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pinescent-and-gingerbread · 3 months

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࣪ ˖✧ The Jackpot

✦ Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader ✦ Summary: You join Arthur and the boys for a job on the Grand Korrigan riverboat where you act as Arthur’s lap girl. The man in question is more than excited about this decision. ✦ Warnings: Guns, mention of shooting, swearing, SMUT, oral (reader receiving), edging if you squint, unprotected p in v ✦ Words: 3,8k ✦ a/n: A big heartwarming thank you to @zae-heeyyy!! Who took the time to correct my dumb spelling and give me her thoughts on this before publishing it! Please go check her work, I swear it won't disappoint! Also: pictures are not mine! I usually try to use a pic for Arthur from my own playthrough but I'm fcking stuck on Guarma rn. Found them on Pinterest.

Dim lights are flickering all around you, making the golden ornaments of the luxurious place you're in shine like a thousand stars. You couldn't believe this gigantic reception room, gratified by a bar, a grand piano, and of course, three elegant poker tables, was actually floating on water right now, as you were on the Grand Korrigan boat, the jewel of its kind, den of the richest gentlemen in St. Denis, in search for some amusement and of course, even more money.

Trelawny and Herr Strauss had plotted a well-crafted deal that could earn a lot of money for the gang. Along with Javier disguised as one of the guards, Arthur would act as a new wealthy businessman who had just made a fortune in oil. Strauss would give him signals during his poker game, which guaranteed him to win considering Trelawny had made a friend out of the dealer.

You? You'd play his mistress, sitting on his lap during the game to make the scene look more convincing. On top of that, you had been able to hide a little gun in a hidden pocket in the underside of your dress, guaranteeing some extra protection, which wasn't a bad idea considering the Grand Korrigan was heavily armed and neither Arthur, Trelawny nor Strauss had one.

So here you were, thriving in your role, comfortably sitting on Arthur's lap, hands wrapped around his neck, both legs hanging on his left side. His arms were enveloping you, hands resting on the edge of the table as he was focusing on his cards.

Well, more like trying to focus, actually.

Maybe it was because you two had started a quite passionate relationship a few weeks ago, sneaking in each other's tent, simple kisses and whispers in the night quickly turning into something more, the both of you having cravings to fulfill.

Maybe it was because Trelawny, the damned man, had chosen a particularly suggestive dress for you to wear, comforting your play considering wives weren't allowed at the poker tables, only work girls and such, your cleavage on full display for his immoral eyes.

Maybe it was the way he could feel the round and warm flesh of your ass even through the fabric of your clothes, right where he wanted to, making his brain impossible to function properly, desperately trying to keep the hardness between his legs to stay in line.

Either way, Arthur had to make enormous efforts to focus on the job and was frankly relieved Strauss was telling him what to do; despite being a pretty good poker player, he would never have been able to win the easiest of games in this state.

Strauss told him to go all-in. He did. You smiled, you would have lied saying you weren't enjoying yourself right now. You had known far worse jobs than playing Arthur's lover. Much to your surprise, he had played a really convincing character through the night too, his usual mumbling far gone, replaced by a bright and confident speech and a cheeky grin that was making you want to kiss it even more. In fact, you wanted to take care of him just to see this cocky smirk flatter under your touch, replaced by a pleasured expression on his handsome face.

It was easy to say both of you were acting pretty good, but inside felt like two teenagers in love.

Arthur had won another hand, men were starting to leave the table, angry. It was only you both and the target now, an opulent man known as Desmond Blythe, loaded with money thanks to his hosiery business.

You pulled a cigarette out of Arthur's pocket along with a match, and you felt his breath hitch for an instant when you slipped your hand in it. Rubbing the match against the wood of the table, you lighted the cigarette casually, little flame illuminating a thin grin on your lips. You took a small drag on it to make sure the tobacco had plainly burnt, then you placed the cigarette in front of Arthur's lips, holding it for him between your index and middle finger, so that he could smoke on it while keeping both his hands on his cards.

It was downright one of the hottest things anybody had done to him and he was starting to lose it. Wrapping his lips around your offering and smoking a long drag, he allowed himself to avert his gaze from his opponent for a few seconds, planting his turquoise pupils into yours.

His eyes were half-lidded, long lashes accentuating the languorous gaze he was giving you. Your heart started racing. The power this man had on you was insane, but if only you knew what you were doing to him in return. You had a glimpse of it though, right there in the depths of his two blue diamonds, this so distinctive dark glow of him, direct window on the sinful pit of his urges.

You were sure your own eyes were mirroring it. And it got worse when, after exhaling some smoke, he quickly kissed the palm of your hand, indicating he had smoked enough, the warm sensation of his chapped lips on your skin giving you goosebumps. His eyes went back to Blythe, and you exhaled as if you had been holding your breath during the whole time you had locked eyes.

You retrieved your hand, taking a drag yourself on the cigarette after him, loving the idea of sharing it with him, of putting your lips right where he did a few seconds before, your biased brain telling you you could taste sweet remnants of him there.

Another all-in, another hand won by Arthur who couldn't stop himself from smiling this sly cocky smirk, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Shit, shit!" Blythe shouted, hitting on the table with his fists furiously.

"I guess ma luck held... Is that you done?" Arthur asked him, his tone triumphant while bending over the table to gather his not-so-well-deserved chips. "Or, do you got somethin' else to play with?" He added more lowly, his baritone voice almost making you shiver just hearing it.

"Meaning?" Desmond questioned back, visibly frustrated. Looked like frustration was a popular feeling around this poker table tonight, about the game or other things...

Arthur had gotten up from his chair and you too, now standing by his side, partially glued to his body as he had snaked an arm around your waist while finishing to put in order his chips. He answered using the same taunting, arrogant tone as before.

"Well, I heard there was some big boys on this boat, maybe that's not you, no offense-"

"Sit your and your whore's hillbilly asses down." The rich men cut him off, voice dark and serious.

You felt Arthur's hand grip tighter on your waist. For a faint moment, you thought that his cover would collapse, considering how tense he had gotten hearing him calling you a whore. But the way he was still smiling was almost even more scary, it was a false, threatening one. The kind of smile that hides a cold anger, boiling silently inside.

"Why?" Arthur simply answered, tone brilliantly contained considering the way his muscles were flexing on their own under his fancy suit.

"I got a watch... An expensive one, swiss... a Reutlinger no less. It's in the safe, upstairs. It's worth more than you."

You forced yourself not to cross eyes with Arthur. Your target. He had just confirmed what you were all here for. Perfect, just a bit more of this whole play and Arthur would be able to access the strongbox.

"Okay, I trust ya." Arthur consented while sitting back on his chair, placing you with his two big hands back at your place, on his lap. You were definitely loving this job. You'd have to thank Trelawny for it, someday.

The rest of the game passed just like before, your outlaw ultimately winning once more thanks to your colleague's little trick. Desmond was furious, and you obtained your goal.

Arthur happily got up once again, gently helping you stand, one of his hands naturally resting on your shoulder. Before following the gentleman who was supposed to bring him to the safe, he bent over to you, head brushing against yours, his stubble and hairs tickling your cheeks. He whispered in your ear, voice deep and hoarse, this one voice that was always making your head turn.

"When we're finished here, I'm gonna take care of ya, darlin'."

You sighed, cracking up a sly smirk, your cheeks turning a bit red. These simple words were enough to make the heat between your thighs make itself known; crying out for attention. Being so close like this was allowing you to breathe in his scent, its combination on top of his breath on your ear was a dangerous mix for your sanity. You took the opportunity of having his skin so close to your lips to place a small kiss on his neck, right below his own ear.

Arthur smiled at you, his bright blue eyes sparkling as he took a last look at you before walking off. You sighed softly again, already missing his presence. The wait for some time alone was only making your own needs grow.

You were only hoping the job would end up smoothly.

Of course, it didn't.

Desmond, sore loser, had accused Arthur of cheating. That and the fact that the guard Javier had knocked off to steal his clothes had appeared out of nowhere yelling to shoot him had set things on fire on the Grand Korrigan, the boat now witness to a heated shooting the Van Der Linde Gang was known for.

You had instantly pulled out your hidden gun and helped Arthur clean up the place thanks to Javier who had thrown him a rifle. The night had ended with your incongruous team jumping straight in the water, swimming back to the shore, a quite odd and armed to the teeth fish shoal. At least, everyone was alive, and you even had obtained a pretty decent amount of money, not even mentioning the watch Strauss had authenticated as a real Reutlinger. Arthur had quickly taken back the precious object from his greedy hands, "well give it back then", which made you laugh to yourself.

True to himself, your cowboy had instructed everyone to separate and get out of the shore, as always after a job. You were all quite a sight, soaked to the bones. As you were greeting everyone a good night, Arthur silently walked to you and grabbed your hand. Even with the water you both had leaking from your clothes to your skin, you could feel how warm his hand was, contrasting yours which was completely freezing cold from having swam in the icy waters. You wondered if this man was even human.

"But you, Miss, are comin' with me." He playfully informed you, not leaving you any choice.

It was not as if you wanted to go anywhere else anyway.

"Really now? What d'ya have in mind, cowboy?" You asked him with an equally mischievous tone on your own, your eye glued to the way his hair looked completely soaked, subtle rivulets sliding all the way from it to his neck.

"Maybe we could pay ourselves a well-deserved night in town..." He proposed, voice turning more and more into a low growl as he was letting his desires take the lead on his reason.

"I would love that." You simply agreed, before getting closer to him, tilting your head up to bring your lips to his. He gladly let you, one hand still holding yours, the other gently landing on the side of your face.

The walk to the La Bastille Saloon was supposed to be a short one, but you both looked like you couldn't wait to be there before teasing each other. You would sometimes stop walking to just attack his neck, lips merciless as you sucked and kissed him there. Your taunting acts were often met with his equally heated answer, one of his palms ending on your ass, or your thighs, your wet clothes transparent and glued to your curves not helping him to keep his touch away from these places of your body. Arthur's breath sharpened as he called you his lil minx, and no, darlin’, we can't just do it on the streets.

Finally, after having shocked the barman by arriving at such late hours in completely soaked clothes, which honestly just made the both of you laugh mischievously, you reached your love nest for the night.

And what a nest! Silk sheets, canopy bed, sumptuous decor glistening with the dim lights of the chandeliers. Even the floor looked comfortable, carpeted with some fancy patterns, matching the couch and bed's color. Red, just like passion, just like lust. Red, like the color of your cheeks right now as Arthur had closed the door and was already on his knees, placing you on the edge of the mattress. Red, just like what Arthur was seeing right now, hungry hands pulling your dress up, positioning himself between your thighs.

You looked down at him, his darkened eyes looking at you. You noticed he had ripped off his fancy tie, needing to breathe properly, the heat between you both already making him suffocate. In those moments, his beautiful pupils were always shining with a more murky color, his usual sky blue turning into a more cobalt one. They were staring intensely into yours, expression questioning. A silent demand. You nodded positively, quietly answering. Dooming yourself.

The moment you did, he buried his head between your legs, left hand resting on your hip, holding you gently. His lips started kissing softly on the fabric of your undergarments. His other hand quickly came, helping him in his task by pulling it to the side, granting him access.

The moment his lips met your folds, you let out a moan, unable to resist the feeling he was giving you. He was loving it, his ears getting redder as he was more and more aroused himself. He was so big between your thighs, his shoulders were spreading them almost completely open.

He licked in a long, slow movement all the way to the top of your pussy, making you sigh in pleasure already, hips jerking against his head, begging for more.

"Easy, girl... I've got ya." He soothed you hoarsely, left hand holding you more firmly to prevent you from crushing him totally. Nevertheless, he took your eagerness into account; he couldn't deny you anything. Not when it came to sex. Not when you were so beautiful in this ostentatious dress. Not when he had grown more and more found of you, even if he was refusing to admit it to himself completely for now.

