mieriella

[mieriella]

you knew my father

[mieriella]

I love a little angst...

Firewater - Chapter 10

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

The camp moves, and you start counting days.

taglist: @v3lv3tf0x, @stottlemorgan, @mrsarthurmorgan7, @appalachiancowboy99, @pinescent-and-gingerbread, @blueskies664, @arthurstinmug, @ultraporcelainpig, @emerald-ranch @thedilfdiaries, @heron-feathers,@nalitali, @whiskeyskin, @globetrotter28

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JUST SOUTH OF RATHSKELLER FORK, NEW AUSTIN, SEPTEMBER 1897

-

You knew it was coming before Dutch said a word.

The tension had been building for days—quiet conversations behind closed wagons, hushed arguments between Dutch and Hosea, the way Javier kept glancing south like he was waiting to see torches or lawmen on the horizon.

And then finally, Dutch stood before the fire one morning, coat dusted with red earth, brim low over his eyes, and said, “We ride east. Today.”

No one asked why. Not aloud.

But everyone knew.

Phoenix had gone bad. So they packed up.

You helped Bill strap down the last crate, your fingers raw from folding canvas and tying ropes. Arthur was somewhere near the horses, checking saddles, chewing the inside of his cheek the way he always did when Dutch got twitchy.

You glanced back only once as the wagons rolled out—toward the distant haze where Phoenix had once meant opportunity.

All it meant now was trouble.

-

The crossing into New Austin was brutal.

Long days of blistering sun, cracked lips, and endless dust. Every night, the wind howled and filled your blankets with grit. The horses were spooked by snakes more than once. The wagons creaked like they were begging to give out. Even Dutch seemed quieter, less grand, more bone-tired.

You watched Jack whimper in his sleep one night, overheated and miserable. Abigail wiped sweat from his forehead with a trembling hand and didn’t say a word.

But then—just when the silence felt like it might swallow everyone whole—the dust began to change. The earth took on a lighter red. The canyons opened up. You saw hawks circling overhead and could smell scrub pine in the wind.

And then came the low roofs and crooked fences of Rathskeller Fork on the horizon, like the last teeth in a broken jaw.

Dutch raised his hand and called for a stop just short of the outskirts. A little patch of land tucked against a rock face, shielded from the road and blessedly flat.

“This’ll do,” he said.

And just like that, the gang began to settle.

-

The new camp rose with practiced hands and a kind of bone-deep weariness no one wanted to speak aloud. You helped pitch the tents again and found a new rhythm. Charles built a makeshift corral. Pearson set up his supplies. Even Reverend Swanson managed to find a shady place to pass out most afternoons.

At night, the air was cooler, and the stars looked different—sharper, brighter somehow.

The desert stretched out around you like it had secrets. Like it had room.

Maybe it did.

You weren’t sure if this place would hold long. Nothing ever did for Dutch. But for now, Rathskeller Fork was quiet. No law breathing down your neck. No smoke trailing you like a curse.

Just red dirt, dry wind, and the long road still ahead.

-

You spotted Jack first—his little feet kicking up dust as he toddled after a moth, unsteady but determined, arms flailing like wings. His shirt was too big for him again, sleeves dragging past his wrists. His hair stuck out in all directions like it hadn’t seen a brush all week.

You smiled without meaning to.

He was talking to himself, or maybe to the moth, or maybe to nothing at all. Just little murmurs and hiccuping giggles. He fell once—sat hard in the dirt and blinked, surprised—but got back up without a sound, brushing at his pants like he’d seen the men do.

You kept still where you stood near the laundry line, pretending to adjust a damp shirt as you watched him. That was the thing about kids—you could never look too long or they’d notice. And Jack was the sort who'd come running over just to show you a rock shaped like a potato or a stick shaped like a gun.

But then you heard the voices.

Abigail’s first—sharp and low.

“John, he needs you around. You can’t just ride off whenever Dutch waves his damn hand.”

And John’s reply—frustrated, tired, like he’d already run out of patience before she’d finished her sentence.

“I ain't runnin' off! I'm doin' what Dutch asks so we all eat! That includes Jack!”

The boy kept wandering, oblivious to the storm behind him, chasing his little adventure through the camp's dust.

You tried not to listen, but it was hard not to.

“He asked where you was this morning,” Abigail snapped. “And yesterday. And the day before. I had to lie again, say you were off fishin’. He’s three, John. He’s startin’ to notice.”

There was a pause, and then John’s voice, quieter.

