#rdr/reader

[scftangl]

Me, getting distracted for a moment in just in smut and now I don't know what position they are in:

[dustandthought]

Did Charles commit suicide?

What if he didn’t go north... What if he left for good? (A soul-crushing headcanon about Charles Smith)

What if Charles took his own life? Yes, yes, just like that — what if he left, not north, but FOR GOOD. I keep thinking about this more and more. Because so much about him screams — “I can’t do this anymore.”

Everyone says: he went to Canada. Oh sure, sure. But maybe it’s time to stop repeating that comforting bedtime story. Canada was mentioned once, barely, like a breath. But in another dialogue — he says he wants to go to INDOCHINA. Can you imagine? Indochina! Where is that, and where’s Canada, and where is he? He’s lost. He’s torn. He doesn’t know where to go. Because he feels at home NOWHERE. And all of this — it’s not a plan. It’s emptiness. It’s pain wrapped in scraps of fantasy.

And when he tells John: “What does your family need an old gunslinger for?” — that’s NOT A JOKE. That’s a scream. A plea. A wound masked as a smile. Because he’s the outsider among friends. He’s the extra. He’s just... there. But he’s not part of it. And he knows that. Feels it in his bones. In his heart.

He doesn’t even sleep in the house. Doesn’t sleep on the property. Wanders into the woods. Into the dark. Into solitude. Some would say — it’s just habit, right? He’s used to the wild. Used to isolation. Bullshit. It’s not habit. It’s escape. Because being close — hurts. Watching Abigail, watching John, watching their child — it’s like a blade across the soul. Their dream came true. And him? Who is he? He’s — no one. Once, he was an outcast among outcasts. Now he’s just... the only one left. Alone among the joyful.

And the doubts he voices to John — “Will this life be enough for you?” — that’s not about John. That’s about himself. He’s asking himself. He doesn’t believe happiness is possible for him. That he deserves it. That he’s even capable of feeling something other than this tight, choking loneliness.

And that talk about going north, starting a family, finding a woman... I DON’T BELIEVE IT. NOT A SINGLE WORD. It sounds like a script. A rehearsed line. A mask. A way to say something so they’ll stop asking. He has no plan. No place. No direction. He says it himself. “I don’t know where.”

Not Canada. Not Wapiti. He could’ve gone back there a hundred times. In eight years. But he didn’t. Because he never saw it as home. It was something lost, something nostalgic — not a place he was needed.

And just finding a woman? Really? This is Charles. A man who lets NO ONE in. He’s built like a fortress. In his mind. In his soul. In his silence. And if he lets someone in — it’s forever. And if he doesn’t — no one gets close. This isn’t about “settling down.” This is about finding a soul that moves him. And those are rare. Maybe one. Maybe none.

He says: “These last eight years, I’ve come to accept the things I can’t change.” Is that supposed to be hope? It’s not acceptance. It’s surrender. That’s not light at the end of the tunnel — it’s the tunnel closing in. It’s numbness. It’s emptiness.

And John, dear John… tells him: “You’re the strongest man I know.” I HATE THAT PHRASE. I HATE WHEN PEOPLE SAY IT ABOUT HIM. I HATE WHEN PEOPLE SAY IT ABOUT ME. It’s NOT strength. It’s survival. It’s when life beats you so hard, all you learn is not to fall. It’s not a choice. It’s endurance. He’s not strong. He’s exhausted. He’s shattered. He’s lonely, he’s silent, and he’s so, so tired.

Even if he met “the one” — would she love him? The real him? The broken one? The quiet one? The distant one? Or would she fall for the mask — for the “I’ve made peace with the past” lie? And if she never sees the real Charles — how could he ever be happy with her? He doesn’t do halfway. Not him.

Abigail and John are different. She knew his pain. All of it. His monsters. His sorrow. She accepted it. Who would accept Charles? Who even knows who he became?

And in that last ride... he says: “I’m heading north.” Turns down Sadie’s offer to work together. Says it’s time to move on. But what if he wasn’t moving forward. What if he was moving toward the end.

(Another powerful and unwavering argument for me: we all remember how Charles and John ride out to save Uncle in the epilogue — and how Charles, with a chilling steadiness, says that if the uncle’s wounds are too severe, the only mercy left would be to help him cross over. He speaks of killing — not driven by hatred, not poisoned by cruelty — but as a final act of love, a broken, desperate kindness to release a soul from agony. And I ask: was it only uncle’s suffering Charles wished to end? Or was he, too, reaching for a way to quiet his own howling grief? I believe he was. I believe he desperately was.)

What if that was his way of saying goodbye. Softly. Quietly. Not “farewell.” Just — gone. So they could keep living, believing he’s somewhere out there. Alive. Just... far. But in truth — he had already made peace. He had written his ending.

Not to the north. Not to Wapiti. Not to a woman. But to the place where nothing hurts anymore.

And if that’s what happened... if he really left...

...maybe, finally, he found peace.

[doeeyezz]

literally just came everywhere oops <333

[stray-cat-with-internet-access]

Arthur? 😳

[onlyheluvsme]

˗ˏˋarthur's breeding kink´ˎ˗

arthur filling you with his children after you wake up a little too early — mdni, lowercase intended, f!reader, smut, mentions of: intercourse, pregnancy/children, penetration ༊*·˚ this is my first arthur fic!⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ pls leave reqs!!

his thick fingers were splayed over your stomach, your ass pressed to his bulge. it was still early, the hot sun not yet risen but the thunder from the summer storm outside was enough to wake you from your slumber.

you found yourself unable to fall back asleep after minutes of forcing your eyes closed, unable to move — arthur's thick hand making it difficult for you. suddenly, you felt his hand absent-mindedly move in his sleep, fingers brushing your nipple lightly.

out of instinct, you push yourself back into his groin, feeling the slight boner he had. arthur grunts in his sleep pushing his hips forward into you — looking for friction even in slumber.

a heat pooled in your belly as you continued to circle your hips lightly against him, feeling him grow against you. his fingers continued their oblivious torture on your nipple. all of a sudden the hand on your chest squeezes your breast lightly,

"and what're you doin' missy?" arthur rasps from behind you, pushing his hips farther into your bum.

"mmm, can't sleep" you whisper into the dark room,

"need you" you finish, pushing yourself back against him as much as you physically could.

a low sleepy chuckle left his chest, the heat of it warming your neck and soon enough he was placing lazy kisses along your neck and behind your ear.

"gimme your leg, baby" he rasps, hand moving from your chest down your body lifting the shift of your night gown. his thick scarred hand wraps around your warm thigh, he places his knee between your legs to hold your leg up and shifts his thick cock from his pants.

with his mouth to your neck, he huffs lightly as his redden tip slips between your glistening cunt. you whine in response, needing to feel him inside you.

yet his lazy torture continues, sliding his heavy cock between your folds, slightly catching your hole with every rock of his hips,

"please arthur i need you, need your come" you whine again, praying it will cause him to relent.

"you wan' me to come in you hm? make you nice n' full of me?" his lips speak into your neck and chills spread over your skin.

your head nods, unable to speak in the heated moment when his thick tip slowly slides into you, his hand holding your leg high enough to push into you as far as he could.

arthur grunts at the feeling of entering your heated wet walls, gripping him so tightly he held back from coming. his hips begin a rough pace, pushing himself deeply into you — the tip of his cock pressing sweet kisses to your cervix.

"oh my goodness arthur!" you moan as he rolls you onto your stomach using his knee to spread your legs and pound into you from behind.

he didn't press all of his weight onto you, knowing he would crush you — but enough that you felt his entire chest stomach and thighs against your entire backside.

arthur's strokes were deep and rough as he pounded into you, filled with thoughts of breeding you, stuffing your cunt with his seed, ensuring your womb was filled with his child. your sweet moans were nothing but encouragement,

"come in me please arthur" you moaned over and over, how could he ever say no to your sweetness.

your fingers gripped the pillow that your face mushed into as his entire being pressed into you, pounding deeply into your hot cunt. arthur moved onto his forearms, his hand coming to press your face into his — leaving wet kisses into the corner of your mouth.

you attempted to press your hips up into his but every movement caused him to press his cock deeper into you — if that was even possible,

"mm, need you to come with me baby" his lips speak into the corner of your mouth, one of your hands comes down to find your puffy clit.

arthur's pace become erratic and uneven, huffing sweet words into your mouth,

"goin' see you all full with my baby" he says mindlessly into your mouth and you feel yourself fall over the edge,

"fuck! arthur!" your walls squeeze tightly around him as you orgasm, causing arthur to thrust a few more times before pressing himself deeply into you — needing to ensure his seed stuck.

he continued to fuck you through both of your orgasms, fucking his come into you. soon enough you were whining out in overstimulation so he slowed his movements and rolled back onto his side — pulling you with him.

arthur wraps you tightly into his arms, legs tangling around yours,

"hun, you gotta pull out" you lightly laugh, the feeling of him still inside you making you feel so full. he grumbles into your hair, seemingly tired after his orgasm,

"keep me warm tonight" he kisses your hair and you hum in agreement, enjoying the fullness between your legs.

you wake up the next morning to his relentless thrusts again, hearing desires of his need to fill you with his babies.

[arthur masterlist]

[bigboy-lovers-unite-writes]

Imagine slapping their asses 🙏🙏

•Dutch; immediately pissed off, depends on who slapped his ass, he might push his cigar into their arm or something out of anger. Will grumble if it's his partner and shoo them away, smokes enough cigarettes after that to take away ten years on his life (it definitely made a camp deafening sound when they slapped it)

•Arthur; the most shocked face ever, just has to stand there for a minute to figure out whatever the fuck just happened. Will stumble over his words, before glaring at the person and chest bump them a few times, but secretly he's nearly popping a boner 💔💔

•John; eye twitches, trying to hold back grabbing his revolver and threatening the person. Says something sarcastic and crosses his arms like the dumb child he is. Will definitely be so damn embarrassed that he flushes as red as Sean's hair. Definitely blabs about it to Abigail later and gets huffy when she laughs

•Hosea; jumps a foot in the air and his body bends like a banana 😭 he's not mad, he'd never get mad, but he is a bit embarrassed about that. He sighs softly, tells a little story about his youth and how he would be able to handle it when he was younger as he rubbed his sore ass, then says he's too old for all that 🫶🫶

•Javier; yells out the loudest Spanish he's ever said, nearly falls forward from the shock of it as both hands go to cover his ass. Can't see it since he pulls his poncho up over his entire face, but he is burning bright red and thinking about it for the rest of the month. Will never trust being around the person again, will side eye them and cover his ass with anything if he's around them again 😢

•Bill; Two different ways this could go. One, he's drunk as a bitch and he hurls a beer bottle them and starts cursing and chasing them all over yelling about how he's no queer, even if it was a woman that slapped his ass, or he will just glare and threaten them a little bit and try to intimidate them if by god he's not drunk

•Kieran; actually stands up straight for once instead of being like a shrimp literally 24/7. Looks like a bug when you pick up a rock, eyes all wide and face flushed even pinker than it usually already naturally is. Definitely looks spaced out the rest of the day, probably can't stop thinking about it for sure

•Sean; gasps and is completely over dramatic, falling and pulling whoever slapped his ass down with him. Definitely tells everyone that the person slapped his ass, and he sounds strangely proud about it too..

•Lenny; poor boy doesn't know what to do, he's stuttering and gripping at his favorite book that he was reading, glancing around as he tried to say something. Might quirk a smile after a while, but it's whenever that person isn't around (he's so embarrassed don't do it again he can't handle it 💔)

•Micah; immediately cracks up and dares the person to slap his ass again, sticking it out slightly. He then promptly slaps that person's ass twenty times harder than they slapped his. It becomes a little game between the two whenever they see each other

•Charles; the absolute politest, might get a bit grumbly. 'oh my' is the first words outta his mouth 😭 will ask them why they did that and if it was supposed to be funny. He's like a mother in this sense, but also can't stop grinning since he actually liked it ❤️

[utterlyazriel]

to see you just right

word count: 5k... my freakin sweet spot apparently synopsis: Shooting practice reveals your less than stellar vision. Arthur determinedly hunts down some glasses for you and you realise what details you've been missing out on. mutual pining, friends to lovers (almost) set during horseshoe overlook ! this is my first rdr fic so... be nice <3

Times like now, squinting at the bottles in the distance, the question of why the gang still kept you around bugs at you like an incessant horsefly.

I mean, you knew why—you've been running with the Van Der Linde gang for a couple years now. If you hadn't already proved yourself as resourceful and sharp-minded, you would've been kicked to the curb quite some time ago.

But you certainly weren’t a hunter. Nor a shooter.

You weren't even very good at picking pockets.

What you had was keen ears; good for picking up leads and the hushed conversations of businessmen with deep pockets. Not to mention your adeptness at stitching up bullet wounds, better than anyone else at camp.

Yes, yes, you weren't useless by any means.