He brought his lips on the top of your core, tongue gently circling around this so special knot of nerves, his stubble scratching pleasantly against your skin, bringing you even more sensations.

It was already so good, Arthur's mouth showing you no pity, licking, sucking, kissing, as if you were becoming the only food he could ever feast on, the only oxygen he could breathe with. The sight of his broken nose buried beneath your skin, as if he was searching to go even deeper within you was almost too much for you to handle. Your hands that were gripping the sheets had now found the top of his head, spurring him to continue, please please please, Arthur, more, or you could have died right here on the fancy bed of the La Bastille Saloon.

Arthur's tongue answered your begging call, lapping your sensitive spot faster, harder. How the Hell was that man so good at pleasuring a woman? That, sinful, dirty man, just like the sounds you were letting out right now.

Your vision started to blur, the back of your head sinking onto the mattress, your back arching deliciously, and you were going to let him know just how close you were until he stopped all of a sudden.

"A-Arthur!" You protested, head snapping back at him, eyes pleading, tone both offended and needy as his name had sounded more like a whine when it had felt from your mouth.

He smiled cockily at you from where he was, his mouth looking wet with your arousal. He loved it, he loved being responsible for it.

"I'm here, girl... I jus' need ya too much right now. Lemme just..."

His voice was now a low rumble, coming from the depth of his chest. You watched as he quickly ripped off his clothes with little care for them. Trelawny would have shouted at how he was treating one of the most expensive suits he had ever brought.

But he didn't care about the suit. And neither do you, as your eyes were devouring every inch of his flesh that was appearing under them. The sight of a completely naked Arthur always had the same effect on you, no matter how many times you already had seen it.

His muscular body looked like it had been carved by Angels. No, more likely by an angry, dark God, who would have sculpted him from a hard and brutal material, his many scars and blurs a remnant of it. You could almost picture his tools molding your lover's broad chest and shoulders with sharp, furious hammer blows. His powerful arms and legs had received the same treatment, as if the deity wanted to pass on all of his brutal force into his creation. And his cock was definitely no exception to it.

And yet, this massive force of nature was blushing under your gaze. He couldn't have resisted the hurtful sensation of emptiness around his shaft, one of his hands now giving himself a few strokes to try and relieve some of it. His eyes closed in a frown for a few seconds, your pussy burned at this unholy scenery he was offering you.

You were in such a state of need it was almost depraved. You quickly got rid of your own clothes, tossing them somewhere on the floor of the room, needing to share this intimacy with him, to feel his skin against yours.

"Oh, please... Arthur, jus' take me..." You asked yourself before he could probe your adequation. You knew him well now, you already knew the next words he was going to speak would be another demand to make sure you truly wanted this.

He seemed to enjoy how you had forecasted it, his eyes opening again to look at you, his cock hardening even more, precum slowly leaking from its top, wasting all the efforts he had done to relieve it a bit.

"If that's what you want darlin'... I'm your man." He answered in a growl, climbing next to you on the bed.

You weren't sure why but his last words had made your heart swell in your chest. You were sure, deep down inside of you, that he meant it in another way. He really had become yours, and you, his. Lost in your thoughts, you let him handle you gently, placing you on your belly against the silk sheets, lying himself on top of you, legs between yours.

You slightly moved your rear up against his erection, earning a grunt of pleasure from him. Saying he had loved it was an understatement; he had been thinking about doing this with you since you had sat on him on the riverboat.

Using his right hand, he placed his cock against your entrance, and finally started pushing, your pussy already ready for him thanks to his ministrations, your mouth mewling at the sensation. Your perfect, hot walls were finally enveloping him, and he tried his best not to come just from that intense feeling alone.

He was so big and tall behind you, his head could reach yours and he buried it onto the crook of your neck, his hair still wet offering you a cold feel, contrasting with his whole hot chest pressed on your back, making you feel as if a literal inferno was burning it. He slowly started to pull back, only to shove himself in you again, starting a slow but intense back and forth.

"God, damn it... 'Feel so good girl..." He mumbled against your skin, his arms encircling you from both sides, caging you under his tall figure.

You sighed at his praise, wanting to answer something to compliment him back, but he snapped his hips just at the same time, making you shut your eyes close, and moan louder than before. Your voice was starting to crack under the amount of pleasure he was bringing to you, hard shaft brushing this deep spot within your core every time his hips moved, hitting just right where you needed him to.

He had noticed, and it was only making him lose his mind even more, unable to keep his pace slow, letting his body unleashed. He had waited this whole night to bury himself in you, listened to this moron calling you names without having the right to punch his goddamn idiotic face. He couldn't hold anything back anymore.

He started thrusting more frantically, pistoning his cock in and out of you so fast and hard he was now fucking you onto the bed. His right hand grabbed a fistful of your ass, the feeling of it colliding with his pelvis with every thrust making him insane, the other one next to your left shoulder, preventing him from crushing you completely.

You could feel it, the familiar feeling, the divine relief, building more and more thanks to him, the pace increasing your pleasure. Feeling how impossibly hard his sex had gotten in your cunt, you knew he was close too. This simple fact was the last push to your deliverance.

"A-Arthur! God, yes!" You screamed, unable to form any coherent thoughts, existing simply for this, for this moment with him, naked on the bed of this saloon. Just you and him.

"Oh, darlin’, shit!" Your orgasm had made your walls clench even more around his dick, exploding his limit. He quickly removed himself from you, and finished at the last second on your back and ass, his burning release painting your skin in flaming spurts. His very own sinful art piece.

The room felt silent again. The air stifling from your lovemaking, the only sounds being heard were your sharp, quickened breaths. Arthur took a few seconds to collect himself, feeling better and so satisfied, almost euphoric. Turning your head to the side, you took a glimpse of your lover's gorgeous state. Hair messy, cheeks and ears crimson, sweat dripping everywhere on his skin, chest rising and falling in big, profound exhales.

He then grabbed a piece of fabric from one of the wardrobes to gently wipe off his seed from you, and tossed it away, wanting nothing more but to rest against you now. A perfect contrast, from an agitated, stormy sea to a quiet, secret cove. As if you were the only one who could see him like this, vulnerable, loving even.

You watched him lay by your side on his back, your head still feeling dizzy, slowly coming back from a world of fantasies. You snuggled against him, resting your head on his chest, and he wrapped his arms around you, feeling spent but so, so happy. And you felt the same. Still naked, skin against skin, heart beating together, just the two of you.

Tonight had been quite something, and despite having won a few thousand dollars, it was definitely not money that was making Arthur feel like he had hit the jackpot.

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queenshelby · 5 months

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Sweet Possession (Part 2)

Pairing: Very Dark! Thomas Shelby (32) x Innocent! Reader (19)

Warning: Age Gap, Smut

The following day, however, brought a gloomy atmosphere into the room as, at around 6 o'clock, there was a knock on your bedroom door, causing you to startle.

Until that night, you had never shared a bed with Tommy , and the thought of being interrupted whilst still lying naked next to him made you shudder.

"Who is it?" Thomas barked, quickly wrapping a white sheet around his waist.

"It's Arthur," came the distorted voice of Tommy's older brother, resulting in Tommy jumping out of the bed, collecting his briefs from the floor and throwing them on. "What is it, Arthur?" Tommy asked as he hurriedly opened the door to reveal Arthur, standing there, waving at you while you simply blushed with embarrassment.

"Something's happened," Arthur blurted out. "Down at the docks."

Tommy looked at you, hunched up on the bed, clutching a sheet to your bare breasts. "Go put some clothes on, Love. I'll be back soon," he signaled to you, and you nodded in silence.

As soon as Tommy left the room, you crawled off the bed to gather your scattered garments from the floors, wondering what the problem was on site.

Since you moved into Tommy's house, there had been a lot of trouble at the docks and in his factories and when you asked your now husband about it, he would usually brush it off.

He often put it down to strikes or interruptions due to equipment breakdown and, as his partner in life, of course, you believed him.

Tommy was a businessman, not a criminal, and whilst you thought that his brother and Gypsie acquaintances were rather rough around the edged, you knew that Tommy was a good man.

He was a man who would do anything for you and you appreciated his kindness and the love he gave you, especially after you had been abandoned by all the other men in your life before him.

Even your older brother left you to your own devices when you were just seventeen, moving away from Birmingham without a word, as a result of which the home your parents had partially owned was being foreclosed on.

You had no choice but to move out and find work to sustain yourself, to be able to maintain a roof over your head and pay for your rent. And even then, it didn’t always suffice.

You were fired from three jobs until you found work at the Garrison and now you knew that you never had to work again.

Tommy took care of you now, treated you well and, even though he was determined to have children with you, he respected your wishes to wait.

He bought you horse, a white stallion and you were assigned not one, but two maids, which was something you always considered to be odd.

If you wanted to go to town and spend some time shopping, Tommy had a maid and a driver accompany you and today wasn't much different when you decided to head into the city of Birmingham for some groceries.

"Mrs Shelby, there really is no need. I can send an errand boy to do the shopping," Frances told you as you waved the list of items you wanted to buy in her perfectly manicured face with excitement.

"But I insist Frances. I want to do the shopping and then, tonight, I will cook a nice meal for my husband," you told her politely, seeing that you had always enjoyed to cook but had not done so ever since you moved to Arrow House.

"Very well, Mrs Shelby. Whatever you wish," she answered in a silky voice that reeked of credulousness.

"Fabulous. I know a really nice Italian Grocer by the Canal side. Do you think Isiah could drive me there?" you asked, knowing that Tommy was always rather worried about your safety and wouldn't have liked you driving yourself. Frances hesitated for a moment. "Of course, Mrs. Shelby," she said bluntly, but not without a hint of hesitation in her voice. "I'll call Isiah right away."

You smiled appreciatively at Frances and headed off to the bathroom, quickly freshening up before heading to the car that would take you to the Italian grocer.

The car ride was comfortable and peaceful, and you couldn't help but marvel at how much your life had changed since you first met Thomas Shelby.

Your thoughts were interrupted as the car pulled up to the front of the grocery store.

The sun was shining brightly outside, illuminating the bustling streets of Birmingham and casting a warm glow on the picturesque canal that ran along the side of the store.

You stepped out of the car, taking a deep breath of the fresh air. The sound of laughter and conversation drifted towards you from nearby cafes and pubs, mixing with the distant horns and clatter of the ships moving through the canal locks.

"My mother always took me here when I was little. It's a nice little shop run by a lovely Italian family. My older brother, Alfred, used to bring me here all the time too, just after payday, before-" You paused, your smile faltering slightly. "Before he left to god knows where," you finished, your voice barely above a whisper and Isiah simply nodded with sympathy while you stepped into the shop.

The smell of coffee and bread greeted you as the door jingled shut behind you. Despite the modern facade, the interior remained cozy with a wooden counter in the middle that displayed a variety of pasta and cured meats. On the shelves, colorful tins of tomatoes and olive oil lined the walls.

Remembering the list in your hand, you carefully navigating your way through the narrow aisles and stocked up on your ingredients.

"I am sorry ma'am, but we don't serve Blinders here," one of the Italians said to you as you roamed through the shop and, since you had no idea what the man was talking about, you just laughed nervously.

"Excuse me?" you queried, confused while Isiah appeared behind you, flashing the gun hidden beneath his jacket, thinking that you wouldn't notice.

"We don't want any trouble miss," the stocky man corrected himself quickly, and you quickly blinked, trying to process what was happening.

"Why would I give you trouble?" you asked innocently, unable to make sense of what exactly was going and Isiah then politely urged you to finish up your shopping.

Without another word, you filled up your basket, paid for your groceries and left the store, feeling a sudden chill in the air despite the brilliant sunshine.

