kisblle

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👅💦💦🥵

It was a very rainy day

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You're a good painter, Arthur Morgan..

Original

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I get so excited every time this is updated!!!

Firewater - Chapter 6

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

Four days pass.

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

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Four days pass before either one of you has the courage to really talk to one another again—four days of ribbing and teasing from the other members of the gang at your expense.

When Arthur comes to you and mumbles something about a job to make up for your previous abject failure, you jump at the chance to get out of camp. Even if it does come with commentary from everyone as you pack up.

You and Arthur ride in silence for the first half-hour, the trail winding between scrub and cactus, the quiet only broken by the occasional snort from the horses. It’s not exactly uncomfortable, but there’s something hovering between you. Not quite tension. Not quite ease, either. Something new. Something fragile and awkward and unspoken. 

You glance over at him. He hasn’t looked your way once.

Typical.

“You always get this quiet after—” you start, but cut yourself off before you say sex in the dirt.

Arthur doesn’t miss the pause. His eyes slide toward you, dry as desert bone. “After what?”

You shrug, tugging your reins slightly as the trail narrows. “After you get your way.”

That earns you a snort. “You think that was me gettin’ my way? Seemed to me like you were makin’ more noise than I was.”

Your cheeks heat up, but you shoot him a look, brows raised. “I only got loud so you’d stop talkin’.”

He huffs a laugh under his breath, shaking his head. “You’re somethin’ else.”

“And you are lucky I didn’t leave you tied to a cactus afterward.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” he mutters. “At least it wouldn’t talk so much.”

You grin, despite yourself. The banter is easy again- sharp and playful. Familiar. The awkward weight starts to lift as the two of you fall into the rhythm of riding and ribbing each other, just like before.

Almost.

By late morning, you reach the ridge overlooking the ranch. It’s a modest place, nestled between two sandstone outcroppings—big enough to be worth the gang’s time, small enough to scout without raising suspicion. A couple of barns, a corral, and a main house with a wide porch shaded by tired-looking cottonwoods.

You both dismount and lead the horses to some brush cover a little ways back. You drop to your haunches beside Arthur in the scrub, binoculars in hand. He nudges your knee with his.

“You see any guards?”

“Just the two out front,” you murmur, scanning the porch. “One’s half-asleep. The other’s pickin’ his nose like it’s his job.”

Arthur chuckles. “Real fine security. Bet Dutch’ll love that.”

You lower the binoculars and glance at him. “You think it’s worth hitting?”

He nods, jaw ticking slightly. “Maybe. Depends on what is in the barns. We give it a couple more hours, get the patrol pattern down.”

You sigh and stretch your legs out, arms behind you in the grass. “So, we just wait.”

“That’s what stakeouts are, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

He smirks. “You didn’t seem to mind it the other night.”

Your body tenses—just a flicker—but it’s enough for him to notice. Of course he notices.

You sit up, brushing the dust from your pants. “That was the whiskey talking.”

“That so?”

You shoot him a look. “And the heat. And your very punchable face.”

Arthur leans back on his elbows, eyes trailing lazily over the ranch before settling back on you. “Well, whatever it was, it sure had you scratchin’ at my back like I was gonna disappear.”

Your breath catches—and your glare deepens. “That’s rich, comin’ from the man who couldn’t shut up.”

“I don’t remember you complainin’.” He leans closer, voice dropping. “Matter of fact, I remember you tellin’ me harder.”

You flush, your mouth parting before you can stop yourself. “You are such an ass.”

“Uh-huh.” He turns his attention back toward the house, lips twitching. “An ass that rode you like hell.”

You’re too stunned to say anything for a moment, blinking at him. Then you give a short laugh, shaking your head.

“Jesus, Arthur.”

“What?”

“You gonna keep bringin’ it up?”

He shrugs. “Only if it keeps makin’ you all red like that.”

You shoot him a withering glare. “I’m gonna push you down this hill.”

“And then what?” he drawls. “Drag me behind the barn and have your way with me again?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, I ain’t,” he says with a smirk. “But I am observant. And I can tell when someone’s lookin’ at me like they wanna misbehave.”

You glare. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re twitchin’ your legs like you can’t decide.”

He’s not wrong.

You shift uncomfortably in the dirt, wishing the heat on your skin was just from the sun. But it’s not. It’s him. His voice, his grin, the memory of his hands on your hips and your name on his lips.