“I don’t know how to be that kind of father, Abigail.”

Your chest tightened.

Jack plopped down in the dirt again, this time just to poke at a beetle crawling across a stick. His little shoes, too big for him, kicked idly. He hummed tunelessly to himself.

“I ain’t askin’ you to be perfect,” Abigail said, voice worn thin now. “Just show up.”

You caught her face for half a second as she turned away from John—tight, jaw set, eyes a little too bright. She stormed past the tents and disappeared toward the wagon.

Jack didn’t look up.

John stood there a while longer, hands on his hips, watching the boy. Maybe thinking. Maybe regretting. Hard to say with Marston.

You looked away then, folding the wet shirt and hanging it up properly this time.

When you glanced back, Jack had gotten distracted by something new—a tumbleweed, maybe—and John had walked away.

And for a moment, the camp was quiet again, like it hadn’t heard a thing.

–

It started with a vague unease.

The sun had risen hard and hot over the desert again, casting its blinding white light across the ridge where you sat beside your horse, pretending to study the horizon. But your mind wasn’t on the job.

You were counting days.

You’d been counting them since the night Arthur finished inside you—accidentally, desperately, completely. You’d told yourself not to panic. But now… the days weren’t adding up right.

You hadn’t bled.

You sat there in the heat, watching a dust devil twist in the distance, your heart thudding a little too fast.

Arthur was somewhere nearby, checking the trail for signs of movement. You could hear his horse’s hooves, the familiar creak of leather and quiet hum of him talking to himself as he worked. Comforting sounds. Steady sounds.

He didn’t know. You hadn’t told him.

You couldn’t.

Not yet.

-

That night, you snuck out of camp, as you and he were oft to do. His hands wandered, warm and familiar, and yours did too. His lips were on your neck, his breath hot, voice low as he murmured your name like it was the only one he knew.

You let him.

You let him touch you like nothing had changed. Let him kiss you slow and hard, roll you beneath him and lose himself in you like he always did.

Because when he was inside you, when your mouths met and his hands curled against your skin like he couldn’t get close enough— you didn’t feel afraid.

You felt alive.

You didn’t think about missed blood or what-ifs or what next.

You only thought about him. About this.

The way he held your face as you gasped beneath him. The way he whispered, “There she is,” like he’d been waiting all day just to see you unravel.

You kissed him like your life depended on it.

Maybe it did.

-

In the morning, he brought you coffee and smirked when he saw the bruises blooming on your hips. “Gonna be sore after last night.”

You scoffed, sipping from the tin cup. “Ain’t my first time on top of a wild animal.”

Arthur raised a brow. “You talkin’ about me or your horse?”

“Guess you’ll never know.”

But the smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. And Arthur noticed, even if he didn’t press.

-

Days passed. You kept waiting.

But nothing came.

At camp, you laughed with the others, stole kisses with Arthur in the shadows, snuck off behind rocks and trees and the half-burned ruins of a Spanish Mission. He kept pulling you in like he was starving for you. Like you were the only thing tethering him to the ground.

And you let him.

You’d lean back against the wagon, legs still trembling, his breath hot against your neck, and pretend the tension in your chest was just leftover heat—not fear.

He didn’t know.

He didn’t know you were late. Didn’t know every time he held you, a little voice in your head screamed what if, what if, what if.

-

Sometimes, late at night, you found that you couldn’t sleep.

And you’d lie there, one hand resting low on your stomach, wondering what the hell you were going to do if it turned out what you feared was true.

What would he say?

What would you do?

You didn’t know.

So you didn’t say anything at all.

-

You kept pretending.

You kissed him hard in the back of the stable at Rathskeller one day when the two of you went to reshoe your horses, your shirt halfway open and your hands already unbuckling his belt.

“You’re insatiable,” he groaned, breathless against your mouth.

You smirked. “What can I say? You’re pretty.”

-

And still, nothing came.

No blood. No sign. Just nausea some mornings and fear curling tighter in your gut with every passing hour.

You were running out of time.

You could feel it.

[mieriella]

Can't wait to read the next chapters!!

Firewater - Chapter 9

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

Dinner and a date? How unlike the two of you.

taglist: @v3lv3tf0x, @stottlemorgan, @mrsarthurmorgan7, @appalachiancowboy99, @pinescent-and-gingerbread, @blueskies664, @arthurstinmug, @ultraporcelainpig, @emerald-ranch @thedilfdiaries, @heron-feathers,@nalitali, @whiskeyskin, @globetrotter28

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You hadn’t expected him to follow through.

