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blueskies664 · 4 days ago

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Firewater - Chapter 8

PAIRING: low to mid honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader. explicit.

The heat of the summer marches on.

taglist: @v3lv3tf0x, @stottlemorgan, @mrsarthurmorgan7, @appalachiancowboy99, @pinescent-and-gingerbread, @blueskies664, @arthurstinmug, @ultraporcelainpig, @emerald-ranch @thedilfdiaries, @heron-feathers,@nalitali, @whiskeyskin

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ARIZONA, JUNE-AUGUST 1897

It starts with a bruise on your hip and Arthur’s crooked grin.

“I didn’t mean to knock you into that boulder,” he says, not even trying to sound sorry.

You roll your eyes, tugging your skirt back down as you step into your boots. “You didn’t stop me, either.”

He shrugs, already tucking his shirt back in. “Didn’t hear you complainin’ when your legs were wrapped around my back.”

You swat him with your hat. He catches your wrist, grinning like sin, and kisses your palm before letting go.

The air still smells like sweat and mesquite.

The next time, you’re supposed to be gathering intel from a ranch hand who only talks when he’s drunk. You get him to spill with a bit of help from a bottle and some sweet words.

Then you and Arthur slip into a hayloft to wait out the patrols.

“You got straw in your hair,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your collarbone.

“You’re about to have it in your pants,” you shoot back, breath catching as his hands slide beneath your skirt.

Somewhere below, the ranch hand sings off-key about whiskey and women.

You bite your fist to keep quiet, and Arthur groans against your throat, like he’s trying not to lose his mind entirely.

You don’t make it back to camp that night.

Instead, you set up bedrolls under the stars. One is barely unrolled before Arthur has you straddling him, the moonlight turning his eyes silver.

“You always this handsy under the stars?” you ask, panting as you tug his suspenders loose.

“I like the view,” he grunts, eyes locked on yours. “Especially when you’re on top of it.”

You laugh—then gasp when he shifts his hips just right.

Neither of you sleeps much.

At some point, Charles gives you a long, slow look as you come back to camp at dawn with grass in your hair and dust on your knees. He doesn’t say anything.

You don’t, either.

But Arthur winks at him.

The bastard.

Then there’s the time you get caught in a flash storm, the rain hammering down as you take cover in the shadow of a sandstone bluff. You’re both soaked, chilled, and muddy—but you can’t stop laughing.

“Hell of a storm,” you say, peeling your shirt away from your skin.

Arthur grins, eyes trailing down your chest. “Don’t suppose I can help you warm up.”

You raise a brow. “You offering body heat or bad decisions?”

He leans in, water dripping from his hat brim. “Both.”

Your laugh turns into a gasp as he lifts you up against the rock wall, mud be damned.

The storm rages around you.

There’s a rhythm to it now.

Scout a homestead. Get hot and bothered. Tumble behind a rock or into a cave or beneath the shade of a lone desert tree.

Sometimes it’s frantic, all teeth and grabbing hands and trying not to get caught.

Other times it’s slow and filthy, a drawn-out tease while you’re supposed to be watching the road.

You call him a menace.

He calls you a hellion.

Neither of you stops.

You’re tending your rifle on a quiet afternoon when he comes up behind you, trailing a lazy hand down your back.

“You’re wearin’ my shirt,” he murmurs.

“I stole it,” you reply.

“It looks better on you.”

You glance over your shoulder. “You comin’ on to me, Morgan?”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “I’m thinkin’ about where I’d like to come on ya’.”

You punch his shoulder, hard enough to sting. He winces—then kisses your neck like it’s his damn job.

Ten minutes later, you’re both panting against a sun-heated boulder, half-dressed and breathless, the rifle forgotten in the dirt.

There’s a fight one day—over something dumb. Maybe he didn’t wake you for a scouting trip, or you snapped at him after a sleepless night. You storm off to the ridge, fuming.

He follows.

You argue in low, heated voices, close enough to kiss, close enough to swing. The desert wind howls around you.

Then, silence.

Then: his hand fisting in your shirt, yours grabbing his belt.

You don’t talk the rest of the afternoon.

You let your bodies say everything for you.

Dutch starts noticing.

