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A Job Well Done
pairing: Arthur Morgan x reader (f)
word count: 4944 words
warnings: 18+ minors dni, sexually explicit, oral (f giving), rough oral, a little choking, a touch of voyeurism, explicit language, it's pretty much a blowjob fic
authors note: idk what to say... this started as a little drabble because me and my fiancĂŠ love having a little smoke together at night and.... well, here we are I guess?? i hope you enjoy you lovely lot, and if you've asked to be tagged and you're not please let me know!! I have a new system for keeping track of my taglist and I may have lost some requests in the transfer
taglist: @cowboydisaster @inkandbloodbound @counteveryfreckle @elifsukirdaghehe @reaveries @delilah-grimes @mrsarthurmorgan7 @twola@the-marsh-harrier @wildfloweroutlaw @photo1030 @luvliewriting@pine4pple-b0i *if i've missed you please let me know!!!*
You pull Arthurâs jacket tighter around your shoulders, settling into the old wooden chair while it creaks beneath you. Thanks to being in the middle of the Lemoyne swamps, it isnât too cold despite the moon hanging so high in the sky above you, the jacket is more for comfort. From where you sit, you can see near the whole camp, watching lanterns flicker off incrementally as each member of your makeshift family retires for the night. A few of the boys stay up, drinking by the fire, their voices muffled and distant in the thick air.
Itâs been a week to the day since you last saw Arthur, before he left to track a rather sizable bounty down and attempt to cushion out the camp funds, and God do you miss him. The days feel so much longer, nights so lonely youâve considered saddling up and finding the bastard yourself just to bring him home sooner. Comfort can be found, though, in the ways Arthurâs presence has bled so deeply into your life that his physical being doesnât even need to be here.Â
His smell lingers on the jacket he left (the one he wore every day before he had to leave just so you could wear it when you missed him), that perfect mix of tobacco and whiskey and something so ineffably Arthur that you soak up every time you wrap it around your frame.Â
Heâs there in the routines you've built your lives around, intertwined as they are, the ones you canât shake even if heâs not beside you. The cup of coffee in a morning, his so much better tasting than yours but you try anyway. The first morning after he left, you made two, ending up giving the extra to a very grateful Abigail to save face.
Thereâs a nightly routine, too. The one where you get ready for bed, then climb through the window to meet him on your balcony. Heâs always there waiting with a cigarette hanging from his lips, patting his lap ready for you to crawl on. Heâll drag a match across his boot, (or sometimes the bottom of yours, if youâre still wearing them) lighting up the smoke before handing it to you. Youâll pass it between each other, catching up on your days, limbs entangled just how they should be as you watch Shady Belle fall asleep around you.Â
Without him, those routines bring you comfort, grasping onto the remnants of your cowboy until his safe return. Thatâs why youâre sitting in this spot, pulling a cigar out of the little tin stash box Arthur left behind. Normally itâs just a cigarette, you could never survive a cigar a night and have the throat to tell the tale, but thereâs something inexplicably Arthur about this brand of smokes, something youâre seeking tonight.Â
You pluck a match from the tin, striking it against the table beside you, never having gotten the knack of igniting the thing on your boot as effortlessly as Arthur does, and light the cigar between your lips. The all-familiar woody essence dances across your tongue, your tired muscles relaxing from the first few tokes.Â
Itâs just you, the moon and the crickets as you sit on the balcony, Arthurâs smoke between your lips. You wonder what heâs doing. He should be sleeping, but knowing him heâs probably up planning, or doing exactly what you are right now. You pray heâs safe, hasnât been gotten by the law or worse, gotten himself killed. You canât let yourself even think about that, the very idea bringing a tremble to your limbs. To combat the sudden spike in anxiety, the next time you bring the cigar to your lips you drag in just that bit more smoke, letting it soak down your spine. Not nearly as experienced in smoking as Arthur, you cough a little, but you recover much quicker than you used to.Â
Memories of that first time, of Arthur offering you the little brown stick and you nervously nodding, bring a little smile to your face. Oh, how you spluttered, Arthur giving you his drink on instinct, only realising that the whiskey burn would do the opposite of help once it was too late. Youâd have been in your right mind to be embarrassed as hell, but by the way he chuckled as he rubbed circles around your back told you that he found it nothing but adorable.Â
You sit there for a few minutes, basking in the precious peace so seldom found nowadays and taking a drag every now and then, the smoke riding a sigh from your lips. Your eyes slip closed, trying to shut off as many senses as you can to really connect with that smell and taste, imagining him emerging from your bedroom window to be here with you.Â
Heâs much less graceful than you are, often catching some part of his person on the windowsill when he climbs out onto the balcony. So many nights spent patching up little holes in his pant legs, right where that out sticking nail used to be in the frame before he âbested it in combatâ (i.e. pulled it out with a hunting knife and threw it ceremoniously in the lake).Â
Manifestation is a powerful tool, youâve always believed that, but you still nearly jump out of your skin when you feel a large hand grasp your shoulder just as you imagined, Arthurâs gruff, hushed whisper tickling the words âhey, sweetheartâ into the skin of your neck. It takes you a second to catch your breath, heart racing from the shock before everything registers and reality sets in.Â
âArthur?â
Heâs here.