Not really.

But there you were, walking into the saloon in town beside Arthur Morgan—clean-shaven and wearing his least-dirty shirt, looking like a man about to meet his girl’s daddy for supper.

You raised an eyebrow as you glanced at him. “Did you bathe for this?”

He shot you a sideways look. “Figured if I was takin’ a lady to dinner, I ought to at least smell like soap instead of sweat.”

You smirked. “Not sure you’re a gentleman yet, but I’ll give you points for tryin’.”

Inside, the place smelled of tobacco, whiskey, and something vaguely fried. Not exactly fine dining, but the little corner table Arthur led you to was surprisingly clean. A single candle flickered in a cloudy glass holder.

He pulled out your chair with a smirk, gesturing for you to sit.

“Arthur Morgan,” you said, amused, “are you courting me?”

“Depends,” he said, sitting opposite you, the candlelight catching the gold flecks in his eyes. “Would it work?”

You tilted your head. “If I said yes, would that mean you’d stop tryin’ to get under my skirt every ten minutes?”

Arthur leaned back, grin lazy and dangerous. “Oh no, I’d still try. I’d just buy you dinner first.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled.

A waitress brought over two steaming plates of stew, and Arthur ordered whiskey for both of you. You dug in with a contented sigh.

He watched you eat for a moment. “You gonna marry that spoon or what?”

You licked your lips slowly. “I might, if it kept makin’ me feel like this.”

Arthur choked on his drink.

You shrugged. “What? Ain’t my fault the stew was good.”

“Reckon I should’ve picked somethin’ less sensual than stew,” he muttered, half to himself.

You leaned forward on your elbows and nibbled on the spoon in a way most folks would find inappropriate in public.

Arthur raised his brows, smirking. “You tryin’ to make me ruin this table?”

You chuckled, sipping your whiskey in reply.

As the bottle emptied, so did your inhibitions. Banter turned to flirting, flirting to heat.

Arthur licked his thumb clean after a bite of bread, and you stared far too long.

“You good?” he asked.

“Mmhm,” you said. “Just picturin’ that mouth somewhere else.”

He exhaled sharply, clutching his glass like it might steady him. “You say that kinda thing, and you expect me to behave myself?”

You swirled your drink and gave him an innocent look. “I said you had to take me to dinner. Didn’t say nothin’ about how we’d end the night.”

Arthur’s gaze darkened.

“’Cause if we’re bein’ honest,” you continued, voice low and silken, “the food’s nice, but I’ve had better.”

Arthur pushed back his chair with sudden purpose. “Come on.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.” His voice was rough, amused, hungry. “I paid for a room. Got the key. Let’s go before I do somethin’ improper at this damn table.”

Your heart leapt into your throat as you stared at him, then stood.

The walk through the saloon crackled with electricity.

Every inch between you felt like fire. You didn’t touch, but his hand hovered near the small of your back, and the moment the upstairs hallway door clicked shut behind you, you moved.

He backed you gently into the wall, lips ghosting over yours.

“You sure?” he murmured.

You slid your hands into his collar, tugging him closer. “Shut up and kiss me.”

The room was dim, lit only by the amber glow of a single oil lamp. Somewhere outside, the piano clinked out a sloppy tune, muffled by thick walls and heavier breathing.

Your dress hung halfway down your arms, Arthur’s hands resting at your waist like he was still deciding whether to kiss you or drop to his knees. He looked… almost reverent, like he couldn’t believe this was happening.

You broke the silence first.

“If you stare at me like that much longer, Morgan, I might start gettin’ self-conscious.”

He blinked, mouth twitching into a grin. “Sorry. Just didn’t expect heaven to have tits like this. Don’t know why it took me so long to get you naked.”

You snorted, tugging the rest of the fabric off and letting it fall. “Flattery’s cute. Get your damn shirt off.”

He obeyed with a grunt, pulling the garment over his head and tossing it aside. When your eyes swept over him—broad chest, old scars, the trail of hair down his stomach—you bit your lip.

“You are a big bastard,” you said, half-laughing. “No wonder my back still ached from last time.”

Arthur chuckled, stepping closer. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll take my time breakin’ you in proper.”

You arched a brow, and pushed your dress down to the floor along with your drawers. “You’re talkative tonight.”

“Whiskey,” he replied. “And you walkin’ around lookin’ like temptation itself.”