Isiah escorted you back to the waiting car in silence but you had so many questions that needed answering, but you refrained yourself from asking, believing that your new husband would soon explain everything to you when you returned home.

The short car ride was again filled with a heavy silence and you couldn’t help but feel unsettled.

As you walked through the front door, Frances took the groceries from your hands and you made your way upstairs to your bedroom to get changed. After a quick shower, you slipped into a nice but comfortable dress that Thomas had given to you as a gift.

You stared at yourself in the mirror and felt a pang of happiness in your chest. Your life had changed so dramatically since being with him and you couldn’t deny that you were happy.

You then made your way downstairs to unpack the groceries and start cooking. It was still early but you knew that the dish you were making had to sit in the oven for almost eight hours on low heat, so you knew to better get cracking. You were pleased with the simplicity and warmth of the task at hand, letting your mind relax as you chopped and sautéed the vegetables and meat.

As you worked, you couldn’t help but wonder about the strange encounter you had at the grocer. The man’s peculiar reference to “Blinders” and the sudden appearance of Isiah’s gun were both alarming and confusing. But, you shook the thoughts away, telling yourself that there was likely a simple explanation.

Tommy had an explanation for everything and, just as you were thinking about him, he came walking through the door of the large and rarely used kitchen in wing one of Arrow House, far away from the staff quarters. He greeted you with a gentle kiss on the cheek before pouring himself a glass of whiskey and looking at you contently.

"How did you go?" you asked your husband , referring to whatever business he had down at the docks.

Thomas took a sip of his whiskey, eyeing you carefully. "Fine," he told you. "There was some stock missing, but we dealt with it," Thomas explained, leaving out the gruesome details of the beating he ordered his men to give out.

"You know I employed a chef to do the cooking, Love ," Thomas said, changing the subject as he watched you chopping the vegetables.

"I'm aware, but I love to cook for you. I am your wife and this is what wives do, isn't it?" you smirked at Thomas, challenging him.

Thomas chuckled lightly, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he took another sip of his drink. "Yes, of course. I suppose it is," he conceded, a heartfelt smile playing on his lips as he drew closer from behind.

Thomas encircled your waist with one arm and nuzzled your neck softly, causing you to giggle and shiver at the same time.

"You look quite sexy in that dress and apron, Love ," Thomas murmured in your ear, giving it a slight nibble that triggered a heated blush infiltrating your cheeks.

You glanced at him with a playful smile before turning around, your hands instinctively moving to rest on his muscular chest, only to feel the outline of his gun sitting firmly in its halter.

"Why would you need to carry a gun?" you whispered, turning your head slightly to catch his gaze. Thomas' eyes flickered down to the gun before meeting your gaze again.

"Just a precaution, Love. There are some dangerous people in this city," Thomas replied, his voice low and serious.

You nodded, understanding his concerns but still feeling uneasy about the situation. Thomas seemed to sense your disquiet and leaned down to kiss you softly.

"I love you," he murmured against your lips, his arms tightening around you briefly before releasing you.

"I love you too, Tommy," you replied softly, your hands still resting on his chest.

Your heart softened towards Thomas in that moment, feeling a deep affection for him. You loved him deeply and you trusted him implicitly. Knowing him as well as you did, it was hard to imagine that his business dealings could be anything but legitimate, even as you had heard rumors about his involvement in illegal activities.

Thomas had always dismissed these rumors as mere speculation, nothing more than idle gossip and slander from his rivals. And yet, as you stood there in the warm kitchen, with the smell of dinner filling the room, you couldn't shake the feeling of unease that had settled over you since your visit to the Italian grocer.

"I should really get back to cooking, Tommy," you said eventually, stepping out of Thomas' embrace and starting to chop the vegetables again, but Tommy simply removed the knife from your hand.

"The cooking can wait," he said huskily. "I've been thinking about you all day. About how beautiful you looked this morning when you were sleeping," he murmured as he nibbled your earlobe.

"I suppose we could eat a little later than usual," you replied, the tension from earlier melting away as Thomas' lips moved to your neck.

The room felt warm and intimate as the two of you stood there, wrapped up in each other's embrace.

"Fuck, I want you," Thomas whispered hoarsely as his hands traveled down your body, cupping your ass roughly.

You let out a soft cry as he lifted you up onto the kitchen counter, spreading your legs apart with a confident movement that sent a thrill of anticipation coursing through your veins.

"Tommy, what if a maid walks in?" you giggled nervously, your voice breathless as Thomas' fingers deftly slipped beneath your dress and apron.

"Then let them watch ," Thomas growled, his voice thick with desire.

He tugged your panties down, exposing your wet and eager pussy to his hungry gaze.

"You are unbelievable, Thomas!" you chuckled softly just before his fingertips traced the delicate folds of your sex, your body trembling beneath his touch.

Thomas wasted no time, plunging two fingers deep into your core.

"Oh god, Tommy," you cried out, gripping the edge of the countertop as he began to pump his fingers in and out of you.

"God, you're so fucking wet. So ready for me," Tommy groaned as his thumb teased your clit, and you writhed on the counter, grinding against his hand. You felt shameless and exposed, but also incredibly alive.

As Thomas unzipped his trousers, you watched through hooded eyes, your breath hitching as his hard cock sprang free.

He stroked it a couple of times, smearing pre-cum over the tip before using it to coat your slit.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, trying to pull him closer.

Thomas chuckled for a second. "Eager, aren't we?" he asked as he positioned himself at your entrance.

You bit your lip as you felt him push inside your tight warmth, stretching you mercilessly. You moaned at the sensation of him filling you up, the feeling of fullness almost overwhelming.

"Fuck, you're tight, Love," Thomas grunted, his fingers digging into your hips as he pistoned back and forth.

"Tommy, oh god please," you whimpered, unable to form complete sentences as the pleasure built inside of you.

"I love feeling you inside me ," you confessed, the words tumbling out of your mouth before you could stop them.

"I've never felt anything like this before," you added, your voice barely above a whisper and, immediately, Thomas' eyes met yours for a brief moment, his gaze intense as he continued to fuck you.

"Neither have I, Love," Tommy told you and you cried out, biting your lip to try and contain the noise as the pleasure became almost unbearable.

You felt yourself climbing higher and higher, the tension building stronger and stronger until the waves of static pleasure crashed inside of you and, suddenly, you felt yourself falling, falling, falling and, as you kept screaming, the waves of pleasure crashed over and over again, never ending.

"Fuck, yes. That's it, Love," Thomas groaned, holding back his own release until you came down from your high. He then pulled out , springing free, and grabbed his cock, giving it a few quick thrusts as he sprayed hot streams of cum across your naked thighs.

Thomas leaned forward, moving your hair off your sweaty forehead, pressing a gentle kiss there before stepping back, still catching his breath.

Reaching for his handkerchief , he started to wipe the remnants of their earthly pleasures of desperation and passion from between your thighs and from his limp cock before zipping up his trousers again.

“Are you alright, Love?” he addressed you gentler than ever before and you simply nodded silently, before reaching for a glass of water and taking a deep sip, feeling a little thirsty after your vigorous desperation for passion and how ‘earthshattering’ your release became.

Thomas poured himself another glass of whiskey and watched you closely as you collected yourself.

"Now that was quite unexpected," you admitted, taking a deep breath before pushing yourself off the counter and swinging your legs down to the ground.

"Was it?" he chuckled before lightening himself a cigarette and offering one to you, which you accepted graciously.

"You know, something really strange happened today when Isiah took me to the Italian Grocer by the Canal on East Street," you started, changing the topic, as you took a deep drag from your cigarette. Thomas arched an eyebrow, encouraging you to go on.

"While I was picking up some fresh produce for dinner, one of the Italians in store told me that they weren't serving 'Blinders' at their shop and, when I queried him about what he meant by that, he told me that he didn't want any trouble. I think he saw Isiah's gun, but I can't be sure. It all was very confusing," you recounted the incident, trying to piece together what happened.

At that moment, Thomas' body language changed entirely. He leaned his head to the side, squinting his left eye and pressing his lips firmly together, as he listening to your confession.

"Did the man say anything else?" Thomas' voice was low and measured as he tried to keep his emotions in check.

"No," you shook your head. "Well, not that I could understand," you told him, causing your husband to clear his throat.

"And what did the Italian look like?" Thomas questioned you with a furrowed brow, as he tried to gauge the seriousness of the situation based on the incomplete information you offered.

"Tall, skinny. He was about thirty years old, with dark hair and dark eyes," you said, almost absentmindedly, as you went on to describe more about the Italian's appearance. Then, suddenly, it struck you just how off-putting the interaction had become now, and some anxiety washed over you again. "Why are you asking?" you questioned Thomas, wondering about the reasoning behind the sudden interest in the man you met earlier today.

Thomas, sensing your apprehension, gave you a reassuring smile as he stubbed out his cigarette, extinguishing the glowing embers.

"No reason. Just mere curiosity, Love," Tommy told you before giving you a kiss on the cheek. "Now, why don't you finish cooking while attend some more business in town, eh?" he told you, his voice gentle and loving, but you noticed a hint of something else in his eyes, something that you couldn't quite identify.

"Alright Tommy," you agreed nonetheless and Thomas kissed you deeply one last time, before grabbing his hat and coat and disappearing off to town.

Tags:

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@galxydefender @hunnibearrr @saint-ackerman @lunyyx @gentlemonsterjennie1 @ihavealotoffandomssorry @nadloves @lost-fantasy @nolucesn@mcavoy-girl @hjmalmed @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @blushykiss @tatumrileyslover @teawithsatanx @orijanko @rhaenyra4ever @xcinnamonmalfoyx @budugu @nadloves @kmc1989 @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @forgottenpeakywriter @smailaway @sophiaaguirred @blondie-22

#cillian murphy x y/n #cillian murphy x you #tommy shelby #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy #cillian murphy imagine #peaky blinders #tommy shelby smut #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby #thomas shelby fanfic #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby fanfiction #tommy

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blackcatwriter · 13 days

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Linger (Arthur Morgan x f!reader)

a/n: This is my first actual one shot so I'm super excited to get this out there in our tumblr community! Shout out to my beta reader and editor who prefers to stay anonymous, this post wouldn't exist if it weren't for you.

warnings: angst, slight use of curse words (if you count them), maybe just a tad bit of grammar mistakes, takes place during chap 4 but im taking creative liberties lol, no use of Y/N, use of nicknames

wc: 2.3k (lots of yapping on my end)

summary: After the events of Blackwater, Arthur abandons you. Almost a year passes and you spot him amongst the crowd at the mayor's garden party in St. Denis.

Thanks for reading!

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Almost a year ago, Arthur Morgan had left you behind in the wake of a heist gone wrong in Blackwater. He had promised to meet with you after the robbery, whispering sweet nothings of the life he wished to share with you within hotel room walls. However, nothing had gone according to plan when Arthur left Blackwater on the run with the Van Der Linde gang to escape law enforcement. Broken hearted, you were left behind along with your hopes of a new life as collateral damage.

Now, months later you had started a new life in St. Denis. Your father, who was in poor health and had claimed you were in need of a providing husband, had offered your hand in marriage to that of a wealthy businessman who had been visiting Blackwater from St. Denis.

Too engulfed in your anguish of being abandoned by the seemingly love of your life, you didn’t fight the arranged marriage and left your home in Blackwater for a new life in the progressive bustling city of Saint Denis.

You had buried Arthur in the back of your mind and instead devoted your time to new hobbies and skills, spending most of your days sitting in the comfort of your fiancé's two-story manor. Most chores were handled by the maids and servants, leaving you plenty of time to do nothing - which is why you so heavily valued the parties your wealthy neighbors held.