âCâmere, darlinâ.â
You fly out of your seat, the rickety old thing nearly splintering under the force, launching yourself into his open arms to burrow yourself into him. Â Every part of him consumes your senses and you drink it all in like an addict. The smell, the real thing, much more of that Arthur essence than the whiskey or cigars, probably because he forewent breaks in his journey for those little pleasures to get back to you sooner.Â
He seems to be taking you in as much as you are him, inhaling long through his nose and sighing it out contentedly, feeling whole again after so long without you in his arms.
âI missed yaâ, beautiful.â He says softly into your hair, holding you tight against him, his knuckles brushing up and down the small of your back through layers of clothes youâve stolen from him.Â
âI missed you so muchâŚâ You mumble into his shirt, hardly able to breathe through the wall of hard chest muscle youâre pressed against, caring even less.Â
Itâs only then do you remember the cigar, forgotten and abandoned, smoking away on the table propped up on a jar lid turned makeshift ashtray. Most of the boys donât bother with one, and neither did Arthur, until a fateful night a few months before you started dating when you first handed him the jar and told him you read something about birds and rabbits eating the butts of cigarettes. He kept the little piece of junk right next to his bedside, waiting for you to find it after that first night together.Â
Arthur spots your momentary pull of attention, pulling his chest away to raise a brow down at you with a little chuckle rumbling his chest.
âHaving a fancy smoke of a night, are we?âÂ
A cheeky little smirk- Arthurâs favourite, actually- tugs at the corner of your lips, waiting patiently for him to kiss it away.
âThe smell reminds me of youâŚâ you play coy, earring yourself that kiss when Arthur lifts you up to his height, kissing you softly, letting his world and yours fall back into place together.Â
âWell Iâm here now, angel. Wanna sit? Could do with a nice cigar with my girl to celebrate a job well done.âÂ
Youâre eager to nod, heart fluttering at the prospect of getting to sit with him and hear all about his trip. He untangles from you to sit down first, patting his lap for you to crawl into. You fit perfectly together (you should do, you were made for eachother), head resting on his shoulder, legs splayed over his thighs with your arm draped over his shoulder. The cigar has gone out, so Arthur strikes a match so expertly on his spurs before shaking it out and placing his hand on the small of your back for support. You lean into him, watching him take puffs of the cigar and feeling the tiniest bit of tension leave his joints. He looks so natural with a smoke between his teeth, commanding an air of power with each movement he makes. Smoking doesnât suit just everyone, you think, but God, does it suit him.