You take the binoculars again, holding them up like a shield.

Arthur chuckles softly beside you. “Don’t worry. I can behave. For now.”

“Good,” you mutter, your mouth dry. “Because we’ve got a job to do.”

“Mm-hm.” He leans back again, folding his arms behind his head.

-

You lie flat on your stomach in the scrub, elbows propped up, binoculars steady in your hands. The sun is past its peak now, casting long shadows across the dusty plain. The ranch hasn’t changed much. Same guards, same routine. A wagon came in about thirty minutes ago, unloaded some crates into the barn, then rolled back out.

It’s mind-numbing work, but necessary. And quiet.

For a little while.

Arthur lies beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours now and then. He hasn’t said much in the past hour, which you’d almost call progress. Until you feel it—his hand, rough and warm, settling on your thigh.

You freeze.

His voice is quiet, close to your ear. “Y’know, I’ve been real good this whole time.”

Your eyes stay fixed on the ranch house. “Arthur.”

“Haven’t touched you. Haven’t even looked at you sideways. Which, given the way you were moanin’ my name the other night, I think shows a hell of a lot of restraint.”

You lower the binoculars and turn your head toward him slowly, brows raised. “You want a medal?”

He grins, utterly unrepentant. “Nah. Just wonderin’ how much longer I gotta behave before you break again.”

“Break?” you scoff. “You broke first, Morgan. I recall you gettin’ all desperate on the rocks like you couldn’t wait to get your hands on me.”

His hand slides a little higher, thumb grazing through the thin fabric of your skirts. “Desperate, huh? That what it was?”

“I’ve seen starving men with more self-control.”

Arthur hums low in his throat, and his fingers flex on your thigh. “You keep talkin’ like that, I’m gonna prove you wrong right here.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” you whisper, a shiver skating up your spine.

“Oh, I would.” His voice goes lower, full of gravel and heat. “You think I ain’t been thinkin’ about it? You bent over these rocks… hot little mouth runnin’… skirt ridin’ up in this breeze…”

As if to demonstrate his point, his hand slips beneath your skirt now, callused fingers dragging the fabric up slowly. You hiss softly, but don’t stop him.

“Arthur—”

“I’ll stop,” he murmurs, pressing his palm over the curve of your rear through your drawers. “Just say the word.”

You don’t.

You shift your weight slightly, your thighs pressing together on instinct. He feels it.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s what I thought.”

His touch lingers, thumb tracing a slow, maddening circle through your rapidly dampening drawers. The wind rustles the dry grass around you, and somewhere below, a cow lowing in the corral drifts up the hill.

“I swear to God,” you mutter, half into the dirt, “if someone from the ranch looks up here and sees you feelin’ me up—”

“They ain’t lookin’,” Arthur says, nudging your hair aside with his nose. 

You half-turn toward him, mouth open to bite off another insult—only for it to be swallowed by his kiss. It’s rough and sudden, all teeth and heat, his hand firm on the back of your neck as he pulls you to him. You gasp into it, one arm bracing against the ground as the other fists in the front of his shirt.

The kiss breaks, but barely.

“Turn over,” he mutters, voice rough.

You don’t. You shift to your hands and knees instead, skirts bunched around your waist, the air cool against your legs now. When you glance over your shoulder, he’s already behind you, eyes dark and mouth parted, breathing shallow.

“You’re trouble,” he replies, tugging your drawers down your thighs with a low groan. “The worst kind.”

Your only answer is a soft, wicked smile.

His fingers move from your thigh up to your bared cunt, touching you gently enough for you to be surprised that he has the ability to.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Didn’t even have to work for it.”

You scoff, hips twitching into his touch. “You’re not that charming, Morgan. Heat must’ve gone to my head.”

He chuckles, low and slow. “Right. Has nothin’ to do with my fingers bein’ where you clearly want ‘em.”

Then he touches you properly, and the air leaves your lungs in a sound you can’t quite muffle. One strong hand anchors you by the hip as the other works slow, steady circles with two fingers to the knuckles inside of you.

You bite your lip hard enough to sting.

“Don’t hold back on me now,” he mutters, voice thick. “Wasn’t shy the other night.”

“Keep talkin’,” you pant, “and I might forget how generous I’m feelin’.”

He grins. “What, this ain’t generous enough?”

His fingers speed up slightly, coaxing you open, finding exactly what you need without even asking. He reads you like a goddamn book—every twitch of your hips, every gasp, every time you try and fail to bite back a sound.