“You two seem thick as thieves lately,” he says one night.

You smile over your drink. “Ain’t we all?”

Arthur, beside you, raises a brow. “I just like her company.”

Dutch chuckles. “That’s a word for it.”

A few days later, you’re on lookout duty together. The heat is miserable.

Arthur is squinting through binoculars when you crawl into his lap, straddling him lazily.

“You’re supposed to be watchin’ for trouble,” he mutters, but his hands are already on your thighs.

“I am,” you murmur. “Just a different kind.”

He laughs—then groans when you grind against him slowly.

“You’re gonna get us shot one of these days.”

“Worth it,” you whisper, kissing him hard enough to steal the rest of his breath.

The worst of it is the time you can’t wait.

You’re supposed to be delivering a message to a contact closer to Tucson. You make it halfway before you drag him off the trail and into a thicket of dry brush, your mouth already on his.

“You’re outta your damn mind,” he mutters as you yank at his belt.

“You drivin’ me there,” you shoot back.

It’s fast. Dirty. God-awful uncomfortable.

And you both grin like idiots the whole way back to camp.

And then—after weeks of this—you’re sitting beside him on a ridge at dusk, legs dangling over the drop. Your body aches in the best ways. Your hair’s a mess. His shirt is rumpled from you wearing it again.

The desert stretches out golden before you, calm for once.

Arthur hands you a flask, still catching his breath from what just happened behind the rocks, acts that were probably illegal in ten states.

You take a sip, and then smile sideways at him.

“I want you to take me to dinner.”

He blinks. “What?”

You stretch, smug and satisfied. “Dinner. You know—tables, food, silverware we ain’t gonna sell off at a fence. A town where we don’t gotta lie about our names. Maybe even a bath before.”

He stares at you for a second, then huffs a laugh, brushing dust from your bare leg.

“I just railed you up against a sandstone rock,” he says, “and now you want me to take you courtin’?”

You grin. “Exactly.”

Arthur shakes his head, but there’s no hiding the way his mouth curves, soft and amused. “You’re outta your mind.”

#rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #twolafic #18+ mdni #firewater #smut #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan

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blueskies664 · 4 days ago

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Firewater - Chapter 7

PAIRING: low to mid honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader. explicit.

The ranch robbery goes well, so of course you have to celebrate.

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

ARIZONA, JUNE 1897

The night air is thick with smoke and song.

After days of dry planning and a dicey execution, the ranch job went smoother than anyone expected. A big haul—cash, supplies, even a few decent rifles tucked under floorboards. Dutch is all smiles, Hosea’s already half-drunk, and even Grimshaw is laughing into a tin cup of something strong.

You’re sitting on a log near the fire, one leg crossed over the other, watching the way Arthur leans against a barrel a few feet away, half-listening to Javier’s story. He’s drinking slow, same way he’s always cautious, but there’s a faint smirk pulling at his lips that tells you he’s feeling good. Maybe better than he’d admit.

He hasn’t looked your way since the fire was lit. Not directly, anyway.

But you know he’s aware of you.

You wait until a particularly loud burst of laughter goes up around the fire—something about Bill and a pigpen—and then you lean forward just enough that your fingers brush the top buttons of your shirt.

One pops open. Then another.

The fire’s warm, but your blood is warmer. Just get up slow, as if you’re stretching. As if the night breeze is too tempting to ignore.

You walk past him, calm and unhurried, trailing into the trees beyond the edge of camp where the firelight gives way to shadow.

You don’t have to look back.

You know he’s following by the way the chatter behind you falters for half a second, then picks up again like nothing happened.

By the time you hear his boots behind you, you’re already leaning against a cottonwood tree, arms folded, eyes gleaming in the dark.

“You always undo your shirt to get what you want?” he asks, voice low, already amused.

You tilt your head. “Only when what I want is stubborn and slow on the uptake.”

He steps closer. “That right?”

“Mm-hm.” You let your gaze drift down his chest, to the way his vest hangs open, to the familiar shape of the revolver at his hip. “Besides, it’s hot out.”

“Sure,” he mutters, but his eyes are already lingering on the skin you’ve exposed—your collarbone, the curve of your chest. “You plannin’ on doin’ anything else out here, or is this just a look at me stunt?”