Tonight, you were wandering around the mayor’s annual garden party while your fiancé stayed behind talking business with his fellow co-workers. It was mostly shallow gossiping between the ladies and meaningless conversations with any other guests. Tonight, you were wearing your newly tailored gown, a deep blue silk dress patterned with black lace trims that perfectly hugged your body to extenuate all the right things. Your hair was tucked into a loosely curled bun with stray strands that came undone from your waltzing around.

You were on your second glass of champagne when, out of the corner of your eye, you noticed a familiar face standing on the second-floor balcony accompanied by two other men: Arthur Morgan.

He stood to the side of someone who you presumed to be a fellow member of the Van Der Linde gang he used to run with. Frozen with shock, your glass slipped from your hand and hit the ground with a resounding shatter. Startling the people around you, they moved away as you sheepishly mumbled a “sorry” to the poor servant that would be stuck cleaning your mess. When you looked back up to the balcony, Arthur was no longer there. The man who had been by his side stared down at you as if you had wronged him in another life.

You fled the scene, preferring to retreat somewhere quieter in the manor to recover from your embarrassment. With your back to the door, you moved to sit by the windowsill of the room you were in. Quiet footsteps sounded against the door as you sighed. “I’m powdering my nose—" Your words failed you as you took in the sight before you.

The outlaw who broke your heart stood by the door dressed in a suit you were sure he’d never wear again. Closing the door behind him, his eyes never once left yours. “Darlin’,” he grunted, taking in the breathtaking sight that was you. He had traveled across state lines, ran himself out of every saloon in every town he came upon, but he was sure he had never met another view that was as beautiful as you.

“I...I’m not your darling.” You gripped onto the windowsill behind you with white knuckles. Arthur brushed the stray strands that had rebelled against the pomade Hosea made him apply earlier and looked to your feet—either too guilty or too nervous to meet your eyes any longer.

“I know, I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure what to call ya’.” Arthur’s face reddened. He fidgeted with his hands and took a small step toward you. “I was just wonderin’ if you were alright. ‘Heard there was a little accident downstairs, and I was wonderin’ if it was you,” he continued.

It felt as if the walls were closing in on you as he continued talking. When you first came to St. Denis, Arthur had come across your mind more often than you were willing to admit. You’d imagined he would come back to you and beg for you to take him back. You thought you had built a wall tall enough around your heart to not be affected by the sight of him again, but here he was stumbling over his own words, and you felt the same pang in your heart all over again.

“Arthur, what’re you doing here?” You spoke softly after building the courage to ask. You wish you had the anger in you to slap him, tell him off, anything else than to just stand there bewildered by the sight of him. “I wish I could say it’s for you, but I’m not,” Arthur sighed. He may have done all kinds of wrong in his life, but he wasn’t a liar—at least not to those closest to him.

“I’m here with Dutch and a few other of the boys from our gang. We’re scoutin’ out an opportunity for a potential robbery.” He spoke with a tone of shame in his voice. The exact reason he left you in the first place was what lead him back to you.

“Oh, Arthur. When will enough be enough?” You groaned, pinching your eyebrows together. “You're chasing after a dream that won’t happen! Can’t you see that?” Fueled by the frustration you felt simmering in your heart and the tears welling up in your eyes, you continued, “The old world is gone, Arthur. You’re beating a dead horse.”

Arthur shook his head in defiance. “Now I know that, but—”

“But what? The world is changing. If you can’t change with it, then you’re a dead man walking.” You interrupted him and rushed out the room, leaving behind a devastated Arthur.

He tried following after you but stopped when he saw you talking to a man who he presumed to be your fiancé by the way you held onto his arm. The man nodded to you before you kissed his cheek and left to the front door. Arthur discretely tailed you until he watched you enter a carriage.

He shouldn’t follow you. Dutch would disapprove of it; he’d tell Arthur to forget about you. You’re happier now, certainly happier than you would be on the run with him. He should go back to the party and collect information to help the gang, but in that moment, he decided you were more important. You had always been the most important person in his eyes and he was a damn fool to have not risked his neck to come back for you in Blackwater.

Arthur ran out the front gates and whistled for his horse, Boadicea. He jumped on his horse and trailed your carriage from afar. He would’ve certainly been stopped by one of the many outstanding officers of St. Denis on account of suspicious behavior, but most of they were occupied by the party he just left.

He stopped at the end of the street where your carriage came to a stop and observed you as you walked inside your home. You had clearly been upset in your carriage and Arthur carried a heavy guilt knowing he had been the bastard that left you feeling that way. Hitching his horse, he snuck down the sidewalk and into your backyard.

You had changed out of your dress and into a plain nightgown. Dismissing your maids, you were left completely alone in your bedroom. Any other woman would be grateful for all that your fiancé provided, yet you couldn’t help but feel as if you were confined to a gilded cage. You sat at your vanity and dried your tears.

Arthur Morgan had been your greatest weakness since the moment you met him in a saloon in Blackwater. He had been a drunken fool who managed to chase off every woman that night, except you. Where others found offense in his words you found humor. You took care of him that night and was shocked by him showing his appreciation to you the following morning.

THUD

Shaken from your memories of the past, you yelped at the noise of pebbles hitting the windows of your bedroom.

THUD

Scanning your room, you looked around for anything you might use to defend yourself from this mysterious intruder and grabbed a vase. Lugging it out to your balcony, you looked over the railing and saw it was Arthur who was trying to get your attention. Sighing, you couldn’t help but prefer it was someone else trying to murder you.

“You plan on attacking me with that?” Arthur joked to defuse the tension. His hair was no longer neatly slicked back, but messy as if he had gone horseback riding. Groaning, you placed the vase down.

“Did you follow me to my home, Arthur Morgan?” You whisper-shouted at him. If any of your servants saw a strange man trying to talk to you from your balcony, he’d be taken away.

“I wasn’t done with what I had to say to ya’.” He stood firm with his chest out as he looked up to you. “Can I come up...please?” Arthur was scared you’d say no because he knew he’d have no choice but to respect your wishes. Any sane woman should tell him “no” but you weren’t just any woman.

“You got an awful lot of nerve, Arthur,” you angrily spat. He took this as a sign you’d never let him anywhere near you again, until you continued, “If you can climb up the balcony without breaking your neck, we can talk.” You walked back into your room leaving Arthur grinning like a fool on the ground.

He carefully climbed the side of your home, using the vines that grew on your walls as a rope to pull himself up. Hoisting himself over the railing, he removed his coattail and bowtie. “You always make your guests enter the hard way?” He shook the tiredness off his bones and followed after you.

“Just the ones that aren’t welcome.” You retorted, sitting in a chair by your tea set. The evening bordered into nightfall as the air in the city grew colder. “There ain’t nothing left to say, Arthur. You’ve chosen how you want to live what’s left of your life and so I have.” Your face turned stoic as you poured yourself a cup of tea.

“I haven’t forgotten what I promised you...and it ain’t gonna mean much to ya’ cause you’re a city girl now with everything you ever wanted, but...” Arthur trailed off as he tried finding the right words to tell you what was on his mind.

You decided against butting in, even though you very much had things you wanted to tell him, like how he was so very wrong. St. Denis had nothing that you wanted. It was suffocating to be amongst such a high-class society. You missed the days where Arthur and you would run away for the night, choosing to retreat in nature as you confessed your vulnerabilities to him and he the same. Or when words weren’t enough to show your affections so you’d rent out a room at some hotel to show him how much you needed him in other ways.

“I think we’re close to getting out of here. I know I said that back in Blackwater, but I really mean it this time. It’s selfish of me to want to take you from your new life here, but I’ve never been known for being a good man.” He kneeled down in front of where you sat and brought your knuckles to his lips. “What d’ya think of Tahiti?” He grinned.

“I’d be a fool to believe your sweet words, Arthur.” You whispered, looking down at him with sadness. “You can be a good man, Arthur. Deep down inside I do think you have goodness, but you’re always fighting it. You’re always fighting it and you don’t let it win.” You placed a hand on his cheek and caressed his face.

“Darlin’...” He buried his face in your lap as you raked your fingers through his hair. “You’re not gonna say yes, are you?” He turned his head to the side, avoiding your gaze.

Your silence answered his question. He stood up and grabbed his discarded coat. In truth, you wanted so badly to agree. You wanted to leave with him, but you didn’t trust him enough not to leave you all over again. This time you’d have something to lose. Here you have a fiancé with a legal and stable job. He provided for you. With Arthur, you’d likely spend the rest of your life sleeping on dirt and running from whatever authorities were chasing you.

Arthur walked to the edge of your balcony with a stormy look in his eyes. “If you change your mind, we’re staying at an abandoned home in Lagras. It’s right outside the city, I’ll be waiting at the bridge at noon just in case.” Too scared to watch him disappear all over again, you kept your back to him as he climbed down your balcony and faded into the distance.

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#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x f!reader #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan angst #rdr2 x reader #red dead fandom

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regulusrules · 6 months

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Tags for BBC Merlin Fics

Since this post of general tags seems valuable, here is a specific one for my fellow Merlin readers and writers!

Can you guys believe that there are only 34K fics in our fandom that are tagged? When we have 62K+ fics!! There are so many hidden gems out there that honest to god changed my LIFE and deserve all the recognition in the world

So here is a guide for what are the most used/searchable tags in our fandom!

For Canon Era Fics

Merlin's Magic Revealed - Magic Reveal - Arthur knows about Merlin's magic - Arthur finds out about Merlin's magic - Episode Tag (for example: s01e04: The Poisoned Chalice) ((all episodes have a tag, and it's important to mark which setting are we in from the start)) - Merlin is Emrys - Merlin Needs a Hug - Protective Knights - Merlin dies - Everyone knows about Merlin's magic - Arthur-centric - Merlin-centric - Golden Age - Magic Ban Lifted - Merthur - Post-Camlann - (character's name) Lives - Arthur has magic - Merlin's Scars Revealed

For Reincarnation / Modern Fics

Arthur Pendragon Returns - Modern Setting - Modern Era - Alternate Universe - No Magic / Historical / War / University / High School / Reincarnation / Office / Authors / Royalty / Fantasy / Soulmates / Spies - Doctor Merlin - Businessman Arthur - Professor Merlin - Artist Merlin - CEO Arthur - Teacher Merlin - Actor Arthur - Musician Merlin - Lawyer Arthur - Writer Merlin

For Characters

(trait is followed by character's name. eg: Hurt Arthur)

Merlin: Hurt - BAMF - Immortal - Protective - Court Sorcerer - POV - Dragonlord - Pining - Oblivious - Powerful - Dark - Prince - Sick - Consort - Kidnapped - Caring - Top/Bottom - Royal - Tired - Sassy - Competent - King - Angry - Sad - Parent - Soft - Worried

Arthur Pendragon: Protective - King - POV - Pining - Prince - Caring - Hurt - Jealous - Soft - Worried - Oblivious - Confused - BAMF - Dark - Guilty - Smitten - Possessive - Angry - Top/Bottom - Parent - Insecure - Touch-Starved - Smart

Gwen: Awesome - Queen - POV - BAMF - Caring - Hurt - Protective

Morgana: Good - Evil - Redeemed - BAMF - Protective - POV - Awesome - Dark - Queen

Mordred: Good - Evil - Hurt - Protective - Kid

Gwaine: Protective - Hurt - POV - Pining - Awesome - Worried - Caring

Lancelot: Protective - Hurt - Supportive - Lives

Leon: Immortal - Long-Suffering - Protective

Elyan: Protective - Hurt - POV - Lives

Percival: Protective - Hurt

And remember to tag ANY triggering topic you will be writing about!

#merlin #ao3 #tags #merlin fics #bbc merlin #merthur #arthur pendragon #merlin fic #king arthur #how to tag #how to guides #regulusrules metas

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onceandfutureclotpoll · 5 months

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Title: Pumpkin Spice and Everything Nice

Author: supercalvin

Rating: General Audiences

Summary: Arthur goes to Gaius Cafe before work and sees a fit runner who stops by every morning.