You brace your hands harder into the dirt, feeling the heat build, sharp and fast.

“God,” you whisper, dizzy. “I hate you.”

“Shoah,” he breathes, leaning over you to drag his mouth along your shoulder. “Hate me so much you’re about to come on my hand.”

And you do. It hits you hard, sudden and overwhelming, your body tightening around his fingers as he works you through it. You cry out—quiet but wrecked—and collapse forward slightly, arms trembling under your weight.

He groans softly behind you, pulling his hand away, then wipes it lazily against the hem of your skirt. “Jesus,” he mutters, breath ragged. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Would’ve done it already if I meant to,” you manage, voice muffled in your sleeve.

You hear the buckle of his belt next, then the sound of trousers being shoved down, and then he’s there—his hands on your hips, pulling you back toward him as he presses against you. His cock parts your folds and pushes into your body, as easily as it did the other day. The stretch draws a gasp from your lips, your body still fluttering from the aftershocks of his hand.

Arthur groans low and curses under his breath. “Goddamn,” he rasps. “You are tryin’ to ruin me.”

“You make it so easy,” you breathe, rocking back into him.

He sets a rhythm quickly, hard and deliberate. His grip on your hips is bruising and perfect. You meet each thrust with a bite of sarcasm or a gasp you can’t hold in.

“Still hate me?” he pants.

“Yes.”

“Sure don’t feel like it.”

You feel him everywhere—his breath on your neck, his hips against yours, his fingers bruising into your skin. It’s fast, filthy, and so good.

The rhythm builds, the sharp snap of Arthur’s hips meeting yours echoing in your bones, the dirt under your knees, the air thick with heat and sweat and that low, wrecked sound he makes every time you tighten around him.

Your banter fades—not all at once, but in pieces, like a campfire burning down to ashes.

You still want to say something biting. Something smug.

But all that comes out is a gasp. And his name.

His hands slide up your sides, steadying you, anchoring you as your body starts to shake again. 

“Come for me,” he growls, voice rough and barely held together.

You don’t need the order. You’re already there—spurred by his voice, his touch, the raw stretch of his inches inside you. Your hands claw into the earth as a second climax slams into you, blinding and hot and sudden. You cry out, the sound torn from your throat, and your body clamps down around him so tightly he curses through his teeth.

“Shit—Jesus—” he chokes, staggering on the edge.

He pulls out fast, just in time, one hand still gripping your hip as the other fists around himself. His spend hits a second later, hot and messy against the back of your thigh, painting your skin in proof of how much pleasure he got from you.

You both stay frozen for a moment, the only sounds are your shared, ragged breathing and the rustle of wind in the dry scrub.

Then Arthur leans forward, his chest brushing your back as he presses a kiss just below your shoulder blade—so soft it startles you.

“Christ,” he mutters, forehead resting between your shoulder blades. “You really are gonna be the death of me.”

You breathe out a half-laugh, still trembling. 

You both collapse slowly into the dirt, tangled in heat and dust and silence that feels deeper than before. Nothing clever comes next. Just the sound of your hearts settling back into rhythm—together, for now, in the hush of the desert.

[kisblle]

Firewater - Chapter 5

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

The one where everyone knows it wasn't coyotes last night.

taglist: @v3lv3tf0x, @stottlemorgan, @mrsarthurmorgan7, @appalachiancowboy99, @pinescent-and-gingerbread, @blueskies664, @arthurstinmug, @ultraporcelainpig, @emerald-ranch

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

You woke up with your face in your pillow under your small tent and the sun already too high in the sky. Your mouth was dry, your legs ached, and your memory… well, your memory was patchy at best. But the parts that were clear?

Arthur Morgan.

Your back against the sand.

His hands.

His mouth.

His name—yelled, not whispered. Several times.

You groaned into your bedroll and tried to will yourself out of existence.

The worst part wasn’t even the fact that you’d slept with Arthur. No, the actual worst part was that you’d done it within earshot of the entire camp. Loudly. Repeatedly.

You buried your face deeper.

The second-worst part? You don’t see Arthur in his tent. He was nowhere in camp this late in the morning, which was almost certainly intentional. Probably just as mortified as you were.

Or maybe not. Maybe he was somewhere laughing it off already.

You got up, put on your cleanest shirt, and prayed to any god that would listen that everyone else had gone deaf overnight.