âWeâre celebrating? You got the bastard, then?â
âSure did,â he says, smoke spilling from his lips with each syllable. Arthur looks you over again, drinking in the dearly missed view, before kissing you on the forehead and flipping the cigar between his fingers to offer it up, âEventually found him up in Fort Brennand, but he werenât alone. Nearly lost a damn eye, but luckily only Woffard had to be brought in alive, so I dropped the other bastards and ran.â
You hang on his every word, your hero. You know heâs downplaying the fight, the danger of it all, but he does it so that you donât worry every time heâs gone. It never works, and you always do, but you love him for trying.Â
âOh, Arthur, Iâm so glad youâre alrightâŚâ You coo, pressing a hand to his cheek, feeling the weeks worth of stubble scratching against your palm. He nuzzles into your touch, not unlike a cat, and your find yourself keeping your hand there to mindlessly play with his hair, tipping his hat off to put on your own head. He chuckles, reaching to adjust it on you.
âCourse I am, couldnât leave you here all alone with this bunchaâ fools, could I? Besides, someones gotta bring home the bacon around here, and you know Marstonâs too trigger happy to bring a bounty in alive.â
âSo you got the full price?â Your eyes gleam, the proudest smile on your features as Arthur nods and shifts both your weights for a moment to pull out a stack of bills and smack them on the table dramatically.
âYouâre damn straight I did, baby.â
Of course he did. Arthur never fails, and God knows how much the camp needs this right now, freedoms diminishing by the day as Dutch makes more enemies and plans jobs that just seem to keep going wrong. But you donât want to think about that right now. Right now, there is only you and Arthur, and the promise of a whole night spent with him uninterrupted. You hand him the cigar back, along with a stolen kiss, and he takes another mesmerising drag. The way he holds it, every so often tipping the ash into the first gift you ever gave him, it does things to you that you just canât explain. Itâs just a cigar, and yet youâre pressing your thighs together tight to futilely subdue the tightness coiling between them.Â
âIâm so proud of you⌠I always am.â Unkempt locks of hair are twisted between your fingers, your face so close to Arthurâs you can pepper his cheek, temple and lips, whenever not occupied, with little kisses, Arthurâs hat sometimes tipping up against his forehead on your head. The two of you are always like this after a few days apart, unable to get enough of each other or keep your hands off one another. You shift your weight to access him better, catching his bottom lip between your teeth to press a long, tender kiss there. He hums under you, hand splaying under your jacket to grasp at your shirt. Itâs seconds before you feel it, that hardening that nudges up against your thigh, prodding and reminding you just how much Arthur has missed you.
You pull away from the kiss, just enough to raise a teasing brow at how sensitive your cowboy is to your touch. He shrugs, unashamed, with that cheeky grin and those glistening eyes directed right at you.Â
âWhat? I missed yaâŚâ His words are accompanied with a pinch of your ass, which makes you writhe on top of his stiffness, the friction dragging a low growl from deep within his chest.Â
âI can see that, cowboy⌠I missed you too. I missed you more.â You emphasise, nipping at his lip again and splaying your fingers across his chest. He rises to your touch, and you feel him stiffen more so under you. It takes a second of manoeuvring, but youâre soon straddling him, hovering above him like the angel he sees you to be. From this angle, with the moon behind you, youâre glowing.Â
âYou absolutely did not, you little sirenâŚâ He growls again, pulling at the flesh of your ass so that youâre grinding against him, the friction of denim against denim igniting you both and burning so wonderfully.Â
âOh, yeah? I can prove it.â Thereâs a little cock of your head, a raise of one teasing brow as you start to slide off him. He looks confused, disappointed, even, until your knees rest on the planks of wood on the balcony floor and he instinctively spreads his legs to give you the space between them. Your fingers splay across his thick thighs, and they tense under your touch, as does Arthurâs jaw. Heâs starved after a week without you, clearly trying to reign in a control heâs struggling to possess. Thereâs no wonder, having his girl knelt before him like this.Â
âYou wanna take this to the bedroom?â He growls out, abandoning the still smoking cigar in the jar lid. You look up at him, peeking out from under the rim of his hat.Â
âNo.â You reach for the cigar, taking a few drags yourself before flipping it in your fingers just like he did and placing it between his teeth, âFinish your smoke.â
A distant laugh captures Arthurâs attention for a second, reminding you both just how close you are to the other gang members. Youâre somewhat hidden by the railing, but if they looked in your direction, Arthur is fully visible from the chest up. A simple bob of your head- and youâre planning on plenty- would bring you into view.Â
The look Arthur gives you when he quickly diverts his attention back from Marston and the others is downright feral, especially when your hands reach for his belt buckle. Nimble fingers make quick word of the obstruction, and youâre soon pulling Arthurâs thick, long length out from his jeans. He groans at your very touch, involuntarily bucking his hips up into your hand.Â
You laugh, the sound a tempting little giggle as you tell him âPatience, cowboyâŚâÂ
He almost snarls in response, clearly having been goddamn patient enough over the last week where all he could do is fuck himself with your name on his lips and the thought of you knelt just like this between his legs at the forefront of his mind, always.Â
Just as you lean in, when your soft lips trace over his rosy, swollen head, he pulls you back by plucking his hat from atop your head and throwing it to the side. He rests the cigar between the fingers of his free hand to free his mouth to speak to you.