But still... that didn't mean you could shake the envy of others' skills. It didn't take away that simmering, uneasy feeling as you stared down the targets in the distance, helplessly blurred to you. The shot from your last bullet still rings out.

You can already tell it hasn't hit its mark.

Just hit the fucking target. You think to yourself scoldingly.

You're not sure why this is so much harder for you than just about anyone else in the gang. And as much as it isn't your job, you've grown determined to be able to handle yourself if trouble ever comes knocking.

You thought that with a gunslinger as fine as Arthur Morgan himself, you'd learn a thing or two — a foolish idea that's dissipating quickly before you.

Adjusting your clammy grip on the pistol cradled between both palms, you shift your stance and squint again, rolling your shoulders back.

Empty lungs. You pull back the hammer and line up your best shot, feeling the kick of the recoil.

The lack of shattering glass is answer enough, but even so you lower your extended arms an inch or so to see closer. Scrunching your eyes to try focus, you wince at what you can make out.

No bullet holes on any of the crates, all six bottles still standing.

You're beginning to sorely regret asking for shooting practice when it only seems like a surefire way to prove yourself a fool. And in front of Arthur no less.

Arthur who—well, you'd be lying if you said you weren't fond for.

Quick to boil, your frustration wells, an itch behind your eyes. You drop your arms, lowering your gaze to the ground with another sigh.

"How you do this every damn day is a miracle to me."

You force a half-hearted laugh into your words. It's better than letting him hear that wallowing, pitiful feeling you can feel rising up your throat.

"It's jus' lots 'n lots of practice," Arthur says gently, his voice somewhere behind you.

Christ knows his intense, watchful gaze isn't helping you either.

You can't help but feel it burning into your back every time you raise the pistol—and every time you fail miserably.

Your frustration rises again and you finally lift your head, turning back to the cowboy.

"I'm sorry, Arthur," You say sincerely. "I— this was a mistake." You begin to hold the pistol out in your outstretched hand, grip lax.

You don't get very far before he's stepping in closer, his hand reaching up to yours and pressing your fingers to close around the grip again.

"C'mon now," He rasps. "Yer not just gonna give up 'cos it's hard, are ya?"

Skin against skin is enough to draw your heart up your throat, rabbiting fast and all too revealing. You pointedly ignore the spike in your pulse and let him manoeuvre you, his hand moving up to nudge your shoulder. You face the targets.

Six bottles in the distance glint tauntingly beneath the afternoon sun, as if teasing you for your failure.

"Arthur," You sigh dejectedly.

It's kind of him to keep offering encouragement but you only need ten minutes of this to realise it's a severely lost cause. "It's not use, I'm awful—"

"Hush," Arthur cuts you off, voice gruff this time. "You ain't no such thing. Just—"

He hovers just behind you, the heat of his body blazing against your back. With a quiet hum, his fingertips square out your angled shoulders, fixing your stance. They trail down to minutely adjust the twist of your hips, pressing one further forward gently.

The sun seems to burn brighter suddenly. You fight to keep your face forward and pray Arthur can't heart the traitorous inhale you give at his touch.

"'Kay. Shoot again." He murmurs lowly, his hands retreating but staying close. "Lemme watch closer this time."

You're not brave enough to tell him that you're even less likely to hit the target with his close proximity.

Instead, you just follow his instruction, raising the pistol to the bottles once more. Slowing your breath as much as your racing heart will allow, you squint.

"Wait," Arthur's voice interrupts.

You falter, suddenly unsure. Moving out from behind you, his hand comes up to push the gun down, barrel facing the dirt.

Standing close, he tilts his head up, his eyes assessing you intently from beneath the brim of his hat. It's as though he's looking at a puzzle he can't quite figure out.

After a moment, his eyes cast out to the shooting range he's set up for you. You get a stolen glimpse of his chiselled jaw before he's stepping forward, broad shouldered, with one hand resting on his gun belt.

Turning to face you, he takes a few wide steps back, then halts, raising his hand.

"How many fingers?"

Brows raised, you will yourself not to scoff. "You bein’ serious?"

Arthur doesn't move, only his head tilting forward an inch, the brim of his hat dipping lower. He smiles wryly. "Humour me."

Dropping your arms, you let the gun swing idly to your side. With a shrug, you focus on his hand.

"Two."

Arthur nods. He turns and paces back til he's in line with the bottles this time. It's far enough from you that the details of him begin to blur out, but you can still see his figure just fine.

"And now?" He calls out, voice raised to reach you over the distance.

Your careless shrug from before is nowhere to be found. A sudden sheepishness crawls up within you as you quickly try to strain your gaze.

God, is he even holding up a hand at all?

You don't get a moment to guess before he's approaching you once more, his features getting sharper as he draws closer. You can see his smile, a rare sight. He seems to have solved his puzzle.

"What was that for?" You question curiously.

"It ain't yer aim, that's for damn sure," Arthur says, coming to a stop before you.

His blue eyes assess you once more, before he extends his hand out for the pistol at your side. You hand it over wordlessly, waiting for his explanation. A dragonfly swoops by you with a loud hum.

"It's yer eyes." He says, holstering the pistol without a glance.

You blink, confused at the implication. You're sure if there was something wrong with your eyes, you'd know about it at your grown age.

Your confusion must be clear on your face because Arthur continues, resting his hands on his gun belt casually.

He nods to you. "Not all bad. 'Betcha can see just fine up close. But in the distance, not so much."

"Oh," The word escapes in a soft breath.

It hadn't really been something you had considered—that your poor performance shooting was due to that blurriness surrounding the targets. That it was due to anything other than you being utter shit at shooting.

Turning your stare out to the bottles again, you blink and squint, as if to check. You realise he may just be talking truth.

"Lord, I think you might be right." You admit, a relieved laugh colouring your tone. The frustration you felt from earlier drains rapidly, taking with it your souring mood.

A different part of you deflates at the knowledge you'll never get better at shooting. Cursed vision. You wrinkle your nose in distaste, pushing down your bitterness.

Arthur gestures to the horses with one hand, lesson clearly over.

The pair of you begin to meander back towards your horses hitched in the treeline. Side by side, it doesn't escape you the nearness you're inclined to, drawn to him, a flower facing the sun.

The leather of his jacket brushes your bare arm. You think you must be suffering sunburn, considering how your skin seems to burn in response.

Eyes flashing in his direction, you think you see a hint of colour on Arthur’s face.

He’s tilts his head, his features covered by the brim of his hat, so you can't be sure. You chalk it up to a wishful imagination.

Always unknowable. Maybe it's his private nature that's part of what allures you to the man.

Pushing forward, you approach your mare, Dragon, with a gentle greeting. You're rewarded with the butting of her muzzle against your palm, a smile curling onto your lips instinctively.

“Y'know, chances are, you're not nearly as awful as ya think.” Arthur says, his tone softer than usual—perhaps sensing your blue mood.

Despite talking to you, he keeps his gaze steadfast on his own horse, Hypatia. He dotes on her with a loving pat, hands usually meant for violence, now gentle.

After a moment, he says. “I’ll see what I can do fer you at the general store.”

Pleasant surprise curls up in your stomach in a sharp bloom.

“Arthur,” You say with a smile, sounding a bit awed. He does look up at you this time, blue eyes bright from beneath the edge of his hat. “That’s very kind but, well, you needn’t do that—“

"I ain't makin' you any promises," He cuts your rambling response off. "I'll just have a look. That alright?"

Feeling your face glow warmly, you force yourself to meet his strong gaze. "Alright."

Then after a moment, you say, "I guess I'll allow it."

Arthur guffaws lightly at that. He pushes up on strong legs to mount Hypatia in one fluid motion, one he's done countless times before. You watch, pretending you aren't staring at the powerful flex of his thighs as he settles into the saddle.

Christ alive. It takes effort to avert your eyes, stepping up to sling yourself into your own saddle.

“If she allows it…” Arthur repeats, almost incredulously, his head tilted toward you. There’s a tug on his lips, like he’s holding back his smile, even as he shakes his head at you.

A laugh titters out of you and you nudge Dragon forward, if only so he can't see the grin on your lips.

And if you spend the ride to camp lingering on the feeling of his hands covering your own hands, adjusting the twist of your waist?

Well, that was your own damn business.

—

After your shooting lesson, Arthur leaves camp for four days.

Some bounty given to him by the sheriff in Valentine that he was tracking up into the mountains — at least that’s what he’d said as he bid you a polite goodbye, early in the morning light, the day after your lesson.

You’d murmured your drowsy goodbye over your coffee cup, eyes barely open — making Arthur snort quietly — and then watched intently, your sleepy gaze softened, as he disappeared between the trees on Hypatia.

Perhaps you’d been too spoiled with his company in these last couple weeks.

He hadn’t taken any longer jobs, always back at camp for the evening, with a tip of his hat to you. Always prepared to lend a helping hand or to escort you and the girls into Valentine. You'd almost call yourselves friends. The familiarity of his presence was something you'd gotten used to.

It was one of the good reasons you found yourself particular afflicted with him — Arthur Morgan was far kinder than he ever gave himself credit for.

And far nicer to look at than he seemed to think so too.

To say you’re a bit put off by not having your usual pretty-boy cowboy to provide somewhere nice to rest your eyes wouldn’t be a lie.

“Someone’s head in the clouds.”

The jeering words from Karen pair with a playful nudge to your shoulder.

Distracted, the dish in your hands slips and lands back in the water-filled basin with a splosh. Narrowing your eyes at Karen, you fish it out and resume your abandoned scrubbing.

“Ain’t sure what you’re talking ‘bout,” You hum, nonchalant as you can manage.

Liar. You’d definitely been casting your gaze towards the trail that leads into camp and slipped away into a daydream, sweet as the cowboy’s eyes you were imagining. Surely he wouldn't be away much longer, right?

“Mmhm,” Karen says, telling you exactly how much she believed you.

At her side, Mary-Beth smothers a giggle in her palm. Clearly your attempts at subtlety are wholly ineffective.

Despite your intent glances as you work your way through the remaining chores of the day, none prove to be fruitful. The sun lazes across the sky and sinks toward the horizon and even then, Arthur is absent.

Your lovesickness abates with a sigh. The outlaw could be gone for weeks at a time, you knew that. If it was a shorter trip, he'd be back already. Tonight, you depart from around the campfire earlier than usual, heading back to your shared tent with Mary-Beth.

It’s with an absentminded hum that you potter around, straightening out the space as the sunlight dwindles. You had worked hard today and it’s filled your bones with a weariness ready for sleep.

An oil lamp burns on the crate acting as your bedside table, casting a mellow, amber colour through the tent. The idle sounds of the wildlife of Horseshoe Overlook fill the background, mixing with the crackle of the campfire.

Maybe you should journal a bit, before bed. Eyes narrowed, you scan your cot for the little book you keep nearby—you had used it just last night.

Coming up blank, you huff and crouch to your knees to hunt for it. Countless times you’ve fallen asleep with it in your hand and found it gone in the morning. It worms its way down the edge of the tent with a mission to escape you, you swear.

Peering beneath your cot, the red leather of the book gleams back at you. You smile and reach out, having to duck a little further to reach it, giving a victorious little aha! when you close your fingers around it.

Shifting back, you sit on your heels, right as someone clears their throat behind you.

Spooked and not unlike a deer, you startle with a violent jump. Whipping around, pulse jumping, your panic recedes as you narrow your eyes at the cause of your panic.

“Christ, Arthur,” you seethe at him. You put a hand over your racing heart to calm it. “You damn near scared the mickey out of me.”

“My apologies, miss,” Arthur says, tipping his hat. He sounds sincere but even so, you catch the glimmer of amusement on his lips. “Weren’t my intention.”

He’s lingering at the entrance of your tent, not quite entering. His big hands rest of his gun belt, hovering somewhere between casual and proper.

How Arthur manages both is a mystery to you; every bit at home amongst the rough of tumble of camp, yet ever-so polite to you.

He treats you like a gentlemen treats a proper lady; though both of you are neither.

Pushing to your feet, you let your journal drop atop your cot. Then you regret it, wishing you had something to occupy your hands. The all too familiar buzz of nerves that come with being sweet on someone makes you prone to fidgeting.

You brush down your skirts just to do something. “And just what was your intention?”

Amusement abiding, a different expression skitters across Arthur's face. He raises one hand to scratch the back of his neck.

“Gotcha somethin',” He murmurs, dragging his hand forward, across his beard. Rather hastily, he stuffs his hand into his satchel.

He digs for a moment and then pulls his hand out, extending it out. Something shiny glints in the low light of the tent, resting in his big palm.

You step forward and squint for a moment, realising with a jolt of unexpected delight that it’s a pair of round spectacles.

An infectious smile tugs the corner of your lips up, your eyes brighter upon seeing the gift he’s brought you. Your hand reaches out, then halts in mid-air, glancing back up at him.