You push off the tree, taking a step toward him. “Why? That bother you?”

Arthur snorts, then reaches up and lazily flicks another button open with his knuckle. “Only bothers me when I don’t get to do the lookin’ up close.”

You smile, close now, the tension between you all heat and memory and promise.

“I thought maybe I’d give you something worth lookin’ at,” you say softly.

“Darlin’,” he murmurs, voice thick and fond now, “you already did.”

Arthur doesn’t kiss you right away.

He just stands there in front of you, close enough that your bodies share breath. His eyes flick over your face, sharp and steady, like he’s trying to memorize the way you’re looking at him right now—equal parts challenge and invitation.

“You always this bossy when you’re feelin’ good?” he mutters, voice gravel-soft.

“Only when I know you’ll follow,” you reply, tilting your chin just enough to provoke.

That’s all it takes.

He steps into you fast, one hand catching the back of your neck, and then his mouth is on yours—hot, urgent, rough in that way that says he’s been waiting since the ranch job, maybe even since the drunken debauchery. You meet him with the same hunger, your fingers gripping his vest, your body arching into his like it’s instinct.

It’s not sweet.

It’s hungry.

His kiss makes your head spin. When he pulls back, only slightly, his mouth brushes against your jaw, then lower, against your throat. “Been thinkin’ about this since you walked past me this mornin’,” he mutters against your skin. “Like you wanted trouble.”

You smirk through your ragged breathing. “I am trouble.”

He growls softly, and then he’s kissing you again, deeper this time. He moves with that quiet confidence you’ve come to know in him—like he knows what you need and isn’t shy about giving it.

His hands find your hips. Then your thighs.

And then suddenly, he’s lowering you down to the ground, easing you back into the dry grass and dirt like it’s the softest bedroll on earth.

Your breath catches.

“Arthur—”

But he’s already shifting down, hands dragging up your legs, strong and sure. When he reaches the hem of your skirt, he pauses—glancing up at you, his voice low and wicked.

“Just lay back, darlin’,” he murmurs. “Let me show you how good I am with my mouth.”

You don’t argue.

Your head falls back against the earth, the stars above spinning slightly as you feel the soft whisper of air against your thighs. Your skirts are pushed up slowly, reverently, and then his head dips beneath the fabric.

And everything else fades.

No teasing now. No more banter.

Just his hands, steady and warm, holding your legs apart. And his mouth, purposeful and slow, like he’s savoring the way you lose yourself to his ministrations

The night around you is quiet except for the hum of crickets and your broken, whispered breaths. Somewhere in the distance, the firelight of camp flickers, and the faint sound of laughter and music drifts through the trees.

But none of it matters.

Right now, it’s just you. Him. And the way he licks you like you’re the only thing in the world he needs to taste again and again.

Arthur’s head is buried beneath your skirts, his breath warm against your skin, and every flick of his tongue pulls a new sound from your lips. He’s patient and thorough, like he’s got nowhere else to be—like he wants to unravel you one slow lick at a time.

Your hips shift instinctively, caught between wanting to grind against his mouth and keep still to hold onto the pressure building inside you. But he’s already got a hand pressed firm against your thigh, holding you down, guiding you exactly where he wants you.

And just when you think you’ve adjusted—just when you’re getting used to the rhythm of his mouth—he reaches up, rough fingers slipping beneath your loosened shirt, brushing over the curve of your breast.

You gasp, eyes fluttering shut.

His calloused palm cups you, thumb teasing over your nipple through the thin fabric of your chemise. The combination is maddening—his mouth between your thighs, his hand kneading your breast, and the gravelly sound he makes when he feels you arch into his touch.

“Arthur—” you breathe, voice catching.

He hums in response, and the vibration alone nearly makes you scream.

Your hand fumbles through your skirts, fingers tangling in his hair, and you swear he laughs against you when you tug. Not to stop him—just to anchor yourself.

Every part of you feels stretched thin, the fire winding tight in your belly, sharper with every pass of his tongue, every tug of his fingers on your skin. Your breath comes in broken bursts now, hips trembling under his hands.