âNeed to see you while I fuck that pretty little mouthaâ yours, angelâŚâ
His words soak through you (and soak you through), and you just canât wait a second longer, needy to have his cock deep down your throat, desperate for the burning of your lungs and the stinging in your eyes when he loses that control he so often vehemently clings to.Â
Unable to wait a second longer, you run your tongue from base to tip, feeling every vein pulsing under your muscle and eliciting a deep groan from Arthur. When you finally take him in your mouth, his hand reaches to cup your cheek, following you down as you take as much of him as you can.Â
âFuck.â He groans, fingers reaching to tangle in your hair, scratching at your scalp. Heâs probably louder than he should be, your eyes flickering to the general direction of the others as a warning, but they soon snap back to your cowboy, an intense eye contact burning at your skin as the head of his cock bumps the back of your throat. Arthur never takes his eyes off you, guiding you up and down his length and bringing the smoke to his lips. The tip of the cigar flares a deep, fiery orange, and smoke billows from his mouth with each laboured breath you coax from him. The way heâs sitting, fingers of one hand pulling at your hair, controlling your movements, and the other limply holding the smoke, he exudes a power many seek to master but never quite get. It makes your heart swell and your cunt throb for him, knowing on your knees before him is the only place you ever want to be, knowing only you inhabit it.Â
You can taste Arthur, his salty essence leaking from the pure ecstasy youâre providing and spit pools in your throat, mixing with it and dribbling down your chin. Arthur catches it with his thumb, guiding you off his cock to push the digit into your mouth and let you suckle from it. You do, hungrily, adjusting on your knees to better take Arthur deep down your throat and-
âArthur! That you?âÂ
Marston.Â
For eyes widen at each other, Arthur instinctively pushing you a little lower by your shoulder to keep you out of sight. John hasnât seen you, and youâd like to keep it that way, being in the incriminating position you are between Arthurâs legs.Â
You spot the irritated sigh, the twitch of Arthurâs jaw as he plasters a fake friendliness onto his features and peers over the balcony to see his brother standing on the clearing below.Â
âSure is. Whatchuâ want?â
Straight to the point.
âWe didnât hear you get back. How longâve you been here?â
All that tension youâve worked so hard to dissipate comes back to Arthurâs form with a crashing force. You can almost hear his plea for just one second aâ goddamn peace, merely by the way he sighs before answering.Â
âNot long, thought Iâd try and sneak past you fools and get some shut eye.â
Subtle, cowboy.
Ever oblivious, or simply not caring, John continues, âHowâd it go, then? You got the bastard?â
He has you pressed against his thigh to hide you from sight, cock standing to attention right beside your face. Itâs too tempting, especially with a none the wiser Marston stood right below. When your tongue darts out, hovering above Arthurâs twitching, aching cock, his eyes flick down to you, warning residing deep in his eyes. You take it as less of a warning, more a challenge.
You wouldnât.
Oh, but I would.
And you do. You lift up, just enough to fit the head of his throbbing cock past your lips and slide the whole length in. It bumps the back of your throat, but upon hearing Arthurâs strangled, poorly hidden groan, you canât seem to stop yourself.