No such luck.

As soon as you stepped out of your tent, you ran into Uncle.

“Well, well, if it ain’t the screamer,” he drawled, tipping his hat back and grinning like the devil. “Camp ain’t been that lively in months.”

You turned sharply on your heel.

Too late. Abigail was already watching from the laundry line with a sly smirk.

“Didn’t know Arthur had that in him,” she said, wringing out a shirt. “Sounded like he was fightin’ off a mountain lion back there.”

“You all have no shame,” you muttered, cheeks burning.

“No shame?” Javier chimed in from the fire, barely holding in a laugh. “We weren’t the ones singin’ love songs to the desert stars.”

“It wasn’t love songs,” Charles said dryly from his seat, not even looking up from sharpening his knife. “It was war cries.”

You covered your face with your hands and kept walking, fast.

They all laughed.

And still—no Arthur.

You spent the rest of the day dodging side-eyes, snickers, and many, many unsubtle jokes. At one point, Bill handed you a bottle of whiskey “for round two.” You threw it at his face.

Later, you passed Karen, who simply grinned and offered, “Next time, pick a spot away from camp, sweetheart.”

You groaned. “There’s not gonna be a next time.”

Karen gave a smug shrug. “Didn’t sound like that last night.”

You were never drinking again.

-

Arthur wasn’t having a much better time.

He’d spent the first part of the morning half-asleep behind the corral, nursing a hangover and hoping the horses would somehow drown out the echoes of what everyone definitely heard. His first run in with Maguire did not help his mood.

He could hear the damn snickering from across the trees.

Dutch walked by with a cigar in hand, grinning wide.

“Well, son,” he said in that smug tone that made Arthur want to disappear, “if you were tryin’ to make a statement, I’d say mission accomplished.”

Arthur just grunted, leaning on the fence post, rubbing his temples.

Dutch clapped him on the back. “Hell, I ain’t even mad. Just proud you ain’t dead from it.”

Arthur grumbled something low and unintelligible.

Dutch chuckled and wandered off.

A minute later, Hosea strolled over, gave Arthur a long, considering look, and offered simply: “You know, in all my years, I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone say ‘don’t stop, you bastard’ quite so enthusiastically.”

Arthur nearly choked on his own spit.

“I’m goin’ for a ride,” he muttered, grabbing his saddle.

“Sure you are,” Hosea called after him, laughing. “Maybe take her with you next time, huh?”

Arthur groaned and mounted up.

-

By nightfall, camp had calmed a little, but the damage was done. Everyone knew. Everyone knew.

You’d spent the day cleaning your guns just to avoid conversation. Now, you hovered near the campfire with a tin cup of coffee, hoping to God Arthur stayed far, far away.

And of course, that’s when he showed up.

He strode back into camp like nothing had happened, still in his blue work shirt, hair mussed, hat low. He didn’t look at you right away—but you saw the twitch at the corner of his mouth when he passed Javier and got a muttered, “Casanova.”

Arthur kept walking.

You watched him from the corner of your eye, pulse hammering. He was heading toward the fire. Toward you.

You turned like you hadn’t noticed him, but it was too late.

He stopped a few feet away, clearing his throat.

You both stared at the ground for an awkward beat.

“…Hey,” he said gruffly.

“Hey,” you echoed, fiddling with your cup.

Another long silence.

“Rough day?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

You gave him a look. “You could say that.”

He scratched the back of his neck, glancing toward the fire. “Look… I, uh… I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

Your brows shot up. “Didn’t mean to? I seem to recall you were very committed to the bit.”

Arthur winced. “I meant I didn’t mean to wake the whole damn camp.”

You let out a laugh—short, surprised. “Yeah, well. We sure as hell did.”

He looked at you then, properly, and the tension between you crackled all over again. You both felt it. That stupid heat. That pull.

Arthur shifted his weight. “You… regret it?”

You opened your mouth—then hesitated.

Did you?

You thought about the way his hands had felt on your skin. The way he’d said your name like it mattered, if only for a moment. The way your body had answered his without a second thought. The way your heart had stuttered then, and again now.

“No,” you said finally, voice quiet. “I don’t regret it.”

Arthur’s eyes flicked to yours.

You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “But next time… we’re findin’ a place with walls.”

He blinked. Then his mouth curved into the crooked grin you see when he enjoys parting a man from his money. “So there’s gonna be a next time?”