When his hands touched your bare hips, everything slowed. He looked down at you, thumb brushing your side, the pads of his fingers callused but warm. He looked you up and down—from your breasts down your waist to that apex of your thighs he’d recently visited so often, where dark hair covered your most sensitive skin.

“I ever tell you how pretty you are?” he murmured as he dragged his thumb under your belly button.

You rolled your eyes. “Once, I think. Right after you had your head between my legs.”

He gave a short laugh. “Well. That still counts.”

You pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, soft at first, then deeper.

Before long, he was walking you backwards toward the bed, the last bits of his clothing tossed aside between kisses, gasps, and muttered swears. And when you were both finally bare, standing at the edge of the bed, the mood shifted—just for a heartbeat. The two of you stood, completely nude to each other for the first time.

Arthur stared at you like he’d been shot clean through. His hand reached up, brushing lightly over your ribs, then lower, his fingers parted that thatch of hair to slide between your folds, already finding you aroused.

“Jesus,” he breathed. “You’re…”

“Don’t you dare say beautiful,” you cut in, smirking as your fingers encircled his cock, squeezing gently.

“Was gonna say dangerous.” He grunted, watching your movements intently.

You smiled. “Damn right.”

He kissed you then, slower now. Deeper. The heat was still there, but something else had crept in, like he was memorizing you.

Your fingers tangled in his hair as you nudged him back toward the mattress. Arthur wasn’t expecting to be pushed.

Not hard—but firmly enough that his back hit the mattress with a soft grunt, his arms instinctively catching him before he leaned all the way back.

You were already on him, one knee sliding up the edge of the bed, hands braced on either side of his chest, a smirk playing at your lips.

“Well,” he drawled, voice low. “This is new.”

You gave him a slow once-over, admiring the long, broad stretch of him beneath you—shirtless, pants long gone, the lamp’s golden glow casting soft shadows across every muscle and scar.

“Figured it was my turn,” you said, shifting to straddle his pelvis. You settled down on his cock, your folds parted as his length settled against your most sensitive skin.

His hands found your hips like they always did, fingers twitching with the urge to squeeze. “Not complainin’. Just surprised you didn’t do this sooner.”

“I like lettin’ you think you’re in charge,” you said sweetly, beginning to rock back and forth over him. “Keeps you well-behaved.”

Arthur chuckled, head tilting back against the pillow. “You ain’t ever known me to be well-behaved.”

You leaned forward until your mouth was just shy of his, hands flat on his chest. “Maybe I like it better when you don’t behave.”

He caught your waist, thumbs brushing the bare skin beneath your ribs. His eyes burned, but he let you lead. For now.

You leaned down and kissed him slowly and deliberately, like you were daring him to pull control back. He didn’t. He kissed you back just as deeply, groaning low in his throat when your teeth grazed his bottom lip. Your hips moved slowly over him, the head of his cock pressed hard against your clit, deliciously.

“You’re drivin’ me insane,” he muttered against your mouth.

“That’s the point.”

You shifted again, watching his jaw clench as your hips rocked forward, just a little, enough to make his breath stutter. His hands tightened on your waist, but he didn’t flip you over, didn’t pin you down.

Not yet.

“You always so good at takin’ your time?” he asked, voice rough.

You dragged your lips along his throat, up to his jaw, speaking just beneath his ear.

“Only when I know the man under me’s about to lose his damn mind.”

Arthur huffed out a laugh—but it broke halfway through when you moved again. His fingers dug in now, trying and failing to stay still.

“Jesus,” he breathed. “You got no idea what you’re doin’ to me.”

“I think I do.”

His head dropped back again, voice low, almost reverent. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You kissed along the lines of his chest now, every inch you touched making him twitch beneath you. He gritted his teeth when you bit down lightly near his collarbone.

“You gonna let me have my way?” you asked, feigning innocence.

Arthur looked down at you, eyes dark and amused and strained all at once. “For now.”

You sat back upright, trailing your hands down his stomach, slow and warm. “That sounds like a threat.”

“Ain’t no threat,” he said. “Just a promise.”

You leaned down one more time, your hair falling like a curtain between you.

“Then you better make sure I remember it.”

He growled low—half frustration, half praise—and let you take your time doing just that.

When you took him in your hand and then sank onto him, the noise he made wasn’t even a word. Just a desperate, throaty groan that made heat bloom low in your belly.

He gripped your hips hard, not guiding you—just holding on. His head fell back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut as you moved, fast and rough, all tension and no rhythm, like you were both trying to chase something you couldn’t quite name.

“Goddamn, girl…” he rasped, fingers flexing on your waist. “You tryna kill me?”