#merthur fanfiction #merthur #fanfiction #fall #pumpkin spice lattes #fluff #modern au #coffee shop romance #bbc merlin #merlin x arthur pendragon #runner!merlin #businessman!arthur #falling for each other #alternative universe - modern setting #getting together #merlin loves arthur #arthur loves merlin #kissing

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cinnabons-treasure-trove · 8 months

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Barista Merlin: Ah. Bad day at office hm? Probably one of your employees messed up something.

Businessman Arthur: [surprised] Yes, how did you know?

Barista Merlin: [back towards Arthur, making a drink] You only order tomato and avocado sandwiches when you do otherwise it would've been your usual drink with no food.

Businessman Arthur: [intrigued] Oh? And if it wasn't my employee? I could've just been grumpy about the weather or client. [Leaning against the counter, watching Merlin]

Barista Merlin: [oblivious] You don't mind rainy weather, if you did you wouldn't be coming here, and if it were one of your clients you'd order two blueberries muffins sometimes a custard pie. [Hands over Arthur's order] Now, will that be all?

Businessman Arthur: [sending Merlin a fond look] Yeah, that's all.

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fractualized · 3 months

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I present a collection of normie Jokers (aka how Joker might look if he never fell into the vat), with the following parameters:

no masks/prosthetics

all adults grown into Joker face

limited rehashing of TKJ (only including versions I felt had different vibes)

1) Joker as Arthur Wilde — Joker (1975) #5, Irv Novick

2) Unnamed former lab assistant and struggling comedian — The Killing Joke, Brian Bolland

3) Joker disguised during "Death in the Family" — Batman (1940) #427, Jim Aparo

4) Joseph Kerr in the "Going Sane" storyline — Batman: Legends of the Dark Knight (1989) #66, Joe Staton

5) Unnamed TKJ-esque husband — JLA (1997) #35, Mark Pajarillo

6) Unnamed worker drone/comedian — Batman: It's Joker Time #3, Bob Hall

7) Jack the criminal in "Lovers and Madmen" — Batman Confidential #7, Denys Cowan

8) Unnamed mobster (at times known as Jackie, Sonny, or Hap) in "Case Study" — Batman: Black & White (Vol 2), Alex Ross

9) Unnamed criminal in Joker's own mind — The Brave and the Bold (2007) #31, Chad Hardin

10) Eric Border, Arkham Asylum orderly — Batman (2011) Annual #2, Wes Craig Batman (2011) #36, Greg Capullo

11) Alby, corrupt businessman — Detective Comics (2011) #27, Bryan Hitch

12) Unnamed amnesiac from the "Superheavy" storyline — Batman (2011) #48, Greg Capullo

13) Jack Napier in the White Knight series — Batman: White Knight #2, Sean Murphy

14) Unnamed comedian — Batman: Gotham Nights (2020) #9, Neil Edwards

15) Jack Oswald White — Flashpoint Beyond #5, Xermanico

16) Darwin Halliday, chemist and head of Halliday Industries in "The Bat-Man of Gotham" — Batman (2016) #134, Mike Hawthorne Batman (2016) #135, Jorge Jiménez

(Once again, thanks to @distort-opia for assistance!)

#joker

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mydaddywiki · 6 months

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Jimmy Haslam

Physique: Average Build Height: 6’ 3" (1.91 m)

James Arthur Haslam III (born March 9, 1954-) is an American businessman and sports executive. He is the chairman of the board of the Pilot Flying J truck stop chain. He and his wife Dee own the Cleveland Browns of the NFL, the Columbus Crew of MLS, and a stake in the Milwaukee Bucks of the NBA. Haslam has won two MLS Cup Championships (2020 and 2023) as owner of the Crew.

The first NFL owner I want to fuck since Jerry Jones and Jerry Richardson. Well, technically he and the wife owns the team, but I’m more than willing to do her if I could get him. Handsome, nice gray hair and a nice body. He looks like a top and I’d let him.

The native native Knoxville, Tennessean is married with three adult children and is the elder brother of Bill Haslam, former Governor of Tennessee.

#mydaddywiki sports figures #Jimmy Haslam

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springsylph · 5 months

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WITCHING HOUR, CH 3/3 — [18+]

(18+) - MARKED FOR EVENTUAL SMUT, MINORS DNI!

fem!reader x arthur morgan

summary: high time for a baptism

tags: a whole lotta words, reader is so totally sexually repressed, angst if you squint really really hard, 18+ CONTENT, masturbation, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v sex (wrap before you tap)

word count: 9k (jesus, wren. what the hell.)

a/n: SURPRISE! (sorry this took two months?? hot damn??)

<< previous chapter | read on ao3 here | masterlist

The walls are blockades of tar when you wake.

Tangled in the liminal spider web of consciousness, your eyes crack open in hesitant increments. Movement isn’t an option—not yet. So you bide your time. Lethargic. Still tangled.

But distant bird chatter punctures your eardrums, and you’re jostled back into an awareness of the minutes sliding through your fingers with all the lenience of serrated glass. It’s with unfocused eyes and bleeding hands that you take in the reality of the dark, saturating the floorboards with promises of deep pinks and purples.

Dawn. You’d slept to the edge of dawn.

Your first voluntary gulp coats your lungs in sticky air, snags on the cotton lodged in your throat, and you fold over with a violent cough and a twinge of pain in your sides. One of Mrs. Campbell’s complaints about chairs screams when you go to uncurl your spine, and the left side of your neck is strained from where you’d been slumped sideways.

Familiar shapes and smells return to their rightful places only after the initial shock of your aches subside. And perhaps it was the framed pictures—faces unrelated yet well-learned, softened into ambiguity by youth and dust and a lack of light. Or exhaustion, more realistically. Either way, one of the two has you slouching down in your seat, blanketing your eyelids with the back of your hand despite the swampy darkness.

You find that it’s easier to focus on the little chirps this way. Easier to visualize the fattened droplets of morning dew rolling from the fogged windows to the porch, and eventually to the ground below. The acrid smell of dried sweat and rainwater is draped over your imagined backdrop as a thin screen—apparent, but not enough to disturb. Something close to serenity, you think, even with the fireplace burnt down to nothingness and still tickling your nostrils.

But when a memory suddenly flashes white-hot, you slam your hand back into the arm of your chair with an agonizing groan, the shooting pain that rattles up your forearm just barely managing to surpass the burgeoning mortification.

Stupid.

This is beyond stupid.

You’re many things. Many, many things, if you take the (societally imposed) negatives into account. You’re also perfectly capable of becoming many things. But a bitch in heat, to your knowledge, is not one of them.

Only, you’d spent the vacant space following Arthur Morgan’s departure waiting for that pang of true regret, for that honed blade of self-preservation to unsheathe itself and sever the grip of what had nearly drowned you. You’d slipped your shirt back over your shoulders and paced. And paced, and paced. Paced till you’d carved a new trench into your dirty rug and dropped, regrettably, into the very chair you awoke in.

Your gut squeezes, and you know that the grip still has yet to unwind. It makes you sick. Feverish. Confused. Like you’ve pulled a scorching pot from a frigid stove.

Discomfort spreads when you sit up to refasten the buttons of your shirt, fabric now stiff with rain and resisting the pull of your fingers, and your mind, lost to the beginnings of repetition, wanders further.

You were no prude, if only out of spite. The top button closes, and you’re brought back to your first spark of rebellion—some fresh-faced businessman looking to pawn his talents off on your father. Bright hair, stiff collar, fingernails clean but hands grubby. Not much “talent” about him, either.

Hardship was unmistakably foreign to him, old family money softening him like rotting fruit. He’d likely continue to be softened into a pulp, considering the funds your father had shelled out to keep his mouth shut after you’d stumbled your way into fucking him.

(The statement would only fall flat once his buggy had mysteriously turned over into a ditch, just outside of Saint Denis.

You never did find out what he’d planned to do with the money.)

Desperation found a way to manifest in other ways; you suppose it had worked out somewhat in your favor. You’d been granted deliverance from society. Your father.

Right into the arms of your stranger.

Your fingers are pinching air when the very thought of him surges through you. Suddenly aware of a tingly tightness in your throat, you hastily pop the first button back open before settling your hands back into your lap. The buzzing fades, and you can breathe again.

You let out a stuttering puff of air.

…Limits.

You’re aware of them. How short of a leash to hold yourself on. But you think, just before the sun is privy to your misdeeds, you can offer a little give. A simple test, just to see if the burning you feel might burn you back for once.

(You slip. Just enough.)

You’re almost surprised at the harsh sound of your hand sliding to the button of your trousers. But the metal of it isn’t hot. Not cold, either. Nothing to provoke or dissuade, it just is. And suddenly, remorse is far, far away.

It’s even further when you test the pressure of your fingers on the clothed warmth spreading over your cunt. Farther still, once the unpracticed pressure morphs into a steady roll.

Instinct rears its ugly head, and you relish in the fact that you’d only had words before—on pages, floating through hallways, locked behind a vault. Relegated to dreams, raging fires, cavernous hallways.

Now you have more. More. More. Fresh memories become markers in your search for that spark, that jolt of life you’d only seen hints of in passing.

A strangled gasp punches out of you when the pad of a finger catches on that bundle of nerves, and the inky black walls fall to pieces. But you’re still lost in the rhythm of hands, and hips, and dirt, mind glazing over at the thought of Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.

More than a little flustered, but still curious, you begin to paint. The colors smush together the moment they hit the canvas: blue eyes, weathered hands, weathered soul. Pink tongue darting out to catch sweat, blood, life. From a thigh. A cheek. The inside of an elbow.

Alive. Yes, that’s what radiates when you finally work up the nerve to slip shaky fingers between fabric, searching for the dewy apex of your thighs. Alive in the friction from your clothes, the isolation of your whimpers and whines, Arthur running phantom fingers along your neck.

You’re delirious enough for that rasp to work its way into your ear again. Arthur is saying something, mumbling some unidentifiable remark into the thick silence made thicker by the obscene squelch of your pumping fingers, but still maintaining that tense distance, and it dawns on you that he isn’t quite real yet.

Heat begins to kick up debris underneath your navel. Bastard. Riling you up, leaving, just when you begin to know; even in your most debauched fantasies he does nothing but watch. Perspiration fixes your back to the chair, and you catch your bottom lip between your teeth. Crush your eyelids shut. Inhale and crook your fingers almost enough, but not quite.

You miss that spongy spot inside of you by what feels like a mile, and you feel it like a bullet to the chest. Fingers frantic, scraping at whatever buzz you can salvage, you press into creaking wood for leverage. Little twitches and gasps and it’s still not enough, but if you could just see him, feel him—

—and before you can stretch your work over the mold you’ve conjured up, natural warmth cascades over your cheeks. The train of your high whooshes past. You’re splitting your eyes open, ripping your hand from between your thighs, surging out of your chair and towards the lifeless fireplace before that damning sensation can slam into the base of your spine. Undecided weight and legs close to crumpling are only leveled out by the shame burning in the back of your throat.

Damn it.

The walls are back up, color crowding the suddenly cramped room. You force yourself to will the ache away, still your swimming vision, make space with steadying breaths. Try to, at least. The unresolved tremble in your thighs is still there, wetness still coating your fingers. You settle for wiping it on the side of your pants only after a stone settles in your chest.

There’s nothing to lean up against; it’s just you and the sparse furniture. But it’s cramped. Why is it still cramped?

(Something needs to move.)

Sun flush against your back, you blindly reach out behind you to pull the chair in the general direction of the table. By the angry clack, you’ve slid it a touch too far. Which was fine. It was perfectly fine, so long as it was out of the way.

(Something needs to move.)

—

You’re a little lost after that.

Muscle memory preserves you long enough to notice that Mrs. Campbell is looking at you with an abnormal amount of pity.