“May I?”

“‘Course. They’re for you.” Arthur grunts, feigning nonchalance even as he beckons you to take them from him.

Smile turning to a grin, you pluck them out his hand, stepping closer as you do. You turn them over in delicately, drinking in the details greedily. They’re finely made.

With an ebb of guilt, you realise they must’ve cost him a fortune. If he paid for them, that is.

“Took me all the way out past Emerald Ranch to find a fella who did them.”

Gaze snapping up, the ebb of guilt grows. He hadn’t just got them for you, he’d gone out of his way to find a spectacle maker specifically.

There’s a silver lining to the guilt — the feeling sprinkled through your chest like gunpowder, kicking up sparks. He certainly had to be keeping you in mind, to some capacity, to do such a thing for you.

The thought of being more than a passing thought in Arthur’s mind is enough to set the gunpowder alight. Your chest glows brightly like a firework.

“What happened to just having a nosy in the general store, hm?” You ask.

“Well, now,” Arthur begins, giving a hesitant cough as if it’ll cover the sincerity of his actions. He tilts his head down, the brim of his hat covering his eyes, as he always did when he felt too seen.

After a pause, he says lowly, “I know how much you wanted to shoot.”

“That’s... mighty kind of you, Mister Morgan.” You say, hoping your voice doesn’t betray the racing of your treacherous heart. “Though, I’d hate for you to go to all this trouble if they don’t even work right with my eyes.”

Holding the pair of spectacles up, you unfold the arms and peer through the lenses. They’re certainly magnifying something—Arthur looking further away in the one lens you peer through. It’s almost like a funhouse mirror. The smile on your face widens, cheeks nearly aching.

“That don’t matter,” Arthur says. He pats his satchel gently. “If those don’t work, I got three more pairs in here.”

“Three?” You lower the glasses, bewilderment colouring your voice.

“Where the devil did you get so many?”

“Turns out, folk rich enough to take the stagecoach can usually afford ‘em.” Arthur chuckles.

Somehow the image of Arthur out there, picking through the loot box, then demanding folk hand over their eyewear is enough to inspire a laugh out of you.

You stifle your laughter behind your hand, endeared even more when he opens his satchel to prove it, a shy smile on his lips.

Sure enough, he draws three more pairs out. Even the thickness of the glass even varies from pair to pair — god, who knew one could be so thoughtful whilst robbing?

“You know, that might be the most sweet thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

The words come out softer than intended, your affections surely obvious.

You don’t risk a glance up at Arthur’s face, too fearful your feelings are written over your own, plain to see. In doing so, you miss the dusting of pink across his own cheeks.

Arthur clears his throat, sending a single prayer for strength to a god who’s surely abandoned him. The way you sound, he’d almost believe you’re sweet on him.

“Cmon, then,” He says, adding a touch more gruff to his voice. “Better try them on after all the damn time I spent hunting them down.”

You roll your eyes at his faux annoyance. There’s no real heat to his words.

Tilting your face down, you bring the pair up to tuck over your ears hesitantly. The world around you shifts as the lenses settle. Your sight is sufficiently more blurry than it was a second ago.

“Woah.” You murmur, looking up just to check.

Arthur’s figure swims before you, entirely out of focus. You blink, unbeknownst of the way the glasses magnify your eyes to a comically large size. It makes Arthur's smile grow, teeth peeking out, knowing for sure you can’t see for shit.

“Not those.” He says decidedly and when you slide them off, he’s already holding out the second pair, arms unfolded this time.

You mutter a quiet thank-you, feeling warmth creep your neck at the simple, polite motion.

This pair, when you slide them on, has a rather different effect. Instead of the blurriness alike to being underwater, the entire world sharpens.

You inhale at the difference. The sounds of the campfires and people around you dims and you blink rapidly, eyes jumping from detail to detail. There's something new to notice in every corner.

Head dipped down, you can pick out the individual blades of grass underfoot. The stitching on the hem your dress, the same as on the sleeves, you can see properly now. As in, see the stitches.

You swish you dress, watching, entranced.

Arthur’s comment during shooting practice may have been wrong —saying there was nothing wrong with your vision up close — because suddenly everything seems so much more. Maybe you’ve been blinder than you think.

Swinging your head round, you survey the inside of your tent with a renewed interest.

The fraying hole in your blanket, scribbled words in your opened journal, the splinters in your wooden crate bedside table — things you normally need to see up close, clearer than ever.

“I take it those ones are workin’ just fine.” Arthur says amusedly, having watched your wide-eyed and wandering gaze.

At the sound of his raspy voice, your head jerks up — and then your heart lurches forward with a hiccup, nearly tripping over itself.

Arthur is… He’s… Holy heaven, has he always been that handsome?

A dozen new details spring out at you, little secrets you've been missing. You can see the crook in his nose from being broken too many times. A scar you’ve never noticed on the edge of his chin, given away by the small patch in his beard.

He has freckles, dozens of little ones, from all his time spent under the baking sun. They gather at the edges of his eyes, blending into the crows feet. You can trace the cupid's bow of his lips.

It occurs to you that you should totally, definitely say something. You’ve been silent too long, just taking in the lines of his face, awed, but your throat has dried up.

Lord above, he’s pretty.

How are you expected to continue your day with the knowledge that Arthur Morgan might be the prettiest man you’ve ever laid eyes on?

Lord, if you’d been fond of him before, you’re surely smitten with him now.

Arthur shifts uncomfortably under the attention, taking your prolonged silence for the worst. His already jittered nerves fry under your stare and he ducks his head to hide himself from you.

“Probably can see what an ugly bastard I am, now you can see proper.” He huffs offhandedly, scratching at his beard and keeping his gaze low.

It hadn’t occurred to him, this downside of fetching this gift for you. You’ll see him clearly now — flaws and all.

“What?”

You sound a mixture of bewildered and crestfallen and it draws Arthur’s gaze up.

Your eyebrows have knit together in the middle and you take another step, bringing you closer together still.

Arthur forces himself to keep breathing, even as his nerves flutter. It’s an awful lot like one of Mary-Beth’s books, where she talks about romantics getting butterflies.

It feels more like a hive of bumblebees, Arthur thinks, trying to shove the feeling down. ‘Sides, the two of you weren’t romantics. You didn’t see him that way.

“Not in the slightest.” You say, eyes never leaving his face.

Arthur isn’t sure what your expression means but even as the attention makes him shift, something within him more selfish preens. Having your undivided attention when he’s surely unworthy of it has him standing a little taller, chest puffing out more.

“Say, has anyone ever told you that you have…” Your voice trails off, your words soft as the dawn’s first rays of light. Arthur forces himself to meet your eye again. “A little bit of green in your eyes?”

This time, you don’t miss the flush of colour that creeps up Arthur’s neck.

He clears his throat, breaking your stare so he can rub the back of his neck; a futile attempt to cover his nervousness.

How in the hell else is he supposed to react to you all but waxing poetic about his eyes? You, enigmatic and more beautiful than a mayflower in the spring?

He’d wanted your attention, getting you the glasses, but now he has it, he’s melting beneath it like butter in the sun. He's a grown man for heaven's sake. How is it that you can make him nervous like nothing before?

“No, er, can’t say they have.” He says, stealing a glimpse back at you.

God, Arthur was a fool. You look even more beautiful in the spectacles. He’ll surely embarrass himself with his besotted stare, unable to curb his fondness for you.

There’s something new in your expression too. Your smile turned more feline, as if you’ve clued in to something he hasn’t.

His hands fall to clutch his gun belt, prepared to retreat and perhaps spend his evening drowning himself in the river to escape the mortification of feelings. He's giving himself away — and if he isn't, the heat colouring his cheeks sure is.

“Right, well,” He nods, clearing his throat once more. “If they workin’ jus’ fine, I’ll leave ya be.”

“Will you let me thank you first?” You ask tentatively.

Arthur doesn’t know what that means but he nods nonetheless. He tries to keep himself from fidgeting, his hands flexing on his belt all the while. Blue eyes dart from you, to the ground, then back to you.

You only need another half-step to get close enough to do what you wish. Pressing up onto your toes to reach, you bestow a gentle kiss onto Arthur's cheek, just above the scruff.

It takes a great deal of courage to keep your eyes steady, heart in your throat, as you sink back down onto flat feet. You don't relent your closeness.

For one long moment, you drink in the politely stunned expression on his face. This close, you can smell the scent of cigarettes and woodsmoke on his clothes. It makes your head spin. Makes your heart tremble. Your lips still sear from the kiss.

Though your heart threatens to bruise your ribs with how hard its beating in your chest, you refuse to regret your boldness.

Besides, as Arthur seems to grapple with what's just happened, his smile and blush return in equal measure.

"...Why'd you think she left dinner so early? She's probably—oh!"

Mary-Beth's voice cuts through the charged air.

Snapped from your tender reverie, you tear your eyes from Arthur and take a timid step back. You're well aware it's too late and both Mary-Beth and Tilly had seen the nearness you had been sharing with Arthur. You'll be hounded about it tonight, no doubt.

"Sorry, didn't realise we were interrupting." Tilly finds her voice before Mary-Beth does, the latter spluttering her agreements. Before they can retreat, Arthur cuts in.

"Weren't—" His voice comes out rougher than usual and he clears his throat, hat tipped down. "—interrupting nothin'. Don't worry bout it, I was just leavin'."

He takes a few steps back and then pauses, heaving a heavy breath as if he was gathering his strength. Still lingering just beyond the entrance of your tent, you wait with baited breath.

Arthur's eyes dance over to the other girls. If you could be bold, hell, so could he. He finds your gaze.

"Shootin' tomorrow? You 'n' me?" He asks, voice low.

If you didn't know him so well, you might miss the slight apprehension in his tone. As if you'd say no.

You have to sink your teeth into your bottom lip to try contain you smile. Your fervent nod betrays your excitement anyway.

Arthur smiles then, more brazenly than you've seen before, before he bids you a goodnight with a final tip of his hat.

—

The crates where targets once stood are now gloriously empty, the six shattered glass bottles banished to a life in the dirt.

You stand, pistol still smoking in your grip, and grin triumphantly. The sun glints off the delicate frames of your new spectacles. Your vision is clear and your aim is true.

Hovering just behind you, as he had some days ago, Arthur hums his contentment. "'Atta girl."

You turn, looking over your shoulder at him, and in an instant, your smile in reflected back. More reserved than your own, but entirely for you. Arthur nudges you to look forward with a gentle hand, gesturing to something out in the field.

"See if you can hit just the edge of the crate next. We might make a gunslinger of you yet."

You huff, leaning back an inch to feel more of his warmth. Arthur smiles to himself, well aware of your tactics.

His hands drop to your hips, twisting them in a minute adjustment they don't need, just to hear the slight stagger in your breath.

"Why, Mister Morgan," Your voice is threaded with humour, exactly the colour of sunlight. "I'd nearly think you're just making excuses to put your hands on me."

With a low hum, Arthur lets his hands drag up an inch to rest on your waist. Your skin is warm, as is your smile. He can pretend the hot buzz of the day threatens make his knees buckle, though he knows it's entirely your effect.

"Maybe. That a crime?"

"Even if it were," You say, gaze slicing back to meet his. The taunt of a smile on your pretty mouth rivals all the beauty Arthur's ever seen. "Thank heavens you're an outlaw."

—

i get the privilege of bugging @illyrianbitch @wildfloweroutlaw with this new fic <3 heheh thanks for the hype that lead to this actually getting finished n posted !!

[appalachiancowboy99]

After Dark

Arthur Morgan x CurvyFem!Reader Established relationship, high honor, grumpy Arthur in desperate need of release, 18+, MDNI (Minors DO NOT ENTER)

Arthur comes back to camp later than usual, with nothing but a bad disposition and a desperate need to release his pent-up frustrations.

Warnings: longer read, sexual content (oral, unprotected p in v, rough sex), mentions of violence, mentions of anger, and dabbles in sensual fluff.

Gif by: @sunwingsunset

A/N: Thank you so much to @photo1030 for not only being my sounding board in the never-ending chaos that is my writing process but also for being such a wonderful friend through it all. So grateful for you, don't know what I'd do without ya, C! <3 Thank you so much to @rivetingrosie4 for being an inspiration for my little works and being so supportive of my creative endeavors, not to mention the kind generosity of your friendship! Forever grateful for to have met you! @tortureddpoett I'm so excited to explore this budding friendship with you! Thank you so much for showing so much excitement for my work, IT MAKES ME EXCITED (EEP!). It means an absolute ton to me <3 @mr-inkslinger your friendship has been an absolute delight to explore! Thank you for posting that toe-curling smut that always has me giggling and kicking my feet! So happy to have met ya! And thank each and every single one of you for liking my first drabble and expressing interest in this next one. I'm so sorry it's taken me forever to publish this post, but hopefully, the next ones won't take me as long. I'll forever be grateful for your patience and kindness <3 But now, enough of my babbling, y'all enjoy yourselves with this one- I know I did ;)

Fuck. From the second he opened his eyes, he knew that the day was going to be fucking awful; his neck had a crick in it, his head was pounding from what little sleep he’s received over the last few nights, and now he had to trudge back out into the goddamn muggy heat to work. One disaster after another had piled up; everything that could have gone wrong, went so terribly awry that he wound up farther away from camp than he originally intended and managed to add a solid fifteen-dollar bounty to the mounting collection resting atop his head. Dutch had sent him out on a wild goose chase, following a lead from Micah that, of course, ended up being a complete waste of time. And that meant he was coming back to camp empty-handed, which almost certainly meant he'd be on the receiving end of another one of Dutch's lectures on the endless responsibilities placed upon his shoulders. He dreaded it, wanted to avoid spiraling down another conversation that would end in Dutch questioning his faith in the ever-evolving plan he’s found himself working on these days.