You grinned through your gasp. “You could’ve had worse ways to go.”

The tempo shifted, rougher, deeper. He met your thrusts now, matching you beat for beat, until the air between you turned to fire. Nothing but sweat and breath and soft curses under your breath as your pace turned frantic.

His hands gripped your thighs now, arms tight, body straining.

“I ain’t gonna last,” he warned, voice tight, voice wrecked.

You were barely listening.

“D-don’t you dare come—”

You ground down hard on his pelvis, his hands crushing into the meat of your rear with bruising force.

“I—fuck, woman… I’m gonna—”

“Not yet, not yet, Jesus—please—” you whined, rolling your hips on him the fastest and hardest you’d ever done, chasing that precipice you seemed so close to. Your clit pressed hard against his pubic bone, and you sloppily rode his throbbing cock. “I need to come, I need—”

Arthur’s head fell back against the pillow as he gritted his teeth, hands leaving your hips to dig into the mattress.

“Let me come, let me—Arthur—”

He was beyond words as you gyrated above him, grunting and panting as he screwed his eyes shut, trying desperately not to give into the pleasure. You bore down on him, throwing your hips hard against his, chasing that feeling that seemed just out of reach.

You were so close. You could almost taste it. The friction of the curls at the base of his cock against the sensitive skin of that nub of your pleasure—that, that’s what did you in.

“Jesus fuck—” he grunted, the sheen of sweat on his brow glistening as you ground down on him, your hips jerking with a sense of finality.

You stuttered unintelligible words in a high-pitched gasp as your whole body tensed over him, muscles clutching, cunt squeezing. His eyes shot open and he lost the fight.

“Shit—!” He gritted, and nigh uncontrollably, his hips thrust upward and he came, all of his energy seeming to be pulled out of his body through his cock, spattering pulse after pulse of spend into your warm depths.

Your hands pulsed on his abdomen as you whined, panting as you came down from your own high.

“Shit.” He grunted as he watched you climb off him, a trail of milky fluid slowly making its way down your thigh.

“It’ll—it’ll be okay… I’m about to bleed. I’m sure it won’t take.” You panted, grabbing a handkerchief from the bedside table and wiping the moisture from your skin. You tossed the wet handkerchief at Arthur’s face, and he sputtered in disgust, throwing it back at you.

By the time he grabbed you and dragged you back into bed, the drying spend on your thighs was forgotten.

[mieriella]

Beautiful art and beautiful name

The black shire that Hosea gives us fits Arthur so well! I named mine KURT (Yeah, in capital letters)

[mieriella]

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.”

[mieriella]

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.

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

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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.

[mieriella]

Happy Pride Month

[mieriella]

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.

[mieriella]

My piece for the The Curious Couple zine!

[mieriella]

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

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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.

[mieriella]

Oh Molly, you deserved better

:(

[mieriella]

We meet again

[mieriella]

And I love him so.

Dutch is 100% serious business.

[mieriella]

do you think this is penitence or

would you call it the consequence for

[mieriella]

This cliffhanger is cruel, haha.

Firewater - Chapter 3

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

The stars are the only audience tonight.

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

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You barely hear your own gasp when he grabs you again, crushing your mouth beneath his like it’s the only way he knows how to shut you up. His kiss is heat and grit and too much whiskey, his teeth catching your bottom lip like he wants to punish you for every word you’ve hurled at him since that godforsaken ranch.

You kiss him back harder. Your little hand buries itself into his open trousers, brushing against his half-open union suit before your fingers finally find skin - the hard skin over his pelvis, covered in wiry hair. You dig your hands into his pants further and he lets out a ragged breath when you come into contact with the base of his cock, starting to strain against the fabric. In a flash, he drags your hand out of his pants, and you gasp against the force he uses.

The desert around you blurs into nothing. The sharp scent of creosote and dust clings to your skin. His hands are everywhere—rough and demanding, like he’s trying to memorize your shape with his fingers alone. When he grips your hips, your breath catches. When he growls against your throat, you swear your knees go weak.

He pulls you down into the dirt with him, the two of you tangling like wild animals. It’s graceless, a little clumsy—spurred by heat and anger and too many drinks.

“Tell me you want this,” Arthur rasps against your ear, voice low, smoky. He grabs your skirts and begins hiking them up, up past your knee high stockings, to where your bloomers ride dangerously high on your thighs. You lift your hips and help him shimmy off your drawers, your skirts pooling at your waist. He stares at your cunt, that thatch of dark hair at the apex of your thighs. For a moment, he is quiet.