âY-uh⌠Yeah, I got âemâŚâÂ
Itâs impressive, how he can just about hold a conversation despite his cock being so far down your throat his balls rest on your chin.Â
You canât see John, but you can only imagine how his head must tilt and his brows must pull together at the strange response from Arthur.Â
âYou alright, brother?â
He wonât be.
You blink up at Arthur, feigning an innocent, near angelic expression as you inhale through your nose and push him even further into you. You hum, low and quiet, letting the vibrations pass through him. Arthur whimpers, instantly knocking any and all sounds youâve ever heard from top spot and replacing them as your favourite in the whole world.Â
âI-Iâm fine. Just tired.â He tries to hint again, to no avail. His fingers are digging into your shoulder with a bruising force, that control slipping bit by bit with every passing second, every little movement. Tears prick at your eyes, that burning in your lungs youâve been reaching for finally igniting. Youâre stuffed with him, feeling so full that itâs hard to breathe. When you go to release him, to be able to gasp for precious air, you realise you canât, Arthurâs huge hand holding you right in place with his palm flush against the back of your neck. Revenge.Â
âWhereâs the Mrs?â
A raise of a brow. Youâre not married, but everything is so naturally right between you and Arthur that the gang just seem to have defaulted to that. It makes you beam, wanting nothing more than to be this manâs wife, the kind of wife that makes him cum down your throat while he has a menial conversation.Â
âS-Sheâs- fuckâŚâ When he grips harder at you, you gag around his length, tears now streaming down your cheeks and mixing with your spittle and the little bits of precum that leak out from Arthur. âSheâs in bed. I-I better go check on her, a-actually.â He whimpers again, fingers now gripping into your hair to keep you in place. Youâre not sure how much longer you can last like this, struggling to breathe, overflowing and, God, so wet for him.Â
John sounds unconvinced. Youâd giggle, if you could.
âAlright⌠Well, gânight, brother.â
Arthur barely manages a grunt, and you can feel his thighs tensing and twitching from the sheer effort of not bucking his hips up into you and giving the pair of you away. He stills, most likely waiting for Marston to fuck off already, before he rips you away from him and pulls you to your feet, gripping your aching jaw with force enough force to keep it open.Â
âYou goddamn siren.â He isnât mad. Heâs trying to be, but you know Arthur far too well, and heâs burning with a fire far hotter than mere anger. Need.Â
The mischievous glint in your eye is all you can offer for response, what with his iron grip on your face, but you do manage to slip your tongue out and lick the pad of his thumb, tasting the mixture of fluids still lingering.Â
Itâs all getting too much, knowing what you just did and who you did it around, hearing Arthur unable to string a sentence together because of you. You donât think youâve ever been so turned on in your life, so desperate for a release that youâre pathetically writhing in Arthurâs hold. He notices, forced anger on his features replaced with a cockiness that only comes from knowing heâs regaining the power in the situation.Â
Your cheeks tingle when he releases you, sitting back in the seat and leaning back, one elbow resting on the arm of the old wooden chair and picking the cigar back up. God, you could ride him in that chair till morning, if you thought the wood wouldnât splinter under the force.Â
âYou gonna finish what you started, my little siren?â He asks, taking an especially long toke from the smoke while he waits for you to drop to your knees before him. Your cunt throbs, screaming out for his attention, but it would seem your antics have earned you punishment.Â
Your knees hit the wood with a force, though an involuntary whimper escapes you, hips grinding pathetically against nothing. Arthur notices, smirking like a goddamn cheshire cat at his little wanton whore.Â
âPatience, angel.â Your own words echo back to you like a slap in the face. You definitely deserve this.
