honey.

Oh fuck, you feel good, he mouths at your ear.

Someone’s going to know, Arthur -

Them peckerwoods don't got a damn idea, he mumbles brokenly between wide wet kisses down the back of your neck to your shoulder. I could be tellin you – a story in your ear – about – the saddle Sean – used to have.

Saddle –

He thought he got a bargain. But it had a – curious horn. A smile breaks his kiss. He rests his head against yours

Curious – A little breathless, you grasp his knees as if this is an entirely ordinary way to sit, primly rocked and urging on his lap.

You couldn’t deny – from the front or the side – he appeared to suffer a constant stand –

You are the worst liar–

Oh my honor as a gentleman. He bites at your neck now, and sucks with a lewd whorl of his tongue. No one had the heart to tell him – but if I had such a saddle I’d be – of a mind to watch you ride it –

To your stunned horror, at that moment, a man walking along the balcony turns his slender hips, a little stagger in his step. And immediately stops when he sees you, where you sit helpless with your hands propped on Arthur’s thighs, your skirt in complete disarray, and his dick loaded so deep inside you that you’re trembling.

Arthur’s hand rises from your lap and shuts your jaw for you.

“Arthur.” John raises his beer, and leans right goddamn there on the railing.

Behind you, he has to swallow. Trying to suppress his breath to keep silent, though you can feel his chest and stomach pumping against your back. “What is it.” His right fingers motionless on your clit. They twitch.

But then, while John says something neither of you can comprehend watching his mouth, Arthur carefully stretches his fingers long. He branches them around his base lodged tightly between your lips spread thin, wetting them as he reaches with his left hand to the side table and lifts his glass to John and takes a drink. His middle finger strokes your clit so lovingly it’s downright evil how natural it is to him, three feet away from John, who must be dead drunk if he can’t figure out what’s happening right before his eyes.

And it feels like the fight of your life to keep a straight face with an erect cock slowly gliding in your cunt. The instant you try to put your mind on something else, your body begins to give in, and if you think about his tight and constant thrusts your cheeks begin to burn.

“I was just tellin her about Sean’s old saddle.”

“What sadd– oh.”

“She didn’t believe me.” He gives you a slow thrust and hits so deep you realize you’ve moved your hand over your belly as if it might show. His fingers cup and stroke you smoothly all the while, and he fucks so languidly that he seems to be enjoying this. Whereas you might have to kill him later.

Or make him pay the same. When you clench him inside and reel your hips around in a small circle, so delicate you might only be adjusting the waist of your skirt, he stops moving. Or rather, trembles as ripples of this constricting, agitating gyre spread through him and you imagine him struggling not to be as visibly rocked as a goddamn canoe.

John rubs his jaw and shakes his head. “Strangest saddle I ever seen. Useless for a lasso.”

And you cannot be sure for the life of you if he’s being bone-dry or is, in fact, so utterly oblivious to all matters of sex that he could only define screwing as an act of carpentry.

“My point is made, thank you.”

“You seen Dutch?”

“Can’t say I have.” He speaks tightly, goddamn meaning to shift in his seat and move inside you with a little churn. Your stare goes blank, to feel so lovingly bruised inside and spurred from the outside and the sudden strange possibility that John knows.

“He was lookin for you.”

And what if he knows? Is this some unspoken competition? You can’t look at him, and glance down, fairly sure there is no visible rustle beneath. What is entirely visible, you notice, is you, the mottled flush on your chest glowing hot as the amber lamp nearby. And if he knows, he watches calmly.

Arthur clears his throat. “Well, tell him he can come find me.”

You spin your head around in shock, but his eyes merely gaze at you as inside his cock seems to swell and harden alarmingly. If he fears what’s coming, he makes no sign of it, merely shifts to put his glass down and takes the opportunity to push up again, and you gasp and cough and find yourself staring at John’s crotch and the unmistakable shape at his upper thigh.

He’s rubbing his forehead. “It’s your balls on the line, not mine.”

“Not yet.”

Then batting his hand at you with a slurred good-night, John shambles away toward the balcony outside again.

Arthur kisses and growls behind your ear. You liked that did you?

I don’t know whether to slap you or –

I always wanted you to. He sucks a small spot on your neck and urges a tight, barely moving thrust, and you feel his breath come harder with yours, open-mouthed and hot on your neck.

Oh you’ll get your due.

What’ll you do to me.

You grind him back and forth, thick and hard as a goddamn fencepost. Tie you up.

Oh fuck keep goin, what else. His fingertips rapidly rub your clit and he kisses the nape of your neck; his breath steams there, teeth locked in a light bite, his tongue flicking your skin between light sucks like he’s imagining your cunt as he stirs you relentlessly and you start to shake as the pangs grow unbearable.

Smack you till you come. Churning yourself on his wet curve.

Ohh goddamn – you’re suhh – His voice splits and he strokes you harder, and even though you catch one man staring straight at you across the room you don’t give a damn now, getting fucked in the shadows by the outlaw at your back mouthing between slack, distracted kisses,

Oh there you go sweetheart –

You strain to stifle curses, silently begging for release, resisting it, praying it will be quick, as if you’re facing an execution and the inescapable end, clenching him inside as both of you start to lose control.

All you can do is barely suppress a moan that dies in a whining breath, as you succumb to his shameless hips, succumb, willingly disgraced by the obscene slide of his entire length, the hard and slippery ream. Let them know and see him take you, all these drunk and mindless folk, let them see the wanton relief two worthy souls can find together.

Fuck – sh-shit – he hisses as his breath quickens and he clamps you down. His body goes heavily still. And then jerks slightly as he huffs three shuddering times against your spine, his shaft pulsing lewdly between your lips like the hard throb of his heart. His fingers there never stop, and then in turn your whole body seems to gasp in a warm soul-baring flare, and give way. You pant, staring blankly at nothing, at the whole muddled room that must have turned by now to witness this scandal shamelessly spilling before them. Your only safety is his arm that slings you to his chest. Both of you shaking and coming down in the strange dilating dawning sound of the crowd, without the slightest idea of how loudly you’ve just moaned, or how rumpled and fucked you must appear. But they carouse on beyond the drunken veil, not another set of eyes still watching, if they watched at all.

No one to notice you rising so slowly off his cock that you feel his whole contour pulling out and trailing wet along your thigh.

Carefully, he eases your drawers back up, soaking through with his silky spend, and he wrestles with his fly before he slouches back in the armchair in a wretched slump and pulls you with him.

“Well I much prefer it uninterrupted.” You pick up his glass and polish off the whiskey.

“That is fair.” His thumbs are busy swirling circles on the small of your back. His fingertips curl into your hips. “How shall I make it up to you?”

You turn in place, and rest your elbows on his shoulders and run your fingers in his hair, a sensation almost intolerably sweet to him as his head lolls back on the chair, and he gazes down his still-pink cheeks.

“Take me someplace, far from here,” you say, as if it takes you any time at all to decide. "Far from anyone."

“Yes ma’am.”

“And make me cry your name.”

Knowing his eyes would rival fire for light.

a/n: you bet your damn butts i'm writing that restraints-and-smacking sub-arthur one-shot

i’ve completely lost track of any taglist because i have the organizational skills of a preschooler and probably made a note in four different places, i am so sorry 😣

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