As if he needed any of that horseshit tonight. All he wanted was a moment of peace and quiet, a chance to catch his breath after the disaster of a day he'd just had, but instead, he was headed back to camp with nothing but bruises, a bloody lip, and a bad disposition to show for his efforts. Trees and other bits of scenery whipped by in a blur as Arthur spurred his horse onward, his surroundings melting together into a muddy mess of shapes cast by moonlight. He passed through New Hanover, his furious pace leading him down the familiar roads of Lemoyne, reaching the clearing outside of camp. Lenny and John are the first to spot Arthur approaching the thicket of trees disguising Clemens Point's main entrance. “Hey, who goes there?” Lenny’s voice echoes through the forest, bouncing off the thicket until it reaches Arthur’s ears.

“‘S me.” Arthur grunts out through gritted teeth, clearly not in the mood for any chit-chat. Even underneath the shadow of leaves and limbs, the scowl etched upon his face is easily distinguishable, a clear sign for anyone with any common sense to give him a wide berth for the rest of the night. Lenny and John, both, had a pretty good idea of what might happen when Arthur steps foot into camp and they don't want any part of it. As a result, they give each other a little knowing glance and stay in the treeline, preferring to avoid the impending shitstorm and let Dutch or Hosea deal with it instead. He strides past them in a fit of frustration, dismounting his mare with a jerky movement before she's even come to a complete stop. Kieran spots him and hesitantly approaches. That poor fool. "H-Hey, Mr. Morgan. Would ya like me to unsaddle the 'ol gal here?" Kieran's question was nothing more than an innocent query, but his expression turned the young man into a nervous wreck. If looks could kill, Arthur’s certainly could; his steely eyes are set ablaze with annoyance and irritation as he casts a hateful glance in Kieran's direction. Even Kieran knew better than to talk to Arthur when he was in this state, knowing that it would only lead to suffering at the hands of his unbridled wrath. Kieran’s eyes immediately darted to his feet, desperate to avoid Arthur’s icy gaze as his fingers trembled with the frayed ends of rope in his hands. Quickly as to not start any trouble for himself, Kieran took hold of the mare's reigns and led her away to the field of horses, putting as much distance between himself and Arthur as he could. A slight pang of guilt runs through him when he sees the way that Kieran high-tailed it out of his line of sight. He doesn't want to be harsh to the boy, he's been a useful asset to the gang, but his temper is just too far gone for him to muster up an apology. As fast as the angering thoughts snapping through his mind, Arthur turns on his heels and storms into camp in search of Dutch. His boots furiously hit the grass and reddened Lemoyne dirt as he passes by a few of the wandering eyes from those still awake at this late hour. Charles casts him a wary glance, and so does Sadie, but neither of them cares to look long enough to entertain what's about to happen. He passes by his own wagon and heads straight to Dutch's tent. Dutch is nowhere to be seen, yet the lamp light inside casts its soft golden glow upon the closed canvas flaps of the tent, indicating that he might be inside. Not wasting any more time than he has to, Arthur approaches the tent, not bothering to stop and think until it's too late. His hand raises, readying to peel back the canvas flap, when all of a sudden he hears the sweet amorous sounds of lovemaking echo through the night air.  Molly’s sweet voice gasps out between each movement of their squeaking cot, calling out for Dutch as the unmistakable sound of skin slapping skin penetrates through the thin canvas walls, revealing exactly what’s occupying Dutch’s time tonight.

“Oh, Dutch. Don’t stop,” she encourages through strained, unabashed moans of pleasure. Dutch’s deep, husky voice murmurs back something unintelligible, but the increased squeaking of their bed and the filthy little noises coming from Molly are a clear indicator that Arthur should be stepping away to give them some privacy. Embarrassment washes over him, causing a faint rosy flush to heat his face and bloom across his cheeks. For once, he's grateful for the distraction from his current frustration. On most nights, he'd find comfort in your presence, seeking you out to vent his grievances as a distraction from the ever-present aggravation that seemingly follows him around these days. But tonight, he just wants to retreat to his tent, away from everything and everyone, to try to calm down before he says or does something he regrets.

He strides past the dying campfires and tables that are askew from daily camp activities, and his mind tirelessly races from thought to thought, stealing his attention away from his surroundings. If Arthur had even bothered to look, he would have spotted your sleeping form laid out upon his bed the moment he stepped inside. You had been waiting for him all evening. After working yourself to the bone doing laundry, dinner prep, and other camp chores for Ms. Grimshaw all day long, you wandered your way over to Arthur’s tent in search of a quiet place to sit. Part of you wished to find him seated right there on his cot, wanting to simply have a conversation with the man who has stolen your heart, but to your disappointment, he wasn’t anywhere to be found. So, you waited for him.. And waited until the very idea of waiting became too tiresome and you unknowingly fell asleep.

Sneaking away from the gang for private talks with him has been one of your favorite things to do since you joined the gang so long ago. Y'all have always had a knack for avoiding the company of others. But somehow in the midst of squirreling yourselves away, both of you have come to find that you'd prefer being alone together. Eventually, this led to many nights where Arthur would seek you out just to speak his mind, allowing you to see the world through his eyes for a short while. You have not only embraced Arthur's thoughts, but in doing so, you have captured his heart all the same. If it weren't for you, he's certain he'd have lost his damn sanity long ago.

Arthur takes that dusty old gambler's hat off his head and runs his fingers through his hair, taking a moment to calm himself down. His eyes glance over the things laid out upon his bedside table before catching a glimpse of your figure awash by the pale moonlight in his periphery. Your hair is sprawled out over the small blanket you've rolled up into a makeshift pillow; curls flowing like a roaring waterfall, laying a mess, and finally free from the bun that was atop your head earlier in the day. His eyes rake over your voluptuous figure, noting every dip and curve from your plump waist and hips to the ample swell of your breast hidden by a layer of clothing. The moment his mind registers that your presence isn't a dream, his eyes soften and his mind no longer races with anger. You are his peace, the only thing in this world that he cherishes above all else. 

Sighing softly, he finally discards his hat from his hand and places it onto his nightstand before working off his worn leather jacket and satchel, resting them on the back of the chair nearest his shaving mirror. And while he's on his feet, he takes the time to carefully roll down the canvas walls of his tent, unraveling them with the quiet precision of a mouse, and securing them in a few simple knots to hide you two away from the world.

It's quite dark by the time he wanders over to the cot, dark enough not to notice himself brush against your legs as he takes a seat on the edge of the old creaking bed. The familiar, welcomed-warmth of his body pressing against your shins rouses you from your restful slumber. Your eyes flutter open to find his figure perched next to you, shrouded in a darkness so thick that you are sure you're still dreaming. His head and broad shoulders are slumped over as he begins working off his dusty boots, caked with remnants of mud and manure.

"Hmm... Arthur?" Your voice floats through the quiet darkness, laden with fatigue and clearly carrying the lassitude of someone who could fall back asleep at the drop of a hat.

He quickly glances over his shoulder at the sound of your voice, his eyes already adjusted enough to the shadows to see your tired face staring back at him with confusion. He silently curses himself for waking you. "Shhh, Darlin'. Don't wake up on my account. I'll be done in just a minute," Arthur lightly grunts out the last word as he struggles to remove his right boot.

Even in your own weary state, the exhaustion in his tone isn't lost on you. Thinking it best to rouse yourself as quickly as possible to free up his bed for him, you sit yourself up and will yourself awake with a slight stretch. "'S okay. You need rest more 'n me."

"No. You was restin' 'fore I got here. Go 'head and lay back down." He isn't having any of your courtesy tonight. He's worn out, far too tired to argue with you about whether or not it's appropriate for you to share his bed for the night.

The rest of the gang, aside from John, Abigail, Susan, and Hosea know nothing about the true nature of y'all's relationship. Although, the rest of the girls have picked up on the changes you've brought about in Arthur since your arrival so long ago now. Seeing him get all soft and doey-eyed at you over these last few weeks has most definitely tipped them off about what y'all really get up to when you're out running errands together. But they catch wind of you sleeping in his tent tonight, it will all but confirm their suspicions. And yet, you just can't bring yourself to move from the comfort of Arthur's cot with him sitting so close to you.

"What time is it?" The question falls from your lips, carried on the soft currents of a gentle breeze pushing through the tent flaps. Fine sinewy muscles flex beneath his shirt as he leans over to work off his other boot and you are powerless to admire the shape of his body beneath.

A muffled grunt escapes his mouth the moment he finally frees his aching feet from the confines of his boots, "Late," he simply replies.

You take a deep, cleansing breath, allowing the tranquility of the night to settle around you like a soft, comforting blanket. Outside these walls, no sounds of chatter or lively activity can be heard, aside from the gentle hum of crickets by the riverbank and the faint sounds of a squeaking cot stopping abruptly. The gang is unusually quiet, the air filled with repose now that Arthur's returned safely to you. Only a few stragglers tend to the campfires, their focus solely on themselves, interested in anything beyond the flickering flames; not even the sounds of Dutch and Molly or Arthur's irritation can disrupt the peaceful bubble encompassing Clemen's Point tonight.

The plush heel of your palm rubs over one of your eyes as you flit them toward the tent entrance, watching how the wind slightly ruffles the bottom of the canvas. It's only then that you realize that Arthur has tied down the walls for privacy on your account. Normally, he wouldn't bother setting up the walls before collapsing on the cot for a few restless hours of sleep. But tonight, he's gone out of his way to ensure your comfort. Your heart couldn't feel any more full of love for this man by your side, a man who puts your well-being above all else, even above his own. Never did you think that love would have been like this for you: sitting in the comfortable silence of privacy for lovers when that luxury is rarely afforded for women like you. But despite your gratitude for his thoughtfulness, a pang of guilt gnaws at you knowing he made the extra effort while you took up residence in his bed, a cot that's barely big enough for the two of you given your plump frame.

In an attempt to make up for taking up so much space, you roll yourself forward along the thin mattress and quickly slide past him, crawling toward the foot of his bed where his trunk of clothing is kept. You've decided to give him his space for the night, even though in your heart, you'd prefer to stay. Before your foot even slides off the trunk to touch the soft grass below, you're reminded of John stopping by Arthur's tent earlier in the day.

Through a half yawn, you speak, not giving Arthur the chance to catch-on to where you're headed, "'Fore I forget: John stopped by while you was out."

Arthur slightly leans back as his fingertips mindlessly fumble with the buckle of his gun belt. The slight clicking of the metal rings out as he works to remove the clunky accessory from his body. His strong back brushes against you as he moves with the comfortable ease he's come to enjoy over these last few weeks of secretly being yours.

"What about it?" His concentration is split half between himself and the presence of your body behind him.

Your words don't register in his mind until he's completely removed the belt from his body. He figures it was that stagecoach job he reluctantly handed off to John; it had completely slipped from his mind until this very moment, much like yourself. The cool metal filigree atop his trunk moves under your feet as you rest them just shy of slipping off its edge, causing the hazy memory to play out behind your tired eyes.

-

You were just settling yourself in, resting your weary body on the edge of Arthur's cot, just as you're doing now. Little beads of sweat accumulated on your forehead from working out in the intensity of Lemoyne's miserably humid heat. Grimshaw had you and the rest of the women working on camp chores, which you hadn't complained of, since it usually occupies the time until Arthur's usual return. However, the day was far too hot for you to not complain about the harsh conditions she had y'all in. Eventually, evening came and you were finally finished with the laundry, allowing you a moment's rest to seek out the comfort of Arthur's cot.

In the midst of wiping your brow down with one of his neckerchiefs you'd secretly swiped, the hard thump of boots hitting grass caught your attention. You'd anticipated Arthur's arrival, but something didn't feel quite right. The boots didn't move with Arthur's measured stride; they scuffed the grass and dirt, signaling a different, but familiar presence. The moment you look up, you spot John standing at the entrance of the tent, not at all surprised to see you sitting upon his cot as if it were your own.