The grip you had on the power in this game youâre playing with Arthur officially disappears when his hand snakes around the back of your neck, grasping at your hair and winding it around his wrist like a leash. You have to tilt your head so the tugging at your scalp is a mere burn rather than a sharp pain, but thatâs just where he wants you.Â
âNow, little siren, Iâm gonna teach yaâ some manners, and youâre gonna finish what you started, alright? And if youâre a good girl, maybe Iâll think about getting that sweet little cunt of yours offâŚâ
Itâs all it takes, the promise of Arthurâs fingers deep inside you while he sucks on your clit just how you like it, lapping up your juices like a man starved, and the defiance in your eyes dissipates. Arthur bends you to his whim, messy, sloppy putty in his hands as he drags you onto his weeping cock. Youâre all but drooling for him, leaking out of the corners of your mouth when he slips into you. Your scalp tingles with the pull, especially when Arthur involuntarily tightens his grip with a hiss of his breath. His tip bumps the back of your throat, but he doesnât stop even when youâve fit all of him in that you can.
âFuck, good girl, just like that baby girlâŚâ he groans, and when you open your eyes to look up to him, he is watching you with a gaze so intense you feel like it could tear you apart. The tension burns between you, coiling so tight the chirp of a nearby cricket could snap it.Â
Thereâs an unspoken question in your eyes when you start to nearly choke on his length of when youâll be released, but his eyes darken, âCome on, baby, you can take more, canât you?âÂ
He seems to register your fear, but it phases him little. It seems more a challenge, really, coaxing him into rocking his hips into you, pushing you even further onto his cock until you feel it start to breach past your throat in a way you didnât even know possible. You splutter, wriggling and writhing as you try your hardest to breathe through your nose.Â
âShh⌠good girl,â he coos, a ravenous look taking over your usually so lovable cowboy. Youâve pushed him, and God do you live for it. âNot much further⌠wanna see you take all of my cock, alright? You gonna do that for me, angel?âÂ
You canât nod, but it isnât much of a question, not much choice available with your limited movements and the way Arthur has completely commandeered your body. Youâre irrevocably his, body and soul.Â
It doesnât feel possible to fit more of him in, your throat burning for relief that wonât come until Arthur is satisfied, but when he bucks his hips into you, you feel his base press against your nose. He groans hard, the noise initially from the sensation of having your throat wrapped around his cock, but when he sees the sight of you, tear stained and gagging on him, the moan is pulled out into a noise of pure ecstasy.Â
âGood girl⌠my good fuckinâ girl.âÂ
His thumb rubs lovingly over your wet cheek, a sensation you cling to as the corners of your vision get fuzzy. Fuck, youâre not sure how much longer you can hold out, but youâre so desperate to feel Arthurâs spend trickling down your throat, feel him lose control and moan just for you that youâd honestly be willing to die for it.Â
Your expression, complete with lust-fogged, watery eyes, and beautifully flushed skin, teases the last of Arthurâs restraint like a razor thin blade against that final thread. When it finally snaps, youâre allowed one gasp for air, before heâs thrusting back into you hard. You can feel him stiffen, even more so than before, as his hips splutter into your mouth and he starts to tumble over the precipice into that realm of pleasure that only the two of you share.Â
âF-Fuck, sweetheart, Iâm gonna-â But he interrupts himself with a visceral, primal groan, the vibration of it shattering the both of you. You take advantage of his practically inebriated state to regain some of your own anatomy, managing to swirl your tongue around his pulsing head inside your mouth. The hot, salty spend blooms across your tongue at that, Arthur guiding you by the cheek to bob up and down on his cock while he paints your throat white. His moans are a melody youâll never tire of, animalistic and vulnerable all the same.Â
It feels like it never stops, Arthurâs spend filling your mouth up and leaking out from the corners of your lip. You can hardly stay still, writhing your needy cunt against your own heel, desperate for a reward youâre earning when you look him in the eye and swallow it all down. Pride blooms across Arthurâs features, saturated with a love that warms you from the inside out. His thumb caresses your face softly, wiping the tear tracks as you finally release his cock from your mouth and he guides you to your feet, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then nose, then lips.
âMy good girlâŚâ He coos, barely above a whisper as you breathe each other in, both as breathless as the other. Your throat aches, your jaw burning, but youâd do it a thousand times over to experience what you just did all over again.Â
âNowâŚâ He splits the sentence with another kiss, catching your chin between his thumb and forefinger, âGet on inside, sweetheart, I think youâve earned yourself a reward.â
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