You pretend not to notice, crouched over the tiny green tendrils poking free of the earth, the beginnings of oats planted only a week ago fluttering under the gentle passing of your finger pads.

Mrs. Campbell’s voice whistles in from over your shoulder. “Growin’ mighty quick,” she says. Watchful over how far your fingers prod the fresh sprouts. There isn’t much experience for you to draw on, so you nod, and your knees give a muted pop when you push yourself to stand and try for a small smile.

It’s a little harder to pretend now that you're somewhat close to eye level. The unease you feel knotting just underneath your clavicle only comes to a stop when Mrs. Campbell’s face finally relaxes, and your ears catch the wet plod of work boots emerging from your left.

“Should be caught up on our planting real soon, mm?” Mr. Campbell loops an arm around his wife, Mrs. Campbell acknowledges her husband, and you’re fully convinced that the smug tilt of his mouth is an early morning test.

His tell is picked up almost immediately. She pulls back, takes his face in her hands: “You been sticking your hands in the sap again.”

“Francis.”

“Howard. Again?”

“The bucket was gooped up from the rain anyhow—”

His protests are smothered by hands wiping harshly at the corners of his lips, and you can only watch as the two of them chirp back and forth. It takes a while for Mrs. Campbell to feel that her grievances have been heard, and she steps back from him with a huff.

“Ought to ask that helper to start tailin’ you early. You make my head hurt, you know that?”

The confusion must show on your face, because Mrs. Campbell is retracing steps in her head before realizing she’s made a mistake. She says nothing, only regards you with that renewed sense of pity before removing her glasses to wipe them on a handkerchief she’s tucked into her apron.

“Got news,” she murmurs to no one in particular, and your head is spinning just enough to justify your slow descent to the ground. Legs crossed, you wait for her to find her footing.

Mr. Campbell looks almost pained, thumbs tucked into his belt loops and looking at you with that same chest-scraping pity. Pity, pity, pity. You find you’re quite sick of pity. But it seems he has enough of it to scrounge up what’s left of your death sentence.

“Your Pa rang in a couple nights ago.” Your Pa. “Says you’ve ‘repented enough.’ Tried to talk that coward out of it, but—” and he cuts off, that anger you’ve only seen a few times punching the rest of his words down.

Hit after insurmountable hit, you’re left to sink into the dirt until your grave is marked out plain as day. They look to you now. And you’re looking up at them. You’re not sure who says what. If it’s you, or the wind, or maybe one of the cows is stuck in the fence again. Maybe the barkeep has run out of tales to spin.

What now?

“We make do.”

—

The moon hangs precariously in the sky, swathing the quiet river in a soft, pale muslin. Swelling water is pushed apart—disturbed not by the breeze, or the pull of the current, but by something innately warm, foreign.

A delicate shimmer of damp skin peeks out from between the throng of maple trees. Night bathing is never ideal, never really a feasible option, but they shield your modesty as best as they can. Water slithers just under your collarbone as you wade silently, only stopping every so often to pluck a stray leaf from an arm, and the current carries away the fans of green with little protest.

The tepid undulation of the river pushes against the slight prune of your fingers when you sway your arm just below the surface. It was the shock of the chill that you’d sought out tonight, sating that need for something a little stronger than a pinch. It helps that you have an excuse: the grime you’d washed away, surrounding your naked body like a halo before floating downriver.

That was hours ago. Two, if you’re being precise. You can’t feel the cold, not anymore, but the gooseflesh spreading up and down your forearms hang onto every word of the open air.

You pass another hand over a hardened knot in your shoulder, press into it with a little more force than necessary. And for once, regrettably, your body listens. Untangles it in a matter of seconds, leaving you with nothing to do but stand loose-limbed against the steady brush of the water.

Some animals had the teeth to gnaw off their legs when caught in a trap. And yet, they didn’t. Rarely did, anyhow. But here you are, wondering if some miracle might strike your jaw and grant you something sharp enough to cut free of the numbness. To toss the dead weight into some unspecified corner where it would fizzle, crumble, or crack.

(Going home isn’t an option. Not with your father still yanking the reins. You could leave. But…alone?

No. Never alone.

Not anymore.)

Your feet skim just barely above the bottom of the river, weightless. The lapping of the water against the riverbank cradles the shells of your ears.

There’s not much left to contemplate. Nothing you have a say in, really. So it’s no surprise that you’re tipping backward, water finally laying claim to your cheeks, your breasts, the space between your outstretched arms and your sides.

You think you’ve floated once before—some distant dream pulled from childhood. But you don’t startle when the river begins to seal over the tip of your nose as you sink. Eyes closed. Breath sucked down so hard you think it burns.

True silence.

Until the drum beats.

The water is punctured by heavy footfall and you’re swaying, rocking back and forth in what was once still water before your shoulders are seized and you’re hauled upwards.

A name you think might be yours is bouncing in and out of clogged ears while your lungs make space for new air. Hacking, you look up, met with a bleary mess of a man and the moon. He’s breathing hard, so hard you can feel the cigarette smoke rattling his chest; it doesn’t occur to you that you’ve met him before, even after his heaving only slows once your eyes have begun to refocus.

Gingerly pulling you into the crook of his elbow, he dips his other hand back into the water before bringing it up to wipe at your forehead and the base of your skull. One, two, three times. His work is quiet. Fingers prodding at what might be a bruise or mud—neither of you are entirely sure. Rather than asking, you twist your head away and watch listlessly as decaying foliage floats off into the night.

More dirt. You knew there was more.

“That ugly, huh?”

Although your surroundings have solidified, your turn back is a slow, labored thing. Arthur is looking up at an owl circling just overhead. But the arm anchored under your back is a hot iron, molding itself to the curve of your spine just so. It’d be hard for a figment of your imagination to do such a thing.

“You can let go.” You choke.

Arthur’s arm stiffens around you just in time to brace the two of you against a sudden gust of wind.

“...You got somewhere to be?” You shake your head. “Then you’re fine right here. Till I know you won’t go and drown yourself in another puddle.”

Drown yourself?

But you hadn’t—

You would never—

“I think you should let go. Now.” You push weakly at his chest, but he only gathers you and your limbs closer.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

You’re going to kill him.

It’s then that he fixes his gaze on something just beyond your shoulder and hooks an arm under your knee, swallows the whole of you into his chest and begins to trudge toward the riverbank.

“Arthur.” Even through the dampness of his shirt, you can smell him. “Arthur I mean it, let go—”

“Behave.”

You yelp when he pinches the skin underneath your thigh, shock and sudden recognition of your bareness sizzling in your tear ducts. It’s enough to get you to pound a fist into his chest and kick out your legs.

“Arthur Morgan, I am naked!”

He stops. Solid ground is there, right there, but you wait for him to speak.

His voice is a tight rasp, and you think you feel his thumb twitch underneath your shoulder. “Was trying to ignore that.”

“I know it. You know it. Now put me down.”

He complies almost immediately, sliding you out of his arms and turning around the moment your feet hit the riverbank. The loss of warmth sends a shiver in full force, and you stumble over to where your clothes sit neatly folded atop a rock.

You check over your shoulder to make sure he isn’t looking before wiping yourself down with a dry rag.

“How often are you pullin’ women trying to bathe out of rivers?” You call out. The water continues to pulse. Arthur is silent. “That many, really?”

The sound of his hand raking through wet hair gives you pause.

“Didn’t look much like bathing to me,” he says, voice laced with a cool sort of dismissal. He’s a little right. Just a little, but the idea of you thinking you could convince him of anything otherwise stings more than his accuracy.

The rag is suddenly sandpaper in your hands, and you set it down, reach to pull a too loose shirt over your head. But just as the collar settles, you spy a separate pile of things just a few paces from your own.

You pad over silently. In the grass sits the same revolver you’d seen Arthur carrying during his last appearance, alongside his hat and a small satchel. All relatively familiar things you’ve come into contact with since you’d first met him, save for one thing. A small leather-bound journal pokes out from within the bag, the cover curiously well-kept despite the obvious wear and tear of the pages.

No. You shouldn’t.

You shouldn’t. But you’re drying your hands on your shirt and picking it up anyway, leafing through the pages carefully. A journal. Arthur Morgan was keeping a journal.

A smile begins to build when you catch how easily Arthur’s disposition reveals itself in his penmanship. He’s well-practiced, that much is obvious. A selfish part of you wonders how different life might’ve been if he’d been educated as you were, been just as defiant toward the circles you’d fought so hard to keep yourself from.

The drawings are another world entirely; you keep your fingers at the edges of the pages just to avoid any chance of smudging them. Birds, trees, sunrises, sunsets, and people. So many people. They’re etched with so much care that each turning of paper finds you faced with a deeper shade of envy.

You can count on hand the number of people you’ve loved. Cared for. And yet, Arthur seemed to have enough in him to immortalize these people as best as he could, smudges and all.

“If you’re robbin’ me, I ain’t got much on my person.”

You jump, thumb through just a little quicker after casting a quick glance over your shoulder. His back is still turned. “Y-Yeah,” You reply. “Almost done, I mean. Not stealing.” Cool it. “Just uh…gimme a minute?”

The end of the journal comes sooner than expected, and you’re flipping back and forth between the used pages with renewed fervor. You tuck the one in your hands underneath your arm and squat down to stick your hand in the satchel, eyebrows knitting together when nothing even remotely resembling a book finds its way to your fingers.

You’re on your second pass through the book when the slight bend of an otherwise unused section catches your attention. You pull it.

Scraps of paper have been slipped into the very back of the journal, Arthur’s handwriting filling up every inch. The blurbs aren’t dated, but ascertaining the sequence of events is fairly straightforward.

Came across the strangest creature one evening. I say “creature” only because she looked more nymph than human. Was on my way out of some farmland after nabbing a couple things, but I felt like I had to stop. Caught her talking to the cattle out in the cold like they was kinfolk. Might’ve been laughing right along with her, if I wasn’t so flummoxed. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a smile that irked me this bad since Micah told me what he does with his dirty socks. I ain’t in the business of prying, so I left. Hope she gets that smile fixed real soon.

Stopped by to get more stuff. Watched her try and haggle out of a deal from some pushy hoax trying to sell papers. Pulled a knife on her and I nearly came out of hiding to snap his neck then and there, but she’d beat me to it. Flashed the same rifle she’s been trying to scare me off with, so polished it nearly blinded me, and told him something I don’t think I’ll repeat. She did good. Real good. But she looked spooked.

Don’t believe I’m fit to be an outlaw no more. Ran into her after I’d sniffed around a few more times on her property than I should have. Took care of some real nasty men. But she’s awful pretty up close. Pretty and angry. So much so that I’d fibbed and said I’d had a chicken I ain’t know what to do with after I turned up on her doorstep. I’m not good with women and I’m an awful liar, so I feel a little guilty that she believed me so easy. It helped that she seemed a little happier. She knows who I am, though. That’s no good.

Appears my intuition ain’t completely shot, after all. Even if my aim is. Nasty idiot I thought I’d gotten rid of caught me off guard near Valentine, told me his employer had a “deal” to help get the gang out of that whole Blackwater mess. I will say that the lady and her Pa look nothing alike, that’s for certain. Hard to believe they’re even related at all. He’s a real piece of work. Real slim too, like those snakes that used to nick my heels as a kid. Told me if I got rid of her he’d clear my name with the Cornwalls. Seemed like an unfair shake to me. I can see why she’d looked so hot in the face when she told me about him. Dutch and the others don’t know I’ve been sneaking off, so I’ll have to handle this alone.

Saw that lady again rushing past the saloon a few weeks after that. High noon, I reckon. Only remembered because of what color the sun was when it hit her eyelashes. Had her skirt hiked up all lopsided, so one end was dragging in the dirt while the other end was left unscathed. Uncle caught a flash of an ankle and said he’d like to take her out horse riding, and I told him I’d gut him like a fish if he tried anything untoward. I don’t think I want her to die. I just hope she don’t want that neither.