“You’re close,” he murmurs, voice muffled. “I can feel it.”

You nod, barely able to speak.

“Let go for me,” he growls, mouth dragging against your inner thigh.

And with one more stroke—with one more slip of heat and pressure from his mouth—you do.

You cry out, back arching, thighs shaking as you come against his mouth, his hands steady on your body, grounding you through it. He doesn’t pull away until you’re done—until you’re gasping and boneless, legs trembling, shirt rucked halfway up your ribs and your chest still heaving.

When he finally lifts his head, his mouth glistens, his eyes dark and fixed on yours.

“Hell,” he mutters, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I could die happy now.”

You laugh breathlessly, still sprawled in the grass, heart racing.

“You’re not gettin’ off that easy, Morgan,” you murmur when you finally regain the ability to speak.

Arthur exhales through his nose, slow and shaky, as he leans back on his elbows beside you, the grass bending beneath his weight.

You’re still catching your breath, your skirts tangled around your waist, your shirt half-unbuttoned from earlier. His eyes flick over you, dark and hungry, jaw tight like he’s holding something back.

Then you notice it—he’s shifting slightly, adjusting himself in his trousers.

A flush creeps into your smile.

“Somethin’ wrong?” you ask, voice soft and teasing as you lean closer, letting your fingertips graze the front of his pants.

He glances at you, half a smirk curling at his lips. “You know damn well what’s wrong.”

You lean in, your face close to his, and your hand trails lower, pressing gently over the obvious strain beneath his trousers.

“Well,” you murmur, “I feel like it’s only fair I return the favor.”

Arthur watches you for a beat—just watches, eyes burning with heat and something quieter beneath it. Then he lets out a breath, almost a groan, and shifts to give you room.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he mutters as you undo the top button of his trousers with slow, deliberate fingers.

“Mm,” you hum, sliding your hand inside, “you keep sayin’ that, but I think you like it.”

He swears softly when your hand wraps around him, hips twitching beneath your touch.

“I know I do,” he mutters through gritted teeth.

The way his breath stutters in his throat only spurs you on, your strokes slow, teasing, your thumb dragging just enough to make his eyes squeeze shut.

Arthur groans low in his chest, tipping his head back. “You keep that up, and I’m not gonna last long.”

You grin against his shoulder, dragging your mouth along the stubble there. “That’s alright. I already got mine.”

His laugh is ragged—genuine, hoarse, and filled with heat.

Arthur’s breath hitches as your hand works his cock with slow, purposeful strokes, his head tipped back, eyes shut.. The low sounds he makes—low groans, a few muttered curses—go straight through you. You feel him straining beneath your palm, hot and heavy, his control unraveling by the second.

Then you shift.

Without a word, you slide down between his legs, your eyes locked on him as you press a kiss just below his navel, and then lower still.

Arthur looks down just as your mouth closes around his cock, and the sound he makes is wrecked.

“Shit,” he breathes, one hand fisting in the grass behind him, the other hovering uncertainly before landing on your shoulder, fingers digging in.

You move slow at first, savoring the way he shudders, the curse he swallows. His hips twitch despite himself, jaw clenched real tight.

“You—goddamn,” he grits out, the edge of a groan curling behind the words. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

You hum in response, tongue teasing just enough to make him buck gently into your mouth.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice hoarse and wild now. “You keep goin’—”

You don’t stop. The tension in him is visible now—his thighs taut, shoulders locked, breath coming fast and ragged as your mouth works him with slow, determined care.

Then he lets out a deep, broken moan, his hand tightening on your shoulder.

“Now,” he chokes. “I’m gonna—”

And he does.

You feel it in the way he stutters against your tongue, in the way his whole body tenses and then collapses into the grass. His voice breaks on a final, wrecked curse as he spills into your mouth, chest heaving, fingers slackening against your skin.

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of your breathing, the wind in the grass, the faint murmur of laughter far off at the campfire.

Arthur finally lifts his head to look at you, still panting, a dazed smile ghosting across his lips.

“Remind me to piss you off more often,” he rasps.

You grin, wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand as you crawl back up beside him.

#rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #18+ mdni #twolafic #firewater #arthur morgan x female reader #smut #arthur morgan

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