“You think I’d let you touch me if I didn’t want it?” you spit back, breathless, sitting up and biting at the edge of his jaw. His scruffy beard tickles your lips.

He groans deep in his chest, something feral and unhinged, recovers and pins your wrists in the dirt above your head. His mouth hovers over yours. “I been wantin’ to do this since that first goddamn night you yelled at me in Wyoming. To make you scream my goddamn name, you little hellion.”

You smirk, lips slick and swollen. “You just like when a woman puts you in your place.”

“Nah,” he mutters, dragging his mouth down your neck. “I like when a woman looks at me like she wants to bite.”

You do. Right now, you want to bite, scratch, ruin.

Everything that’s been simmering between you both for months—every unspoken word, every stolen glance, every time you turned away before it got too dangerous—boils over in the heat of the desert night. The stars just starting to rise above watch like quiet witnesses as you lose yourself in him, and him in you.

Arthur leans back up, pinning both of your wrists under one large hand of his. He pushes his trousers down over the swell of his ass and takes his cock out, stroking himself to full rigidity. 

Shit. You inwardly curse to yourself as you stare at him, he’s huge.

He looks back at your face and immediately grins, haughty and self-important, “Pretty sure I can fill that pretty mouth.”

You recover, only then realizing that the dumbstruck look on your face was only inflating the man’s ego. Not that he needed much - Jesus, where did he keep it all?

Arthur doesn’t let you get in a word edgewise at him before he guides his cock between your folds, thrusting along your cunt, the head of his cock hitting your clit and making you moan. He rolls his hips in a rhythm, those turgid inches of him parting your lower lips and smearing your quickening arousal everywhere.

Every time the bulbous, now weeping head of him hits that bundle of nerves above your opening you want to scream. Every time that full length of him teases the rim of your cunt, you want to beg.

You try, oh you try, fighting against his iron hold, but there is no overpowering the man. His heavy, full testicles smack against your ass and you lose the fight against your own composure.

“A-Arthur, put it in, put it in - for God’s- please-” You cry, you beg, it’s shameless, “Put. It. In.”

“You want it that bad, dontcha?” Arthur sneers above you, flexing his hips again, torturing you.

“Please-”

He grunts, letting go of your hands above your head to steady himself. One of his hands digs into the packed desert earth beneath you, the other grasping the base of his cock. 

Guiding himself toward your quivering, soaking cunt.

[mieriella]

"That ain't going to fill my mouth."

Great. Just great.

Firewater - Chapter 2

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

The return to camp, a lazy summer heat, and too much whiskey.

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

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The ride back to camp is suffocating.

The Arizona sun beats down like it has a personal grudge, but the silence between you and Arthur is colder than the high desert at night. The only sounds are the steady clop of hooves and the occasional gust of dry wind rustling the brittle mesquite. You keep your eyes ahead, jaw clenched so hard it aches. You haven’t spoken since the job went sideways—another lead that turned out to be nothing but sand and snake oil, nearly getting shot and nothing to show but sour attitudes.

You’re mad at him. At the job. At yourself. Mostly him.

Arthur doesn’t look at you, either. 

By the time you see the outline of camp against the horizon, your lips are cracked from heat and silence both. The smell of coffee and beans hits your nose—mixed with the ever-present reek of unwashed men and dust—and it only reminds you how long this day has dragged its heels.

Dutch is standing near the fire opposite his tent when you both ride in, his arms stretched wide like he’s about to deliver a sermon. “Well now, look who returns!” he crows, a broad grin splitting his face. “How’d it go?”

Arthur swings off his horse with a grunt. “Didn’t go.”

Dutch lifts a brow, but there’s no anger behind it. “No?”

Arthur shakes his head and walks toward the fire. “Money was gone and all that was left was a bunch of drunk angry fools.”

Arthur left out the details about bounty hunters. And conveniently, the woman who hit him with a broom.

“Well, hell,” Dutch says, waving a hand like it doesn’t matter. “That’s just how the game goes. Don’t let it get to ya. The next one’ll pan out. Always does.”

He claps Arthur on the back, then presses a bottle of whiskey into his hand. “Here. Have a drink. Loosen up.”

Arthur eyes him. “You’re in a real good mood for someone who just lost a lead.”

Dutch grins, his teeth shining like polished ivory. “I met a little Irish gal down in Phoenix. Hair like fire and a tongue to match. She’s got a bit of the old spark, you know what I mean? Said she likes my ideals.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and takes a long pull from the bottle.