For a brief moment, his brow furrowed in a mix of frustration and exhaustion. It was as if he was caught between the two warring emotions, each pulling him equally. Clearly, he expected Arthur to be back already.

"He not back yet?" The gruffness of his voice has you believe the former, rather than the latter.

"Not yet," you say in kind, hoping to ease some of his burden. "Was you needin' him for somethin'?"

John did and the news certainly wasn't going to sit well with Arthur at all.

-

When the thoughts finally coalesce within your fatigued mind, you internally grimace knowing that Arthur isn't going to like the reality of the situation. Gentleness has always been your strong suit, especially when it came to dealing with half of the bull-headed men in camp. So, you lace your words with the softest tone you can manage, "Said it weren't as much as y'all had planned on: about fifty-dollars tied up in what little him 'n Charles found."

And you were right. The news doesn't sit well with him at all. All of the compiled frustration of working a nothing-lead and now knowing that the other job didn't pay well either boils beneath the surface of his skin until he explodes like a whistling kettle. Preventing himself from lashing out at you, Arthur kicks his boot toward the other side of the tent, knocking it into the chair. The loud thunk of its sole hitting wood claps harshly and causes you to flinch, startling you fully awake from the suddenness of noise and his movement.

"Every goddamn day it's some shit," he spits through his teeth.

Although you know he'd never intentionally hurt you, the anger in his voice sends a cold shiver down your spine and your stomach flips and churns in knots. Usually, you'd blame yourself, reprimanding your big mouth for even opening up to mention something that you knew wouldn't bode well for his weary mind. But you're in too much of a shock to even consider self-deprecation as an option. Your wide eyes search through the darkness, watching the shadowed outline of the man you love heave in a deep breath to steal his nerves. His shoulders slump forward and head hangs low as he rests his elbows on his knees, utterly defeated from the compiled anger and exhaustion coursing through him.

It's at this moment that you remember the job Dutch sent him on earlier in the day; Arthur didn't want to go and had very little sleep after working on yet another lead that barely got them anywhere. If it had been left up to you, you would've made Arthur stay right here in this bed to get some rest like he deserves. You would've taken care of him so tenderly, but, as usual, what Dutch wanted would have far outweighed any of your concerns. You've learned to recognize the pattern of these situations by now, and given Arthur's aggression, assuming that today's job didn't go quite as planned would be hitting the nail right on its head. You test the waters with a quiet question, "Lead didn't pan out today, did it?"

The soft shake of Arthur's head, coupled with the shadow of his palm running over his face tells you all that you need to know: no, it hadn't gotten him any farther than where he had started. Another useless effort. Your heart aches watching him struggle with so much weight on his shoulders. No matter how strong Arthur might be, he's just a man struggling to carry his own burdens, let alone everyone else's. Ever since settling down here, Dutch has placed so much responsibility on him that you've wanted to scold the man for even mentioning Arthur's name in passing. He's worked himself thin and thread-bare, barely having any time for himself outside of the time he spends on the road traveling from place to place at Dutch's convenience.

Empathy for the man that you've fallen in love with so long ago breaks your heart, aching in desperation to relieve some of his pain. Instead of walking away, keeping to yourself, and silently shouldering any of the blame for setting him off, you choose to stay the night. Despite knowing full well that the girls will have their gossip circulating by morning, Arthur's needs are far more important than any snickering comment or playful jest that'll inevitably come your way.

You scoot back where you were and lean toward him with less apprehension than what your words had suggested. Resting your delicate palm between the broad expanse of his shoulders, you feel him tense at the soft slip of your tender touch over his shirt. The tips of your fingers glide over his shoulder and silently take purchase on the taut muscle there. With a gentle, yet firm pull, you coax Arthur back toward you.

"C'mere. Lean back 'n talk to me..." Your dulcet tone pierces through his irritation, encouraging him to rest in your awaiting arms.

Arthur slowly reclines back, allowing himself to unwind in your embrace as his much larger body sits snugly against your plump bosom. Relaxing doesn't come easy for him. Hell, you'd be surprised if it had, given the high tensions between him and Micah these days or the tiresome back and forth between the two rival families in Rhodes. He has every right to be terse and tensed up like a snake ready to strike, but you aim to comfort him even if that means you risk getting bit. Silence hangs in the air between you, aside from the gentle breaths and the occasional strained grunt catching in the back of his throat while he struggles to get comfortable against you, due to the remaining stress insisting on clinging to his tired body. Your loving hands splay out over the firm expanse of his chest, feeling the steady and reassuring thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palms as you try your best to soothe your brooding lover. It's as if your mere presence cracks away at the anger lingering in the stiff tendons and taut plains of muscle along his torso until he relents and finally lets go. His body relaxes back into you as if he were sinking into the plush, luxurious drapery and bedding found in the finest hotels of Saint Denis; much like the bedding of the room he'd paid for the very same night he had whisked you away to bed you properly for your very first time.

He's silent for a long while, almost reluctant to burden you with his troubles. So, you take it up on yourself to start the conversation by spilling what had happened to you earlier in the day, thinking it might earn a laugh or two, "Well, I'm sure my day weren't as rough as your'n," you hum. "But I did fall off the dock, landing my hind-end right in that water."

The image would usually cause a humorous snort to escape him, but the irritation still bristling at his nerves prevents him from reacting with anything else other than a huff of annoyance, "I told ya to watch your footin' out there. Ain't no use to nobody if you get yourself drowned."

Fortunately, as he chides you his words begin to lack much of the anger from moments ago. But you sigh softly anyways, relenting to his incessant need to protect you from life's dangers, despite being able to handle your own, "I know, I know..."

With a few buttons of that old blue work shirt popped open by your deft fingers, the smallest opening there is just big enough to slip your hand inside and rest it up on the soft but wiry hairs at the very center of his chest. "You shoulda seen me, though," you murmur as you lean down toward his ear, lowering your tone as you press your cheek to the side of his head. "Was drenched head to toe, clothes clingin' to me like feathers on a wet chicken."

He sulks, trying to stay mad at anything and everything he can to give into the bristling anger at the back of his mind, but he can't. No, not when he can clearly envision you all soaked and surprised from falling into that cold lake. A faint smile curls up the corners of his lips and then, just as he almost chuckles, he clears his throat, holding his laugh back. However, you catch on far too quickly for him to play it off so easily.

You gasp softly in mock surprise as if offended by the idea of him laughing at you, "Arthur Morgan. Are you laughin' at me?"

That's when his temperament breaks, giving way to the huff of laughter rumbling through his chest. "I ain't laughin' atchu, per say..." he counters. "Just maybe at the thought of what ya mighta looked like comin' up outta that water: madder 'n hell, hair clingin' to your head," and as if to illustrate his point, Arthur reaches his hand backward and turns his head to try and catch a glimpse of you in the thick shadows, barely making your face distinguishable to his eyes, as he brushes his fingertips over the bits of hair clinging to your forehead from the muggy heat.

Though you narrow your eyes in mock annoyance, you lean into his calloused fingertips, accepting the gentleness of his touch while a giggle of your own creeps up into your throat, "Oh? Is 'at so? Maybe next time I find you out on that dock, I'll think 'bout pushin' ya in 'n lettin' you see how it feels."

He huffs out a skeptical breath and raises an eyebrow at the very thought of you even trying something like that with him. It'd be a futile effort and one that you truly wouldn't consider without the clear consequence of him pulling you right down with him.

And just as soon as the laughter came, it was gone again, replaced instead with a comfortable silence that settles between you two once more, giving him some space to think about what's happened to himself today. Long before the days of your arrival, Arthur would keep to himself and dwell on the ever-present burdens troubling his mind, brooding for hours. But with you, he feels a safety that men like him are rarely afforded.

"Well, if ya think fallin' in Flat Iron's bad..." he continues, "Try goin' halfway 'cross the state lookin' for a man that don't exist. Then when ya find someplace to get a drink, ya end up catchin' a few stray hits from some drunken bastard."

A soft gasp enters your lungs at the revelation. Another fight? You lean over his shoulder, reaching to take his scarred chin into your hand. It's hard to see through the inky-black darkness of the night, but even in the haziness, your eyes can make out the bruising along his jaw, the harsh scrapes of knuckles cutting over his cheek, and the jagged cut on his upper lip. It isn't a rare sight to have him come back battered and bruised by some job from time to time, but that still doesn't quell the uneasiness in your heart at him going through such pain and aggravation.

Your eyebrows furrow in sympathy for your rugged cowboy, eyes softening to match as you breathe out, "Oh, Arthur."

He's quick to dismiss your concern with a soft sigh, pulling away from you to lean forward and distract himself from your sympathetic gaze, "Ah, don'tchu go 'n worry yourself over me none, Darlin'."

Being fussed over or thought of so tenderly still isn't something he's used to; he's shown you that time and time again. But it never deters you from trying to make things better, to make things easier on him however you can. Whatever turmoil Arthur's got rolling about in his mind is far from the usual and it takes patience to understand; a patience that he finds only you can give.

You reach your hand out toward him. The delicate ends of your fingertips reach up to brush over the nape of his sun-kissed neck, grazing over the ends of his slightly overgrown hair, silently making a note to yourself that you'll trim it for him tomorrow. His body shuffles slightly backward, leaning in to accept your touch while he slips off his suspenders: pulling them down his shoulders heavy with burden, before taking his time to unbutton that tattered old work shirt you're so used to seeing around his muscular frame.

"'Sides..." he starts. "I did have some good that came from today."

"What's 'at?" you hum softly with a lilt of dryness. "Hittin' that feller back?"

He can't help the chuckle rising in his throat at the dry sarcasm touching your words. Arthur shakes his head softly, "Nah, Darlin', " the last word strains from his lips as he rises to his feet with a groan, leaving the safe comfort of your touch as he stands to undo his pants.

He glances over his shoulder, peering down at you through the darkness with a smirk curling up at the right corner of his mouth. Watching as your sweet eyes follow his every movement, Arthur turns to face you, allowing you to gaze at him as he slowly pushes the brass button through the eyelet at the top of his riding pants. The fabric opens effortlessly, revealing the red cloth of his union suit underneath. The sight of him before you, suspenders hanging loosely on either side of his long legs and his pants aching to be peeled from his strong form has your lips parted in awe at the man standing mere inches away from you.

He continues from just seconds before, "Seein' you laid out on my bed, purdy as a dream."

After stepping out of his pants now crumpled around his ankles, Arthur lowers one knee upon the cot nearest your thighs. He leans over you, using his thick fingers to tilt your chin upward, meeting his crystalline eyes. "Was one helluva sight I could get used to seein'."

The low timbre of his voice sends a shockwave of desire straight through your heart and into the aching pit of your stomach. Your lips draw up into a shy smile, and a faint dusting of pink envelops your cheeks just like the moment you'd first professed your feelings for him under that canopy of trees he led you through so blindly. Although it hasn't been long since that fateful night, the closeness of your relationship has escalated so quickly that your head and heart dizzy at the mere mention of his name.

Arthur's calloused thumb brushes over the supple swell of your bottom lip, enticing you to part them just for him. You comply, of course, unable to resist how a ghost of his touch makes you so pliant beneath him. And when he leans down to meet your lips with his own, your heart swells with tender affection. Those warm, slightly chapped, but pleasantly plush lips are heady as they connect with a passion that stokes the burning coals of desire in the very base of your core.

"Been waitin' to use that one for a while, hmm?" You hum contently while blindly guiding your hands toward the flare of muscle encasing his ribs. God, how you could worship this man and never tire of feeling how warm, how strong he is beneath your palms.

"Depends. It workin'?" He murmurs, smirking cockily against your lips.

Your mind begins to spin as the calloused pad of his thumb dips from your chin and swipes over your jawline. His fingers splay out over the side of your neck, fingertips gripping you with tender passion to hold you in place. He could easily break you, bend you with his finger and thumb as if you were nothing more than a twig beneath his rough and weathered hands. Never have you felt so small and fragile, always knowing in your heart that you took up much more room than other women. But, when you're with Arthur, he makes you feel as delicate as the petals on a beautiful flower, something so precious and worth loving; it's so much more than you'd ever experienced in your whole life. He touches you so tenderly as if you were made from nothing more than ash, a veritable pile of matter waiting to slip through his fingers at any moment.

You want to hum your praises to your lover, to let him know exactly how much you've wanted this, how much you've missed him, how well he's kissing you, touching you... But you can't. There are no words. He's stolen them from you, drawing all the air out of your lungs with his lips, leaving you gasping for the air coated in his divine masculine scent: sweet tobacco, wood ash, and mossy earth. He encompasses you, wrapping one arm around your waist as he pulls you close to his body, all the while shuffling himself forward to join you on the small cot. Your back presses against the hard wooden frame of the wagon making up the other half of his tent. He presses against you, holding you close to his strong body as he slides his right hand from your jaw, trailing it down over the soft skin of your neck, and down to your chest, where he heatedly palms your breast hidden just beneath your blouse. To have him touch you like this, like a man frenzied and dying for a taste of intimacy, has your head spinning and your heart on the verge of exploding if it hadn't already; for all you know, you could've died the moment his lips crashed into yours, and all that's left is a heaven you'd only dreamt of.