Ran into her again. Same night after an ugly tumble at the saloon. My head feels like a brick but I remember her a little too clearly. I don’t know how I ended up at her door again, but I think she might really be one of them fairies I’ve heard so much about. Even her yells sounded like beautiful music. I said some real dumb things. Dumbest I’ve been in a hot minute. Think the bashing and the rain did me in. But that spark in her eyes made me believe seeing her again might do her some good. Or do me some good. I don’t know. I’m to see her tomorrow, Dutch be damned.

And it’s a strange thing, seeing yourself reflected through the eyes of someone else. You flip the smallest scrap to find what you think is a scribbled mess. It’d obviously been done in a hurry, like he might’ve forgotten what he was drawing if he waited any longer. But the longer you look, the more the pieces begin to fit together.

The barrel of a rifle. Finger curled just under the trigger. Tense shoulders. Rickety porch. Billowing fabric at your sides and a smile so wicked your heartbeat quickens at the thought of being faced with it as anything other than a sketched memory.

It’s you.

It’s snatched from your hands the moment you’ve locked it into place. You spin, Arthur still drenched and engulfing your wrist with his hand before he’s pulling you up.

You don’t know what to say. Neither does he. So he holds you there, suspends the two of you in an easily escapable bind. The water trickles all the way down from his arm to your sleeve. Replaces the dampness that you’d rid yourself of only moments prior. But neither of you choose to move.

Until you speak first.

“You came back.”

You’re not sure which time you’re referring to. The first? The last? Perhaps all of them.

Arthur’s grip loosens. “You asked.”

“That was one time, if I remember correctly.”

It’s then that he lowers his arm, though his hand still circles your wrist. You think you know enough now to deduce that it’s more for him than for you. The thought warms your insides. But you can feel the silence coming, find that you’re a little sick of silence, and open your mouth to fill it. Arthur beats you to it.

“Just the one was…enough.”

He looks confused for a second. Then it’s washed away, leaving behind that calm certainty.

Good. This was going good.

—

You don’t know how the two of you end up back at your cabin. You don’t think you care, now that the silence is shut out. The two of you spend the next hour trading tales like schoolchildren after you’d changed into a proper nightgown. A botched heist here, a messy cow birth there, all as time slips farther and farther away.

Arthur is kind, you realize. Remember, actually.

All bark, a whole lot of bite, but kind. A little odd, freakishly crude, and a massive flirt to boot, but still kind. You won’t tell him though—not unless you want him to pop an eyeball out of his socket. For the time being you’re simply content with observing.

Arthur sits across from you in his chair (his chair), much like that first night, trying to parse through some knuckle-headed joke. You’ve migrated over to the kitchen—the pots and pans, you’ve decided, are in desperate need of organizing. You tell Arthur as much when you hastily slip the blankets off of your shoulders to stand. You don’t tell him about the embarrassment you’d felt, eying the hairs that covered his broad chest. Overheated from the fireplace, he’d said. So he’d popped a couple of extra buttons and gave his neck an exaggerated pat of a handkerchief.

The nerve.

But it was the seemingly innocuous flirting that had crumbled the last of your resistance; the cattle could pay you no compliments, and the catcalls thrown at the markets were a far cry from flattering. But this. This was exhilarating.

But Arthur’s gone strangely quiet when you reach up to hang a dingy pot onto a hook.

“…Arthur?” You hesitate. “You see somethin’?”

It’s then that you remember that odd habit of his. So you close the blinds to the small window over the sink, force a shaky breath, and return to your chair so that you’re facing him. He says it as soon as your bottom hits the seat.

“You.”

Oh.

It’s then that you notice just how quiet the inside of the cabin is, in comparison to what it’d been like outside. The sound of the howling wind is kept at bay with the help of the front door, leaving only the crackling of the fireplace and labored breathing from opposite ends of the room.

You cross your ankles. Then you uncross them, and cross them the other way.

Damn this gown.

The ignominy of your wandering eyes has produced nervous beads of sweat, and the fabric still on you anchors itself to your body with its help. Determined to give you away.

Arthur watches you fidget.

His face flashes with the same look you’d caught glimpses of when he’d first showed up on your porch. When he’d watched your lips as you spoke. Methodical. Analyzing. Eager. You thought you’d imagined it. Arthur must have been weighing something within himself, too. His words, eager to inspect yet all too happy to flee at the slightest hint of apprehension. The results of his investigation are presented to you with his bare hands.

“S’there someone I need to be frettin’ over if I touch you?”

You shake your head.

“Good.”

Then Arthur is standing. Christ, he’s standing, and he’s crossing the distance in three agonizingly slow strides—boots hitting the floor with a thunk, thunk, thunk. Till he looms right over you. He boxes you in; hands braced on the arms of your chair, hat tipped forward just so.

Maybe it wasn’t a mangy cat, or a crook, or a ghost that you’d allowed into your home.

This was a wolf.

The wolf curls his fingers under your chin and tips your face upwards, eyes half-lidded and hungry.

“Am I leaving?” The words scrape out of him. The thought of leaving pains him, but the words are a necessary evil.

You’re almost too afraid to speak—doing so means his thumb might stray from the path it’s begun to trace on your bottom lip, and you can’t possibly give that up. Instead, you consider Arthur carefully.

It’s a rather precarious situation you’ve found yourself in—lusting over the very thing that might bring you to ruin. You’d given up on misplaced hands in quiet corridors years ago, replaced them with hatred for the man who’d had the gall to call himself your father. The shame of letting your unruly desires steer you. There was doubt, too. Lingering at the far corners of your mind, wondering if maybe, just maybe, your affections might be dangerously misplaced. That you’d end up like the others.

Taking whatever it was he had to give would be the final nail in the coffin, and you knew it. You’d known from the moment you’d caught him (and him, you) that Arthur would be no good. No good for you, no good for him, no good for anyone.

But, that was then. This is now.

And how often was it that the light of a fire enveloped someone so earnestly, so wholeheartedly? You would be mad not to want him.

And oh, how you’d wanted.

But what to do, where to look?

You settle for his lips.

With a shuddering breath, you allow your mouth to fall open. His thumb goes stock-still, just before it presses past the rosy flesh and onto the top of your tongue. But just as quickly as it enters, it retreats. You chase after it with a humiliating whine, a trail of saliva marking the falter in your promise to stay away, away, away. Arthur smears the remainder of your shame on the corner of your mouth, his lips twitching up just enough to betray the beginnings of a smirk.

“I don’t play that,” he chides softly. “I need words, darlin’.”

Leave it to Arthur to make things difficult, the bastard.

You tilt your head till he’s catching your cheek in his palm. Let out a breathy whimper when he rubs his fingers at the sensitive base of your ear.

“S’not fair,” you whisper. It really isn’t, but it sounds pathetic after it bubbles up from your throat. But you can’t bring yourself to utter anything else. Arthur presses closer in place of an answer, eyes tracking every blink, every inhale, every eyelash that catches the puffs of air that leave him.

His eyes tell you that he’s hoping to pull your confessions from you like weeds—and it might feel good, perhaps. To let yourself put a name to the desire that curdled in your veins. Too big to be contained. But there was something delightfully emboldening about being “trapped” with Arthur.

He was stuck with you, just as much as you were stuck with him.

Breath intermingling, you ghost your mouth over the inside of his wrist. Teeth peek out just enough to graze him, and you keep your eyes locked with his when you go to bite weakly at the exposed skin. You mumble against the shiny spot left behind.

“I ain’t a beggin’ woman, Arthur Morgan. You know that.”

He doesn’t laugh. Just smiles, slow and sure. “Do I, now?” He croons.

You nod, and you’re smiling dreamily right back at him.

You try your best to keep the thundering of your pulse contained when his mouth is a hair's breadth away from your own. But the steady thump of Arthur’s heartbeat is strong and stable, setting the tempo for your own to follow suit all too easily.

He speaks to you. “You feel like fixin’ that, doll?”

“Dunno. Can you fix it, Arthur?”

And like a thin branch caught underneath a heavy pelting of snow, the tension cracks—but it falls to the ground in complete silence. It’s gentle. Smothering. Freeing. All consuming. His lips are rough, and light, and a little dry, but he’s kissing you. You.

You realize a little belatedly that he’s wrapped his other arm around your middle, and he’s pulling you up from the chair to meet him. Maybe the whiskey on his lips that you’d offered earlier has gotten to you, because you stand up so quickly that the chair you’ve been sitting on crashes to the ground with an embarrassing thud. Ignoring the huff of laughter against your mouth, you snake your arms up from where they’ve gone limp at your sides to wrap them around Arthur’s neck.

The press of his body is warm—accommodating. A hand cradling the back of your head, the other a teasing warmth skimming the side of your ribcage. It’s…nice. Merciful, almost.

But you weren’t looking for mercy.

So, you do what you know best.

Piss him off.

With the precision of a skilled hunter, you nip his bottom lip with your teeth and bring him into you with the help of a hand between his shoulder blades. The reward for your efforts is a chain reaction: Arthur pitches forward, licking into your mouth with a groan. Hands clutch: hips, waist, neck, and back to your waist. You have to arch away to accommodate the sudden shift of weight, and he’s swaying the two of you backward till your hips collide with the rough edge of the kitchen countertop.

It’s forceful enough to knock the air out of you. At your exhale of surprise, the pressure against you lessens. Your pulse picks up when rough hands find your flank, offering what you believe to be an apologetic squeeze. But his hands don’t stop there: they iron past the fleshy mounds, friction intensifying the swelling heat before his hand cups you.

You break away with a gasp.

Apparently satisfied with his repentance, Arthur withdraws his hand and leaves you with a parting kiss before he noses downward to suck at the skin of your neck. The warmth of his mouth and the scrape of his beard invite an electric buzz underneath your skin.

“Been drivin’ me crazy, woman, Jesus.”

“Then quit bein’ nice,” you breathe. Your hands have grown impatient, they take the liberty of slipping between the two of you in search of the hardness straining against the confines of Arthur’s pants.

“I ain’t—ngh—nice,” Arthur clips. Score.

You swallow a moan when you feel him buck against your palm. “You lyin’ to me, Morgan?”

When your fingers go to find his belt loops, he bats them away and slams your hips back into the counter before leaving a quelling nip to your shoulder.

He’s got a hand in your hair now; it yanks your head back, and broadens the depth of Arthur’s tongue when he recaptures your lips in a scathing kiss. The parting of your thighs is almost instinctual, and you’re soon scrambling to grab at any article of clothing that might bring him closer once he slots himself between them.

Can he feel your arousal, you wonder? Painting the inside of your legs with a sloppy depiction of your poorly concealed lust, hoping that Arthur might notice, might see.

But Arthur is far from unaffected. With each mewl that escapes your lips, he rocks up into you. Swallowing your wretched noises whole and using them as fuel for the fire that would weld your bodies together. Each brush of his lips siphons the air from your lungs, though you don’t mind. It only stirs the warmth that’s begun to swirl in your abdomen. But through the heat and the haze, you can faintly register the wriggling of fingers at your hip and air hitting your bare thighs.

Spit slicks your lips when Arthur pulls away, and he peppers open-mouthed kisses down the center of your body; your neck, the dip of your collarbones, over the thin fabric of your nightgown—all while his other hand continues to ruck your hem up, and up, and up. There’s a new weight to your skull, too. It shades your tired eyes, dims your overexposed senses and forces you to focus on the mess he’s made of you.

The pads of his fingers skirt over where your nipples have pebbled underneath your chemise, but only just. It isn’t until Arthur’s fully sunken to his knees that you’re able to take in the sight of the top of his head.

The top of his head?