You dismount silently and brush past them, heading toward the chuck wagon. Pearson’s already got stew ladled into chipped bowls. He offers you one with a grunt, and you take it wordlessly, sitting on a crate under the shade of the awning. The whiskey gets passed around like communion, and it doesn’t take long before the entire camp starts sliding into that sloppy, too-hot kind of drunk that always shows up in the middle of the day when nothing better is going on.

You drink too. Not because you want to be social, but because the fire in your chest needs something to tamp it down. Arthur sits across from you at the fire, brooding and silent, jaw flexing every time someone mentions the botched job. You glance at him only once—and of course, you find his eyes already on you.

Scowling.

The evening is setting in, the sky red-purple when you finish your drink, stand up, and head toward the edge of camp, needing to relieve yourself and get away from the stifling closeness of everyone’s laughter. It’s too much noise for the kind of anger still gnawing at your ribs.

But of course, fate is a cruel bastard.

You’ve hiked your skirts and have nearly emptied your bladder into the dust. As you finish, the sound of boots, a jingling gun belt, and liquid hitting the unforgiving ground jolts you.

You nearly stumble, dropping your skirts, and jump up. Not three steps into the scrub brush beyond where you were squatting, you nearly bump into Arthur. He’s standing with his back to you, apparently having had the same idea.

He turns halfway at the sound of your footsteps, continuing to empty his bladder.

The two of you freeze.

“What, you followin’ me now?” he mutters, blading his body away from you as his member is out, finishing his business and awkwardly tucking himself away.

You scoff. “Hardly. Just needed to get away from the sound of Dutch patting himself on the back.”

He smirks, but it’s bitter. “Didn’t hear any good ideas from you.”

Your breath catches, then turns sharp. “I told you it was a bad lead. You didn’t listen.”

“I listened,” Arthur snaps, stepping toward you. His pants are still undone and his anger has risen enough that he doesn’t care, “Just didn’t figure the whole damn trip’d go up in smoke ‘cause it didn’t match your gut feeling.”

“You dragged me halfway across the desert for nothing.” You step into his space now, close enough to see the sunburn peeling on his nose, the way his nostrils flare.

“Yeah? Well maybe next time you stay at camp, then. Let the real men do the work, little girl.”

Your hands clench. “Right, because you’re just so good at it.”

His eyes narrow. “You got a real big mouth today.”

“And you got a real small brain every day.”

That does it.

He closes the distance in two strides, chest heaving, mouth twisted in fury. “You keep on goin’ and I’m gonna have to shut you up. Gimme that fresh mouth of yours, I got something to fill it.”

You smack him, on the chest, sneering up at him. The desert heat is dangerous, even as the sun sets. It settles between the two of you with a hot breeze and the scent of mesquite.

You should stop. You should stop and walk away.  You should stop and-

You feel your thighs rubbing together in your skirt. Whether drunkenly or guided by libido - you don’t stop.

“Honey,” you drip with suggestive sarcasm, “That ain’t going to fill my mouth.”

The Rubicon has been crossed.

You’re both breathing hard now, faces inches apart. Your heart is pounding like a war drum. His eyes are hot, dark, feral. A heat, dangerous and simmering, settles deep in your body- right between your thighs-

It’s too much.

The sun, the anger, the silence, the closeness.

The insinuation.

And then—

You’re kissing him.

Or maybe he’s kissing you. Doesn’t matter.

It happens like a strike of lightning, sudden, searing and dangerous. His mouth crushes yours, his hands seizing your waist as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You fist your fingers in the front of his shirt, dragging him closer, closer, like you want to crawl inside his skin just to keep the fury from burning you alive.

There’s nothing gentle about it. No tenderness. Just frustration and fire, mouths clashing, teeth grazing, breath ragged between kisses that feel like declarations of war.

You break apart for just a second, gasping, panting like you’re drowning, as if there was water in this forsaken desert.

A moment passes. The two of you stare at each other.

Your hands fly to his open pants and he shoves his lips against yours again.

[mieriella]

Firewater - Chapter 1

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

A heist does not go as planned, and you and Arthur are at each other's throats. A/N: A bit of a different direction with this one - expect short chapters, awkward situations, and hilarity out of this one. And updates, more regularly :) taglist: @v3lv3tf0x

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ARIZONA, MAY 1897

“Y’know, if you had just listened to me, we wouldn’t be in this predicament.”