A low growl of appreciation rumbles through his chest for the plumpness of your body. Most men do not know the fine pleasures that extra curves on a woman can bring. But Arthur sure does. And oh how he worships your full figure, despite your opinions about yourself. His large, calloused palm shifts his attention to your other breast, kneading you tenderly while his lips work from your mouth, and instead, leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses over your jawline and supple neck.

His name is a breathless sigh across your trembling lips as you allow your hands to explore his body in return. Touching over the large expanse of his torso and gliding your fingertips over the worn fabric of his union suit, you desperately search for the button that would bare him wholly to you. In the time it takes you to undo one of his buttons, his skilled fingers undo two of yours. Button after button unthreads upon both of your bodies, though his hands are much quicker at ridding you of your layers, leaving them strewn about on the ground until he's stripped you down and laid you beneath him in nothing more than your chemise and bloomers to conceal your decency. Arthur then crawls over you, his movements deliberate and enticingly slow as he cages you in with his hands pressed into the thin mattress on either side of your head. Shadows danced and shifted restlessly, playing tricks on your perception as you try to focus on what little of Arthur you could see through the haziness, making the absence of light feel alive. To feel him above you like this has your stomach in knots, tightening with a firey passion that's ready to snap at any given moment. Hearts are pounding, thrumming wildly against your ribcages like birds desperate to escape the confines of your chests. You hear it, hear how his breath shutters with each wild thump of his heart, and you feel it in his breath as it puffs over your cheek. He's losing himself to you and you him, slipping so quickly that rational thinking is no longer of use. You need him and he needs you.

The flaps of his union suit hang loosely from his body, allowing your hands to reach in and press flat over his heated skin. He shivers slightly at the contact, his muscles tensing and flexing beneath the tender meeting of your palms placed upon his scarred, goose-pimpled flesh. Your fingertips ghost over a scar on the right side of his ribcage, causing your face to crinkle with sorrow for what hardship your lover, this great outlaw, has had to endure in his lifetime. The damaged tissue is the result of a nasty fight he had as a young man: when someone stabbed him with the broken end of a beer bottle; they had aimed to kill him, but he had survived. The spot still aches with the memory of Hosea digging out the shards of broken glass from the angry, bloodied wound. But somehow, the way your delicate touch brushes over that old scar with such love and care causes the outlaw's skin to tingle, and his cock to ache with the pride of knowing that you love him so.

He takes his time with you here, laid out beneath him like a perfect little thing he's captured and kept safe by hiding you away in the privacy of his tent. After the day he's had, he wants to savor every bit of loveliness he's blessed with in your presence, so he can't rush this with you, not now. Arthur takes his time admiring you, letting his eyes rake over what he's able to see, and feeling what he cannot. Leaning down close enough to your face to capture that seductive glint in your glittering, lust-blown eyes, Arthur searches for any change within them as he maneuvers his right hand away from the mattress to trail along your sensitive flesh. The rough pads of his fingers ghost over your thigh, caressing the plump deposit of flesh along your middle, snaking up over your collarbones, and over your neck in search of your delicate face before sealing your mouth with his own in a kiss so tender you whimper from the initial contact.

Shivers of anticipation roll through him as your body responds to his touch: back arching off the bed, hands pulling on the nape of his neck to hold him down and assure that his lips won't leave yours, and the way your bloomer-clad hips roll upward in search of some much-needed friction. God how he could spend hours with you like this, letting his hands roam over your body to make you shiver and plead for any ounce of affection that he can give you. Your needy state is only exacerbated by the slight tremble in your thighs as he snakes his hands down over the pillowy flesh, seeking out the waistband of your bloomers. Ridding you of the cloth separating your pussy from his line of sight is an easy feat: the clad, slightly damp undergarment peels away from your plump hips with ease at the help of his precision; the Lemoyne heat causes the clothing to stick to your slightly dampened skin, but dammit if the temperature pales in comparison to how heated Arthur makes you feel. He tosses them down onto the ground, and places his hands upon your knees, spreading them apart as he sits above you to admire the feeling of your plump body beneath him.

His hand is unhurried and exacting, gently brushing his calloused knuckles down over your inner thigh, then lightly petting them over your soaked need covered by a soft thatch of hair. He can't see you fully, but that does nothing to stop his mind from envisioning how your cunt glistens with slick, all for him. The moment he presses his fingertips to your seam, parting you with the practiced precision of a lover, he lets a low, ragged breath escape his nose in appreciation for how wet you are. You shiver and instinctively try to close your knees from the pleasant surprise of his touch, and fuck does it feel good to have him brush over your folds like that.

"Always so ready, ain'tchya?" He murmurs, a teasing lilt to his voice as he takes his time in savoring the feeling of your slick upon his fingertips.

Your hips involuntarily twitch, bucking upward into his hand, seeking out his fingertips to make him swirl them over your aching little clit. You want him to touch you right where you need him, feel him right on that little spot upon that nub of nerves that makes your mind swirl and your body careen into a blissful orgasm. But he doesn't give that to you, not yet. He wants to work you over slowly, savoring every little sound he can draw out of those pretty lips. You're far too shy to answer him directly, instead favoring to cover your face with your forearms as he takes pleasure in taunting you like this. But the moment his fingertips threaten to part your folds, you let out a delicate little noise, someplace between a whine and a prayer to let him know that you're in no mood to endure his teasing tonight, "Arthur... Please."

Oh, how he loves to hear the sound of you begging; he's already half-hard at the idea of you wanting his touch, let alone hearing how desperate you are for it. He answers your prayer with a long, smooth stroke of his thumb parting your puffy, wet folds. You keen at how just a simple touch causes your stomach to flutter and your slit to clench around nothing at all. Your thighs, thick with strength, covered by a layer of squishy softness, part for him, relaxing lazily as he guides his thumb over each of your labia.

It was nearly impossible to get you to lay like this for him a few weeks ago; you'd been concerned about the unsightly appearance of your inner thighs: scarred over with dimples and imperfections, as well as the slight discoloration of having them rub together after so many years of being a larger woman. Most women that you've seen naked, don't have the same ailments upon their bodies as you have on yours. Just the other day when bathing with some of the girls in the lake, you'd noticed that even on Karen's body, a woman closer to your size, still didn't have the scars or discoloration across her skin in the same way that you have. And that night that Arthur had you laid out for him for the very first time, he'd noticed that apprehension in you, taking it as having second thoughts. But once you had explained how you felt about your own body, he hadn't even given the idea a single thought; his own body is mauled up, covered in old and ugly scars, and carrying more than three colors from all his time spent out in the sun. So, he couldn't have cared less about some scars, a little extra hair, weight, or even the discoloration over your thighs. What he did care about, however, was making sure that you felt loved in spite of it all. And now, it feels no different. To have you spread your legs for him like this, without a single worry holding you back, is a goddamn treat.

Fuck how good it feels to have the soft press of his thumb tease over your cunt, tracing the delicate path between your weeping entrance, to your swelling bud with a pressure so teasing and light that you squirm to feel more. Your plush lips tuck between your teeth to hold back any sounds that give away what you two are doing in here after dark, but it's useless; the lewd sounds of his thumb circling over your clit echo throughout the tent: a dead giveaway to anyone that dare walk by. Holding your breath like this isn't easy, not when the pounding of your heart echoes in your ears and your chest feels as if it's being seared from the inside out. A ragged gasp finally inhales through your nostrils, desperately trying to fulfill your body's need for air when you can no longer restrain your breaths.

He huffs out a low chuckle in amusement at the state he has you in: clearly desperate and in need to have your clit rubbed just the way you like it.

"Hmm.. Hear that?" He rasps out before going silent, letting you hear the sounds of your own slick being spread over your soaked cunt. He only continues when he finally reaches your clit, circling over the throbbing little nerve-ending to make you sigh out in pleasure for him. "So goddamn wet. All for me."

In a blur of movements, Arthur's chapped lips and teeth skim over your knee, slowly working their way down over your inner thighs. He nips at you, earning a few little squeaks and giggles until he kisses over your plump mound. His thumbs take hold of either side of your cunt, spreading you open to let the night air hit your wet skin. It's pleasant like this, to feel yourself spread out beneath him like a meal ready to be devoured and dammit if he ain't starved for a taste. Being eaten out has quickly become one of your favorite acts of intimacy in recent weeks; his tongue is so skilled at finding spots on you, making you come so deliciously, that most days it's all you've been able to think about. Hell, it's all you're thinking about now as his head sinks down to your core and his hot breath fans out over your aching need. His tongue slips out of that perfect mouth and flattens out over your seam, lapping at you once to earn him that little sigh of pleasure escaping your throat.

Your hands immediately seek out his head, combing through his slightly sweat-dampened hair as he swirls the blunt tip of his tongue over your clit.

"A-Agh, Arthur.. N-Not so fast," you whine out in protest, yet your hips bucking up into his mouth says otherwise. But he relents, nonetheless, giving you a moment of reprieve before he delves back in at the same pace.

He's aiming to make you cum quick and hard: slithering his tongue over your clit with the precision of knowing exactly what side and spot makes you writhe beneath him. Just left and then a little upward beneath that little hood of skin and he has you singing for him. Explicitves roll off your tongue one after another in between sweet little sounds that praise him for what effort he's putting in just for you. To hear you, feel you crumble beneath him like this is better than any robbery or score he gets out on the road. But just before he lets you come, he pulls his head back slightly and puffs cool air over your clit, making you whine.

"Shh.. Shh.. 'M gonna let ya cum, Darlin'. Don'tchu worry 'bout that none. 'M gonna take real good care of ya," he hums lowly as his lips and bristly scruff brush over your quivering inner thighs.

His promise isn't far off from fulfillment, not when he sinks his tongue into your heat and presses his opened mouth over the entirety of your cunt. He sucks hard, feeling your walls constrict around the wriggling muscle of his tongue as he laps inside your spongey center. Your thighs tremble with need as he fucks you with his mouth and slurps up your slick, drinking in as much of you as he can and relishing the tangy sweetness of your delectable taste. You throw your head back against the rolled-up blanket you had been using as a pillow earlier in the night, all while he eats you out like a man who's desperate to consume you.

But the aching throb of his cock, constricted by the thin fabric of his union suit, is far too angry for him to ignore. He's got to have you, now.

As he shuffles back up to his knees, leaving your cunt longing to cum on his tongue, you flutter your eyes open and snap your head up to try and catch a glimpse of what he's doing. Clearly, you ain't pleased with him teasing you like this, but when you feel his fervent movements, you realize that he's trying to work off his union suit. He wastes no time it peeling it away from his torso, but the moment he starts to tug it down his thighs, allowing his weeping cock to spring free, he nearly topples over and just about slams head-first into your body. Thankfully, he catches himself in the knick of time, grunting out a few curses as he grows impatient with his incapability to slide that damn fabric off his legs.

Amid his struggle to bare himself, you can't hide the giggle creeping up your throat as he curses under his breath, frustrated with how the fabric insists on clinging to his muscular legs. You help him slide the old red union suit off his body by digging your heels against the back of his thighs and pushing it down the long length of his legs until it reaches his ankles. The undergarment hangs loosely off his feet, causing him to kick it haphazardly off the side of the bed, letting it fall onto his trunk to skirt down on the grass below.

The instant his turgid length brushes over your inner thigh it twitches with the anticipation of feeling your tight, wet walls clamped around him, milking every drop of spend nestled away in his balls; spend that he so desperately wishes he could drain right inside of you. For now, however, just a single brush of your fingertips against him is enough. He has to hold his breath as he guides your delicate palm over his velvety shaft to stroke the needy ache away; if he isn't careful, he'd cum just like this. He hisses, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth as your fingers wrap around him and your thumb seeks out the weeping slit of his blunt tip. Arthur is, by no means, a small man: his legs are long, torso strong and wide, feet and hands are like bear paws, and his cock.. God, his cock is big. You could use both of your hands to stroke him and still, there'd be enough room for his tip to be entirely untouched. But you make sure as you stroke him with one hand, you pay extra attention to his tip, smearing his drooling precum over as much of him as you can, even down to the dark and wiry curls along his base and balls.

He's trying so hard to hold himself back, but with each tender pass of your thumb over that sweet spot along the underside of his tip, the last remnants of his patience crack away. You feel him crumbling like this, crumbling into a frenzied mess of low-hummed breaths and grunts through gritted teeth, and you fucking love it. Before you can even think about the desire roaring in the cavernous pit of your stomach, aching to be quelled, he smashes his lips into yours so hard that you're sure one of you is bleeding. The pain of his busted lip splitting back open is an angry reminder of the frustration still lingering at the back of his mind; he's as tensed up, pent-up, as a taut rope ready to snap.