Wrenching your fingers from where you’re sure they’ve put indents into the wooden countertop, you tighten them into his hair and tug him away from where he’s made contact with your navel.

He’s pulled away with a dicey rumble reverberating from his chest. “What in the—”

“Arthur,” you say, still breathless, “Arthur w-wait. Your hat, where is it?”

Your knowledge of outlaws was limited, but you knew their hats weren’t to be trifled with. The very last thing you needed was to incite the wrath of the outlaw gods in the middle of…this.

And if you weren’t so blissed out, you might kick Arthur for the look he gives you: depraved and utterly devoid of remorse.

“Arthur, I’m being serio—ohh, f-fuck!”

He yanks your bloomers down in one fell swoop, pulling your hips flush against his mouth and dragging the flat of his tongue up through your slick folds with a groan. Arthur, idiot that he is, dares to laugh. Laugh in the face of the embarrassing slew of curses that follow after he just barely reaches your clit.

You’re being mapped, you realize with a shiver. Every twitch is cataloged, every gasp a lesson. If the building pressure in your gut is any indication, he’s a quick study. Firm hands rub soothingly at the backs of your thighs, though they’ve somehow managed to worsen the growing ache.

Each push of his muscle plucks at a string so deep, so tender, that your vision leaves you in bursts of white flashes. You pull the collar of your chemise up and into your mouth; the stars winking behind your closed eyelids aren’t enough to shield you from the utterly obscene noises coming from the both of you as he laps at your weeping cunt.

But a particularly electrifying flick of his tongue sends one of your hands flying to your hair, only to find that something rather hat-like sits atop it.

Ah. So that’s where it went.

You feel Arthur smile against you. “You alright up there?”

That devil.

Chest heaving, you risk a look down once you notice the absence of pressure against you.

(You’ve been doing a lot of risking, lately. But what was one more?)

If this was a test of resilience, you were failing miserably. You’re torn between wanting to hide and wanting to preen: Arthur’s stalled his ministrations, index finger now tracing lazily over the juncture where your thigh meets your sex. He’s eyeing you lecherously from his place on his haunches, hair mussed from violent fingers and jaw slick. You swallow. You’d done this to him.

But, he’d stopped. Why had he stopped?

Greed attempts to force Arthur’s hand with a buck of your hips, but you’re met with a palm pressing you back. It seems the warmth of the fireplace hasn’t yet reached this corner of the cabin. Arthur’s mouth has been what kept you warm, kept you sated, but he’s taken that away from you. You’ve been doing fine, and he’s taken it. Why?

“Arthur, what—”

The finger that’s been tracing you slides its way just above where your clit throbs. Works it underneath his finger in slow, slow circles. Your abdomen spasms, a guttural sob shooting out from your throat. The sensation makes your mind go fuzzy, and Arthur has to lean back to avoid the abrupt closing of your legs while you steady your breathing.

God, you really were going to kill this man.

Arthur, apparently, is none the wiser. Either that or he’s blatantly ignoring it—though you suspect it’s the latter. He’s knocking your legs back apart before you have a chance to shield yourself.

“Don’t go all shy on me now, darlin’,” he says, voice cut with an edge of warning. He’s pressing a finger at your entrance. It’s just enough to frustrate you, just enough to entice the moisture that begins to build in your tear ducts. See what you could have, it taunts. He begins another slow circle with the pad of his finger, pride swamping his features at your sharp intake of breath. “I came to see a show.”

You don’t know how long you stare at him, watching as he molds you at his will. But it’s Arthur who detaches the hand that you’ve clapped over your mouth, guides it dutifully back to where it’d been tangled in his hair only moments before. The gentle stretch of his finger slipping inside of you only prompts a pleased sigh as your head lolls back.

He slathers your cunt with praises. “Gorgeous,” he says, nudging his nose alongside it, “this all for me, pretty girl?” The warmth returns with his admiration. Interlacing with each stuttering breath, climbing higher and higher till it’s crawling out of your throat. You welcome it enthusiastically. By the time he’s slipped in a second finger, you’ve long forgotten any shame felt beforehand in favor of the prickling pressure in your belly.

“M’gonna—gonna kill you, Morgan.”

“S’alright,” Arthur drawls. “Keep talkin’, baby.” He keeps his opposite hand poised at your wrist, ready to strike should you choose to stifle any of the sounds he’s worked so hard to coax from you.

Too tired, you wanted to tell him. You were barely keeping yourself standing as it was. But the sounds being pulled from you are gentle, yearning. Easy.

This was easy, you think. Safe. Within your control. You’d bitten off more than you had room to chew, goading Arthur on like you had. But his fingers, ever so forgiving, weigh your eyes shut with every delicate pass over your walls. You could ride the high of this warm haze forever.

Pity that “forever” hinges on Arthur’s terms.

A chaste kiss to your inner thigh is the only warning you have before Arthur is surging forward, crooking his fingers and sealing his lips around your clit.

Your legs are the first to go, knees buckling and calves straining from exertion. Unfortunately, the only things capable of keeping you upright are the fingers and the tongue that got you into this mess.

Arthur wastes no time reveling in a slow pace—and why would he? Why the hell would he, when he could keep you dancing on this rocky cliff for as long as he damn pleased. He presses a kiss to your inner thigh again, fingers still plucking at that warm bundle of strings that made you weep. “Atta girl,” he rumbles, “Y’look real pretty like this, don’t you think?”

“Yes, fuck, yes!” You curl over him with a wanton moan, taking his head in your hands and pushing him as close as he can go. You’re only half listening, throbbing with the threat of your impending release.

“You gonna give me what I deserve, sweetheart?” He’s back to lavishing your cunt with devilish flicks. You meet him there, in time; aimlessly grinding your hips down and using his soft strands for leverage. Studious monster that he is, each pass of his thick fingers gives new life to your limbs, now roused into feverish jerks and quivers. “You don’t get to hide from me, you hear? Too pretty for all that crap.”

Arthur’s still waiting for you to respond. But the praises you sing have been wrung completely dry, leaving only high-pitched squeals and chants to ricochet off the cabin’s walls.

You think you imagine the hand he’s got shoved down his pants, working over his length in short tugs before your eyes flutter shut, and you’re twitching at the bites Arthur leaves on your legs in return—rough, possessive, claiming.

You can feel it. It’s there, it’s right there. It burns. It scrapes at your very being, keeping you drawn taut against the pump of Arthur’s fingers, soaked and hell-bent on pulling it out of you.

“C’mon, give it to me.” He’s commanding you now, voice desperate. He must feel it too. “Lemme see what I came here for.” You sob, and his name leaves you in bits and pieces. Whether you nod or shake your head is a mystery, but you do know that you wrest your eyes open. Brush aside the hair blocking Arthur’s face with trembling fingers, and through the hot tears you find pools of blue. Waiting.

You slip. You fall. And it’s his.

Your orgasm is ripped from you in a scream and a violent storm. Tremors shaking your body, stomach tightening, stars exploding—it’s everything but calm, and too loud. But Arthur’s fingers are there to guide you through it all, ensuring that every last inch of your body he covets is handed over in full. You’ll have to thank him, later.

He’s pulling you down into his lap once you’re nothing more than a puddle of warm flesh, still pulsating. Your temples are warm where his lips greet them. Eyes blown wide, throat raw, Arthur sweeps an appraising gaze over your crumpled shoulders and moves the hat from your head to his.

“That’s one,” he says.

…Were there more?

Your voice finds the two of you slumped chest to chest. You look up at him to poke a finger to his cheek, and wince at the feeling of how hoarse your throat is.

“You—you pull a stunt like that again, and I’m kicking your sorry ass out.” Arthur quirks a brow. Another bluff, and you both knew it. You let him litter your forehead with kisses while you wait for your mind to reinhabit your body.

But in the interim, your hand snakes its way down his burly chest. Slip it between the waistband of his pants before you’re pulling his cock out as he hisses.

“Don’t need to,” he says, only you do need to. Want to. Have to. And you think you tell him so because he’s nodding. Turning you to face him, guiding your legs apart and sliding himself up against your wet heat. He begins to rock with you, tipping your head up to mouth at your chin. Hums, a wretched thing you’ve decided is yours and yours alone.

“You got any idea—” Arthur begins, burying his face into the crook of your neck, “you got any idea what you do to me? Hm, pretty girl?” He grunts when the tip of his cock bumps up against your clit and you arch away. But he’s quick to reign you back in with one hand at the back of your neck.

“Arthur, c’mon. P-please. I wanna—”

He’s vibrating a no into your neck, tongue rolling out to lick a stripe upwards till he’s got your earlobe between his teeth.

“You can wait. Lemme hear you say it.”

“Say what.” You moan into the open air when he bites at the underside of your jaw, hard, and you have to fight a smile when you realize it’ll likely be there tomorrow.

A light gasp leaves you when you feel his hand reaching between the two of you to position his length at your slick entrance. Almost, almost—

“Arthur, say what.”

What little control he has left is contained in the fingers he’s using to hold himself steady. His hips begin that slow roll. “I need you to tell me what you were thinkin’ about this morning.”

This morning? What did he—

This morning.

Hand caught between your cunt and the chair, fingers working through a steady gush of arousal. Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.

He only catches you off guard because you’re distracted.

You’re split slowly. Greedily sucking him in while your forehead taps against his so you can try and sharpen your focus.

“Easy, baby. Easy. I got you.”

You whimper. He was there. He was there, watching, just like he was watching you now.

But you couldn’t care less.

There’s no hiding that fullness you feel, the fullness that is. The two of you go quiet as he sinks further and further in. Warmth is flooding your body, circulating between your joined bodies as an inescapable circle of fire and need, and you can’t help but feel that this was how things were supposed to be from the beginning.

Arthur doesn’t have to remind you not to stifle any noises. Not when he’s unsheathing himself for barely a second before he’s got his hands on your hips to guide you up and down his length. You clench and Arthur’s hips give a stutter.

He slides his hands up the back of your sweaty chemise and he eases you to the floor. Slides the fabric off of you, looms over you like an unwavering mountain. “Jesus, you’re perfect. Too good, you fuckin’ hear me? Christ.” Arthur’s control is wavering, you can feel it. So you take his face between your hands and kiss him hard enough to get him to move faster, damn it.

It’s a gradual start. But his rhythm begins to pick up just as that brightness begins to hurtle around your gut again. His mouth is tasting everything it can reach: the salty sweat beginning to collect on your brow, the poke of your nipples, each time finding himself eagerly gulping down the noises spilling from your mouth.

And too suddenly, his cock brushes up against that spiral of light and you arch with a cry. Arch so hard that you think you can see your climax right before it’s pulling at your abdomen with such heated vehemence that the tears spilling down your cheeks only make the sparks brighter.

Arthur isn’t far behind, and you sigh at the feeling of him sliding out of you before he takes himself in his hand while you’re still a jolting pile of bones on the floor. It takes one, two, three strokes in quick succession before he’s coming in thick spurts over your belly with a grunt.

He curls over you then, pulling you into his arms and pressing kisses back at your temple, atta girl, you did so well.

Your heartbeats are pressed together and you realize that he’s still clothed.

But—you’re giddy. That felt good. Feels good. You didn’t think you got to feel good anymore.

So you look at Arthur, really look at him this time. The rise and fall of his chest. The hair curled at the nape of his neck. The blacks of his pupils, still blown wide and dark as the night. You close your eyes, and he’s hung the moon.

When you open them, you’re in your bed. Tiny, creaky, but a welcome opposition to the floor. There’s light spilling in from a crack in the door, and the wind howls just outside. Arthur has already wiped you clean, tucked you under the blankets (just a little too tightly). He sits in the corner with an ankle crossed over his knee and arms folded. He smiles.

And you have a thought. An idea. A terrible one, actually. So acute you can feel it cutting your tongue.

“Take me with you?”

#witching hour #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you

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