A large plume of smoke is your response—thick, lazy, and defiant as it floats skyward. Arthur leans back against a rough-hewn boulder like he’s got all the time in the world, even with the sting of failure hanging heavy in the heat. His hat is pushed low, casting a shadow across the narrowed set of his eyes. The desert sun hangs heavy in the sky, not a cloud to give a modicum of shade, not a single bit of respite. It's hot, hot and dusty, and a lizard scutters past his boot to hide under the red rock boulder he leans against. 

“Considerin’ half the time you opened your mouth you ain’t doin’ nothin’ but naggin’ me, ain’t worth it,” he retorts, voice cool as a mountain stream but just as cutting.

You don’t even think before you chuck a stale piece of bread at his damn head. It was all the food you salvaged after the botched heist, and even that’s been half-crushed in your saddlebag. He knocks it away with a practiced flick of his wrist, but his cigarette falls from between his lips and drops into the dirt.

Arthur scowls, jaw tightening as he crouches to pick it up. It’s dead, ruined. His hand stays near his boot for a second longer than necessary, like he’s weighing whether he should throw something right back.

“You are worse than a goddamn child,” he growls.

As if to prove his point, your boot stomps against the cracked earth with a sharp slap. Dust kicks up around your feet, and the sun— that merciless bastard that it is—beats down on your neck, sweat already drying into a salted layer.

“Oh, I’m the child? You were the one who ran in there like some hero outta one of those dime novels, guns blazin’ with no damn plan!”

“I had a plan,” he snaps.

“Your plan got us chased out by six bounty hunters, two guard dogs, and a woman swingin’ a broom like she meant it.”

“She did mean it.” He pauses, mouth twitching at the memory. “Caught me right in the jaw.”

“Good. Maybe she knocked some sense into you.”

Arthur pushes off the boulder, looming now, brushing his hands on his pants like he’s trying to scrub the conversation clean. “You didn’t exactly pull your weight neither. Hid behind them crates like a scared cat.”

You step forward, the distance between you shrinks to something dangerous. “I was covering your dumb ass, Morgan. I told you to wait for my signal.”

“And I told you I don’t take orders from—” he cuts off, teeth grinding.

“From me?” Your laugh is sharp, brittle. “Right, God forbid you take direction from someone with a brain between her ears.”

Arthur gets closer still. “You think you’re so much smarter than everybody else, huh? All them fancy words and smug looks, like you’re above it all. But you’re just like the rest of us. Mean and stupid.”

His breath is hot and whiskey-laced, as he leans in, brushing your cheek. “And reckless,” he adds with a sneer. “Don’t forget that.”

“Better reckless than cowardly.” You spit back at him, standing as firm and tall as you can when all six feet of him towers over your petite frame.

There’s a pause. His blue eyes go cold, a line drawn in the sand with your words.

You don’t mean it. Not really. But it’s out there now, and neither of you are ready to back down.

His voice drops low, warning. “You wanna say that again?”

“Why?” you scoff. “You gonna shoot me? Or just sulk at me until I drop dead?”

“I don’t shoot women,” he growls.

“That’s funny,” you snap. “You sure as hell don’t seem to have any problem talking to me like one of the boys.”

“You wish you were one of the boys.”

“No, I don't want to be treated like an idiot. Most of them boys are idiots. Like that would have gone any better with Marion.” You hiss Bill’s birth name with ridicule. Deservingly so.

Another step forward. Your chest brushes his now, breath and heartbeat tangled into something hot and furious and entirely unsustainable.

“You get treated how you act,” he says, quieter now. “You wanna act all tough? Fine, I’ll treat you like that.”

“Good,” you whisper, eyes blazing. “Then we understand each other.”

Silence. Except it isn’t really silence. It’s heavy with the cicadas screaming in the grass. With the crackle of heat in the rocks. With the sound of your breaths coming fast, too close together.

He looks at your mouth. You look at his. 

There is a danger in the air, a stillness that settles in before a rattlesnake bites. That’s all he is - poison and bluster. You want to slap him, but you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of getting that much of a rise out of you.

You scowl and turn on your heel, striding over toward your horse. Your boots angrily kick up dust under your skirts as you mount that spry little roan gelding. You pat his black mane and coo gently in his ear as you settle yourself in the saddle. 

You scowl when you get yourself situated and look back at Arthur, who remains exactly where you left him.

“You get to explain to Dutch why we ain’t got nothin’ outta this.” You snipe, eyes narrowing before your spurs dig into your gelding’s side, and he rears before bolting across the hard desert ground.