With a quick movement, he swats your hand away, preventing you from jacking him into a fast climax. Then, in one swift motion, he grabs hold of your thighs and forcefully yanks you toward him, making the round swell of your plump ass plant firmly against the hard front of his strong body. Your thighs spread out, squishing over and conforming to the contour of his hips, the intimate contact leaving you both ragged and breathless. Your heart drums a frantic rhythm in your ears, drowning out all other thoughts and sensations that belong to you alone. It's as if your mind has descended into a tangled web of strangled noises and glorious sensations that only Arthur seems able to untangle or soothe. The faint outline of his body nestled between your thighs is a constant reminder that nothing beyond this moment, beyond him hidden away with you inside of this tent, matters.

The hard length of his turgid pride parts your folds, gliding over the slick thatch of curls usually concealing your cunt from his eyes, but with his sight hindered, he can explore every single nook, roll, and crevice without you shying away. His weight bares down on you as he holds your legs into the crook of his arms, nearly bending you in half as he drags his cock over your seam. It feels so good like this, even though you can hardly breathe with the thickness of your thighs pressing against your already plump stomach, but when the tip of his cock knocks into your clit, it makes the strained pain well worth it. The back of your hand flies over your mouth as he continues on like this, pleasuring himself and you with each agonizingly slow thrust. Hearing your ragged, strangled half-breaths, he releases your thighs, leaving them to splay out lazily on either side of his hips as he leans down to steal a tender kiss.

Upon breaking his lips away from yours, the low hum of his voice finds its way through the haziness of your lust-broken mind as he murmurs against the shell of your ear, "Gonna take ya just like this..."

Chapped lips skim over your jawline and trail to your lips, where he gives you another tender kiss filled with gentle affection: polar opposite to the rough sex-driven outlaw you've gotten a taste of tonight, but aligning perfectly with the man you fell in love with all those years ago. Scraped knuckles skim against your slick heat as he slips his hand in between you both and presses flat over the thick, dark curls at the base of his throbbing length. His fingers spread wide over his pubic bone, holding his cock between his middle and ring finger, stiffening himself outward to seek out your clenched entrance. With a slight pullback of his hips, he guides himself to your slit, catching right on the taut muscle before pressing forward and splitting you open.

A soft cry hums in the back of your throat and he shushes you so tenderly, sliding his hands over your knees and down your shins to soothe the ache he knows you're feeling. You're so fucking tight, hardly different from the first night he took you and bedded you properly back at the Saint's Hotel. It nearly shatters him when your walls flutter around him, squeezing and pulling him in inch by inch as if you were carved out just for him to sink into. He stills only for a short moment, letting you feel him nestled up against your cervix before he slides himself out and enters you again with a sharp snap of his hips. Lingering anger and frustration from the shit day he's had still pulsates at the back of his mind, desperate to be released as the tension in his body rises.

The tight walls of your cunt clench onto him for dear life as jolts of pleasure and pain rack through your body.

Behind the shield of your palm, you cry out, "A-Agh, Arthur!"

You're trying your best to be quiet, to still your ragged breaths and hide your whimpers, but he's making it incredibly difficult. Each slow drag of his cock coming out of you with a satisfying pop, only to pierce you with a hard roll of his hips, sends you reeling. You're seeing stars, shaking from the pleasurable burn of the passionate fire he's stirring within you. Strong hands grip your hips, keeping you still as his thrusts guide you into a steady rhythm that makes the old wooden frame creak and groan with every subtle and sharp movement that your bodies make. Being discreet has left his mind entirely, no longer concerned with what sounds are coming out of his tent as he fucks you good and proper. No, he couldn't care less when the sounds of your slick pussy squelches as he presses himself flush against you and groans against the pulse point of your neck.

"Don't want ya hidin' them purdy sounds, Darlin'. Let 'em out for me," he grunts out between slow but hard thrusts.

Usually, intimacy like this is savored in the shaking breaths and whispered little sounds only audible to your ears, but tonight... Tonight Arthur is something else entirely. Primal. A damn, dirty outlaw. You love this new view of him, but you can't allow yourself to let the others hear. What if someone were walking by? Or Hosea or Dutch hear you two going at it? You wouldn't be able to look at them for a week! But he doesn't give you much choice in the matter: snaking his hand down between your bodies, his muscular forearm presses against your plush belly while his thumb immediately finds your clit.

"O-Oh, God," you whine as the pad of his thumb circles over you, followed by his name dripping off your tongue like the sweetest honey. "At's it... Such a good girl takin' me so deep. Mmm.. Gonna cum 'round me ain'tchu? Gonna give me a real good one, baby?"

God damn him if his mouth ain't filthy. The way he croons out those little praises and words of encouragement has your climax building faster than you ever could have anticipated. And the swirling of his thumb? It has you shaking, whining, pleading, practically begging for your release as he talks you through it, "C'mon, Darlin'... I feel ya squeezin' me real tight," he praises, "'At's it. Focus on me."

With one more swipe of his thumb over your sensitive clit and his cock hitting that sweet spot right against your cervix, you're tensing, digging your heels into the thin mattress, and cumming around him so hard that you see white. It takes everything in you not to scream, but the strangled sound coming out of you is loud enough to warrant some head-turning if anyone were awake. The moment your walls flutter and start milking him, he falls forward and drops down onto his elbows to cage you in. His thrusts are relentless as he takes his anger out on you in this way, using every movement of his body to release the bristling anger clutching onto his mind like a damn vice grip. No matter how fervent and frenzied, he's still careful not to hurt you, always thinking about how good he's making you feel while chasing his own release.

Arthur isn't a man of many words, but when you're gripped around him like this, clutching him with your arms, legs, and your fluttering pussy, he is downright mouthy. "Oh, such a good girl for listenin' to me. Shh.. Shh. I gotchu, baby. I gotchu."

His mouth hovers over yours, claiming your lips as he kisses you hard and possessively. Moans spill out of you, traveling through the expanse of his throat until it hums within his chest and he echoes one back. To talk like this with him, in a language only two lovers could understand, is far more intimate and pleasurable than anyone could ever know. Arthur is yours and you are his, no ownership or proprietary claim, but just the pleasant knowledge that both of you choose to love each other is enough.

With a few more rolls of his hips, he's nearing his own orgasm: length twitching and engorging as his balls tighten. In desperation, he quickly climbs off of you and pulls his cock out from your core. His right hand tightens into a fist around himself, and although you can't see it, you hear the lewd, effortless slide of his hand vigorously pumping over his tip like his life depends on cumming for you.

Finally, his orgasm hits him, working its way out of his tightened balls and spurting over your plump mound and belly. If he could see his spend on you like this, it'd be enough to make him cum all over again. But both of you are far too exhausted to even consider that so soon. You're still shaking, panting heavily as he lowers himself down onto you, not caring that his sticky spend is now covering the front of his body as well, as your sweaty bodies come down from such an enormous height.

His touch traces a slow, deliberate path down your leg until his fingertips reach the softness of your hip, where he gives your flesh a gentle but firm grasp. Reveling in the smoothness of your skin and the feel of your curvy form beneath his palm, he lets out a slow exhale through his nose. The heat of his breath spills over your neck and shoulder, doubled by the heavy breaths leaving his lips as he lazily peppers your clammy skin with kisses.

After a long stretch of quiet spent nestled into his hair, breathing in the comforting remnants of campfire intermingled with his musky scent, your breathing finally begins to steady. Slowly, your senses return to you one by one, like pieces of a puzzle falling back into place. Shock and disbelief jolt through your entire being as it finally hits you how easily he manipulated your body with his own strength and skill as a lover. You'd heard of men being rough with women, but never did you think it could be this pleasurable.

Your voice finally cuts through the relative silence, carrying a deep sense of satisfaction and astonishment with it, "Wh-here in the hell did that come from?"

An amused chuckle rumbles inside his chest, slightly huffing out of his nose as he slightly pushes himself off of you to gauge your reaction, "Reckon I were a little pent up. Why? You like it?"

To say you liked it was an understatement, but you'd like anything as long as Arthur were right there with you to experience it just the same. While his right hand slides up over the plump contours of your body, appreciatively grabbing at the plushness of your stomach and breasts, he lovingly brushes a few stray strands of hair off your forehead stuck there by the sweat covering your body. You hum softly in agreement to his question, deciding that you did enjoy this different side of him you hadn't expected, despite his rough exterior.

"Mhmm.. 'S always good with you," the loving words you murmur cling to his heart and earn you a pleasant kiss that tastes like the remnants of his busted lip.

As his lips trail back down over your jawline, his beard delightfully scratches over your sensitive skin, causing you to hum in appreciation for him loving you like a man who worships the very ground you walk upon. Your own body follows his lead, fingertips glide down the entire length of his back, tracing the contour of muscle that hint at the immense strength lurking beneath. You can't help but marvel at his shape, this man you love so dearly, and how his body was molded for love and carved from such a hard life. While your fingertips glide across his muscled frame, you can feel the subtle shift of his body as he adjusts himself on top of you, notricebly more relaxed than before: a clear testamanet to the calming eddect your touch has on him.

Curiosity peaked, you murmur, "You relaxed now?" as your fingertips idly trace the two little dimples that grace the base of his spine, just above the firm and muscular curve of his ass.

An amused smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, obviously enjoying the path your fingertips are carving out over his back. He'd never admit it, but he loves it when you grab him unabashedly, palming his ass like he so often does to you. The warmth of his cock brushing over your leg, hardening much faster than he expected for a man his age, tells you all you need to know.

He agrees with you, humming softly against your chest as he inches himself down to where his mouth hovers over the plump swell of your breasts, "Thinkin' that we just might need a little more time for relaxin', don'tchu?"

A/N: Big thanks for the divider from @saradika-graphics and the beautiful gif from @sunwingsunset, please go send them some love for their work! <3

Other creators that expressed interest and drew inspiration from: @subpopizzy , @cassietrn , @coltermorning , @redwritr, @zae-heeyyy, @twola , @amorgansgal

Please do go check all the blogs I tagged! You surely won't be disappointed!

As always, sending my love - M. <3

[who-will-buy]

prying eyes

don't you turn around, don't take me home; cause i pinky promise you i'm grown - part one

arthur morgan/reader

word count - 6.5k

18+, unprotected p-in-v, age difference, sweet 'n' spicy, high honor arthur

Untoward- untoward is exactly what you needed from Arthur. 19 and a virgin, how embarrassing of you. But it was hard to get laid with Dutch as your father, refusing most men to even look at you for too long.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You hated hunting. Spending nights in the woods in search of  doe, rabbits or the occasional goose or duck. Sweaty in the day and shivering cold in the night, itchy with dirt and grime, smelling like a pigsty. 

But your father gave you no choice in the matter, sending you along with Arthur rather than Charles, as the latter man was too busy street fighting in the nearby town.  As you saddled up onto Arthur’s horse, sitting on the beautiful mare, saddlebags all filled with tent supplies and furs for you overnight. Dutch, ever the protective father, clapped the huge man on his shoulder and spoke, thinking you couldn’t hear him, “Arthur, son. You gonna take good care of her?”

“Course, boss.” 

That deep, velvety voice permeated the air, your attentive ears opening towards the sound. Arthur… what a man. Somewhere a few inches above six feet tall, all muscle and thick limbs, thighs like cedar and arms like an iron girder. He wore that damned blue shirt, sleeves up to his elbows and a slutty amount of buttons undone at his chest. Suspenders over his shoulders, thick trousers fit for riding with a gun belt low on his hips, that damn hat he always wore. Hair just long enough to be in need of a trim, though his stubble was well maintained today.

“Now,” your father spoke, setting his other hand on Arthur’s shoulder, harrowing brown eyes staring at the enforcer, “You do anything untoward to my daughter and I’ll put you in the ground.”

Untoward- untoward is exactly what you needed from Arthur. 19 and a virgin, how embarrassing of you. But it was hard to get laid with Dutch as your father, refusing most men to even look at you for too long. 

And untoward it was, when you glanced around the corner of the trees to try and find Arthur again as the sun set, only to see him with his back to you, sat against a tree, his thick length held in fist as he quietly and quickly pleasured himself.

You had to do a double, then a triple take, then one more just to be sure. Is- is that real? Is this a hallucination? 50 feet away in the little clearing the makeshift tent sat, the fire dying slowly without someone stoking it. You and Arthur's sour luck was an absent tree, no meat or carcasses yet. The little makeshift tent had your bedroll in it, Arthur’s own across the clearing- another one of your father’s rules.

Though daddy’s rules don’t really apply out in the woods, you realize, as you watch Arthur stroke up and down his shaft, nothing but a few deep breaths escaping him as he squeezes tighter on the upstroke, thick legs parting to fondle and squeeze heavy, aching balls.