You arched a brow, a smile slowly creeping across your face. “If you behave.”

Arthur chuckled low, stepping in until your boots nearly touched. “Never been real good at that.”

You smiled despite yourself.

“Then you’re buyin’ me a drink first,” you said.

“Fair enough,” he murmured, and tipped his hat.

You brushed past him, heart racing, grin hidden behind your cup.

Yeah. Everyone knew.

But maybe you didn’t care anymore.

Especially not if he kept lookin’ at you like that.

[kisblle]

Credit to whoever made this (found it on Pinterest and just had to share because so relatable lol)

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No I don’t think you understand, I loveeee him

between commissions and editorial stuff I did some Arthur sketches I wanted to share💕

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the bubbles on his head 🥺

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Oh Arthur, this is so me coded

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He’s just adorable sometimes idk

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RED DEAD REDEMPTION II ᨖ

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Guys, does this make me high honor?

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I slept in a tent last night with my man and let’s just say it wasn’t like this😭

His breath is warm on your neck as his strong arm wraps around your waist. Underneath the threadbare blanket, you are slotted against him completely in the small cot, his front to your back. The only real way for you to share the space together - with him taking most of it, of course.

The waxwings chirp outside the canvas, the sun already risen. Camp is coming awake : Susan scattering around the area, the clank of Pearson’s large ladle against the cast iron pot where the stew is started. Bill’s grumbling. Javier pouring coffee.

But you make no move to get out of bed. Not with his arm slung over you and his warmth enveloping your entire being.

You feel his chapped lips press against your skin, and you smile to yourself as a deep rumble emanates from his chest. His hand, laying limply against your belly, moves to the frame of the cot, clutching it tightly.

“Darlin’-” he rasps, voice hoarse with disuse, “You’re perfect-”

“Hush,” you counter, pressing back against him, “Stay there.”

“Ain’t no where else I wanna be. Ever.”

Your hand moves over his, and your fingers tighten over his white knuckles. He leans forward a bit and you feel his tongue trace the outline of your ear, making you shiver. He groans in response.

“Arthur-” you whisper, “Stay there. Ain’t no rush…”

A low chuckle is his response. “Alrigh’, my girl. Alright.”

It was a sleepy kind of need this morning - not the kind of need that’s breathless and clawing at each other like animals. Not the kind of need that has him climbing atop you and fucking you into the cot, with your bitten off gasps and growls from him.

It was the kind of need that had you slip your bloomers down to your knees, pulling up your chemise while he unbuttoned his union suit only enough to free himself underneath that threadbare blanket.

It was the kind of need where he worked himself in gently, slowly - opening you up in the quiet of the morning. Where he gently, so gently, pressed the bulbous head of his cock between your folds. Where he pushed - a stifled groan behind his teeth and a sigh escaping your lips, until his pelvis was flush with your rear.

And there he stayed- the column of his hard flesh holstered in your channel. As the camp became awake outside his tent, the two of you lay in his cot, unrushed, unhurried- simply existing as one connected being under the blanket.

Your fingers interlace with his as he lets go of the frame of the cot. Your eyes flutter shut as you let out a sigh at the feeling, the beautiful pain-pleasure of your body accepting him - your channel stretching to accommodate his member, his cockhead kissing your womb, so deep within you. Just staying still, extending this moment in the morning.

It’s perfect - the slight pinch that has lessened at the rim of your cunt. The press of his testicles, full and heavy against your ass. The tickle of his curls against your skin. His fingers between yours.

Arthur presses his lips to your neck once more, and pulls your entwined hands to the cradle of your hips, over where he is buried inside you.

The camp bustles outside your tent, but for this moment, and a few more, your world is nothing more than this cot, where you are tangled up in each other, close as two people could ever be.

[kisblle]

stars for scars

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If I had a nickel for every time I’ve consumed a piece of media where there’s a woman named Mary who’s madly in love with a criminal, but the criminal can’t love her back because he doesn’t want to put her in danger I’d have two nickels. Which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice.

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Thinking about Jason Duvals big juicy tits ✨💖

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Thinking about getting one of the scenes from my next chapter of Dark Paradise illustrated. It’s NSFW (but not nude or super explicit), and I’d love to find an artist whose style fits the vibe. If you’ve worked with anyone you’d recommend for commissions, please send their info my way!

Thanks :)

[kisblle]

*low honor sound effect*