It was like a train wreck. You couldn’t look away. Only ever having seen glimpses of what lay between a man’s legs when you accidentally crossed around one of the men relieving himself- and then, you knew, it was soft. Small, unintimidating. Cute in a way.

This, what Arthur strokes so expertly, is anything but. It looks, in your humble opinion, more like a tree trunk than what Hosea gently explained to do during the ‘birds and bees’ talk you received at 10. Thick, a shade or two darker than his skin with a flushed, ruddy tip leaking translucent fluid that absorbs into his fist, you stare. Stare at the nest of dark curls that hide those heavy balls he fondles so gently, the exact, practiced twist of his wrist-

A bird caws.

Shuffling, Arthur glances back to see what bird caused the noise, a natural reaction. And where he expected to see a raven, maybe a magpie, he sees you, standing dumbly with thighs pressed together as that all too familiar heat boiled over in your abdomen.

Like a man possessed Arthur curses and tucks his still erect length back into his trousers, standing and hitching them up.

“Mother of Jesus-”

He can’t even curse at you before you turn tail and run back to the little camp, ducking under the pelt of the tent and covering yourself on the bedroll with a thin blanket, heart racing in your feet and throat at the same time.

Arthur’s gonna kill you, you’ve decided. You feel physically repulsed at your behavior- what was wrong with you? Staring at a man just trying to jerk off, standing like a doe eyed little idiot.

You tried to tell yourself it was just shock that made you stare, just utter surprise he would do such an act while in the woods. That it had nothing to do with the curiosity of what his dick looked like, just a natural wonder upon seeing such a thing, the innate desire to feel that thickness deep inside you, holding you steadfast and splitting you open-

“Sweetie?”

Sweetie. Such a stupid little nickname reserved for your daddy, Hosea, and Arthur. But you know who spoke it now, yes. Unmoving you lay under the blankets in a little ball, tucking your all too short legs further.

“Look, honey, I- I’m real sorry you saw that.”

You give no response, envisioning Arthur standing there, scratching his beard like he always does.

“I ain’t mad, if that’s what you’re worried ‘bout. Not mad one bit. Hell, you should be mad at me.”

“...”

“Look- sometimes, we men just… get the need. And-”

Arthur huffs, “Jesus, c’mere-”

He yanks the blanket off of you, making you squawk in surprise and bring your knees upwards. He sits on the ground, towering and hulking figure trying to look softer in a slouch of broad shoulders and big biceps.

“Honey, look at me.”

Slowly and miserably you meet his eyes, cheeks bright pink, feeling like an absolute pervert.

“I ain’t mad. You know that, yeah?”

You give a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Arthur grumbles something, resting a hand near you- but not touching yet. The sight of his hand, so big and warm and calloused, so close to you, it makes that familiar heat surge through your abdomen, making you adjust your thighs slightly.

“You…” He begins slowly, “You ain’t gonna tell Du- your daddy about this, yeah?” It’s not a question, moreso a statement. Even so, you wouldn’t dream of snitching on him.

“Course not.” You murmur. Unknowing what possesses you, you glance over and look at him- handsome face, that cute little dimple on the tip of his nose, the still stiff bulge at the front of his trousers-

“Jesus, girl-” He barks a laugh. “You don’t got any shame, d’ya?”

Cheeks burning you take the humiliation in stride, glancing from his hidden erection to his face, then back down again.

“Just, I’ve never seen one, is all…”

You speak slowly with a thick, hesitant tongue, mouth feeling dry and swollen. The pink hue of your cheeks only grows and grows with every word and moment of Arthur in your gaze.

Arthur’s brow raises. “Never? How old are you, 18?”

“19.” You correct him, sitting up to look at him easier.

“19 and never… seen a man?” He laughs, shaking his head. In an attempt to recover your dignity you huff at him, “What? Were you giving it up at 14 or something?”

Another hearty laugh. “Something more like 16 or 17. I was running with Dutch at that point, had no privacy on the run. He caught me doing what you just saw me doing more than enough. Ended up hiring me a younger working girl and she gave me quite the night.”

Working girl. Not whore, prostitute, lady of the night. Just a polite working girl. The bare minimum, making your heart turn slightly. Arthur adds, “I think she was 18 or 19. Little bit older, awfully pretty. Had me passed out cold after.”

Despite the awkwardness of the entire situation, you crack a smile and a little laugh. Something about how kind his face seems provokes you to add softly, “Sometimes I just… feel like I’m behind.”

You expect sympathy or denial, the same ‘everyone moves at their own pace’ talk that Mary-Beth gave you, how Karen reminisced that her first time was less than pleasurable due to her chosen stud’s inability to understand angles and other stimulation. 

But no, Arthur hums, “I bet you do. 19 is awfully old.”

Huh?

You frown, tilting away from him slightly. Feeling the need to defend your honor you state, “It- it ain’t that old. Just-”

“It’s a bit older than normal, honey, nothing wrong with being a virgin.” Arthur cuts you off. “But you gotta be pent up and curious. Bet you ain’t ever kissed a fella, have you?”

He has a stupid little grin on his stupid handsome face. Cheeks pink and embarrassed you huff, “So what?”

“So…” Arthur scoots a little closer to you, “I know you’re curious. You wanna know what it’s like, huh? That’s why you were watchin’ me so close, honey?”

Is this real? It can’t be, you think. Yeah, you’re just hallucinating. But a warm, tender hand clamped on your thigh brings you back to reality, as does the smooth, velvety voice that rings, “I could show you.”

Mouth dry, eyes wide and stupid, you stare at him.

This huge, hulking, ridiculously handsome cowboy was propositioning you. It was so delicious, the idea to betray everything your daddy ever told you and him. To just…

Clumsily and a little nervous you lean forward and cup his face, pressing your lips to his. It lasts all of five seconds, n tongue or passion before you pull back, a proud little grin on your face as you cross ‘first kiss’ off of your mental bucket list.

That is, until Arthur rightfully laughs, hearty and deep in his chest. You frown.

“That’s it, sweetheart? All I’m getting, a little peck?”

You open your lips to respond but Arthur just sits down on your bedroll, huge hands wrapping around your waist and hoisting your small frame onto his lap, forcing you to straddle his thick thighs. 

“Lemme show you how grown-ups kiss, darlin’.”

Before you can even react, he brings his lips to yours, hands holding your face to keep you still. It starts slow before delving into something more passionate, his lips overlapping yours, tongue darting to trace across your lower lip. Teasing, gentle for adult standards. But as the kiss grows into a few minutes, it doesn’t feel too good to you. You feel suffocated, lips swollen and honestly a little gross.

So you turn your head, nudging away a bit. Arthur listens, albeit disappointed, asking, “What’s the matter, huh?”

Wiping the saliva from across your lips you mumble, “Don’t like it.”

“Speak up, darlin’. Can’t hear you when you’re mumbling.”

“I- I don’t like it.”

You feel your cheeks burning with the admission. Isn’t kissing supposed to feel good? It just feels like… slurping lily pads. But Arthur gives a little smile and nods, tilting your chin back to look at him.

“Perfectly fine, darlin’. You don’t like what you don’t like, yeah? Doesn’t matter if everyone else likes it. You know your daddy refuses to eat deer meat?”

Such an odd little tidbit, that your daddy hates venison- but you didn’t know it. 

“I didn’t know that.”

You’re still speaking softly, looking up at him. Arthur grins. “Your daddy doesn’t like deer, you don’t like kissing with tongue. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.”

A beat of silence, then he frowns and manhandles you once again, this time laying you down onto your bedroll, in a flimsy pink nightgown and plain cotton bloomers hidden underneath. Breathless and slightly propped up with the two pillows you own (two more than most of the gang), you stare up at him as he straddles you, gently placing his huge, warm hands on your shoulders, tickling the bare skin of your upper arms.

“Much better.”

Unable to respond, you just close your eyes as his lips begin to pepper kisses down your neck, moving tresses of hair away from your skin. Unlike the actual kissing, his kisses and little kitten licks across the sensitive column of your neck are downright heavenly. It doesn’t make sense to you, how kissing on somewhere as normal as your neck can make such a heat surge to your abdomen, make your thighs squeeze together. 

Suddenly, he nips you.

“Ow-”

He licks the spot he nipped, shushing, “Shh, honey. So dramatic…” He teases.

“‘M not dramatic.” You huff, tilting your head and nipping his jaw in return. “That’s what you get.”

Arthur only laughs softly, voice deeper than normal.

“You’re lucky your daddy would kill every man at camp if he saw you with hickies.” He speaks, then adds lower, “If I could, I’d cover that pretty little neck in bite marks. Makes you squirm all cute.”

Squirm-? You didn’t even notice you were squirming. 

The marking up of your neck continues for a while, until Arthur finally heeds the twitching of your thighs, how they press together in need. Big hands tug your nightgown up just to your belly, and he parts your legs with his knee. It makes you give an aborted little thrust of your hips, chasing any sort of stimulation to cure the ache between your legs. He laughs.

“Needu, huh? Patience is a virtue, darlin’.”

Arthur’s big, warm hands toy with the hem of your nightgown, bringing it closer towards the swell of your breasts. Looking in your eyes, he silently asks permission, and with your tongue thick and heavy, you nod, “Yeah- yeah. Go ‘head.”

It took an absurd amount of restraint to not beg him. Dutifully he helps you shimmy the nightgown off, tucking your hair back into place as he takes a moment to fold it before setting it aside- how polite.

Hungry eyes roam to your breasts, somewhat small and unimpressive compared to the likes of Karen or even Molly. But Arthur groans and cups them in his hands, making your breath hitch, eyes darting to his for approval that you are, in fact, pretty.

“God, perfect. Nothin’ less, darlin’, perfect tits.”

Those thick, calloused thumbs trace little circles across half hard nipples, pebbling up and stiffening as you let out a strangled little whimper. Another laugh.

“You like your pretty little tits played with, huh honey?”

Your hands brace over his bicep, tracing down to his thick wrists, arm hair tickling your palms. With a little exhale, you nod. You do like it.

“That’s it, good girl.”

The noise that leaves you in unholy, that little tidbit of praise so similar to how he addresses his mare, all while his hands still rub gentle circles against your stiff nipples- it’s too much. Shifting your hips you whine, “Arthur-”

“What, honey? What do you need, hm?”

You swallow your words, though countless ideas bounce around your skull. Eat me out. Finger me. Fuck me till I’m drooling and crying and tell me to take it. Nothing leaves your lips, and his hands leave your breasts.

“Huh, guess you’re done-”

Before he can even continue the gentle teasing you snatch his hand back, putting it back on your breast.

“Please.”

“Please what?”

God, he’s cruel. Cruel, mean, ruthless, and oh so irresistible. 

“Please, I-” Voice dying in your throat, you barely manage, “I wan’ more.”

That seems to be enough for Arthur, as he nudges your hips up and tugs at the waistband of your cotton bloomers, once more waiting for your little nod.

Tugging them down and off, Arthur gives them the same treatment as your nightgown. They get neatly folded and set aside before he takes a good look at you.

He moans.

“Lord, darlin’, if I ever did see a cunt pretty as this. Makin’ me feel like I died and went to heaven.”

He just stares a long moment and takes it in, your cunt. Framed with thick curls, glistening with need. On instinct you close your legs, breaths leaving your mouth soft and shallow.

With a little frown Arthur parts your legs again, settling down to lay between them, his breath creeping up to your inner thigh.

“Don’t hide from me, darlin’.” He adds with a little grin, “You’re gonna love this.”

Without allowing you to speak, his tongue laps up at your folds, making you jolt and try to snap your legs shut around his head- he easily holds them apart with those big, strong arms. Come to think of it, he’s still fully clothed.

All thoughts left your mind as two thick fingers prodded at your lips, his head raised from between your legs.

“Suck, darlin’, gimme something to work with.”

Obediently, you do, lavishing them in your saliva. Once satisfied he brings them out of your mouth with a ‘pop’ and rubs them up and down your folds, collecting your arousal and further lubricating his fingers.

It’s then that a wave of sudden fear overtakes you as memories of nights spent wincing and trying to pleasure yourself with your fingers come flooding back. Sure, you have rubbing your clit down to an industrialized process, but anything actually inside is foreign to you. Everytime you try it just hurts and feels like nothing pleasurable. It always made you feel like something was wrong with your anatomy, that you weren’t capable of pleasure.

Arthur lavishes your clit with little licks, sending shocks of pleasure down your spine. One thick finger prods at your entrance, circling, circling, not yet entering. You tense, bearing down.

“What’s that for, huh?”

He asks, the vibrations of his voice and breath making goosebumps erupt across you. Arthur raises his head, circling your clit with the pad of a thumb. You remember to answer, swallowing thickly, “I- ‘m fine.”

“You’re bearin’ down like you’re trying to squeeze my fingers off. Ain’t even got them in you yet, honey.”

You huff, trying to avoid the issue- but you eventually give in, murmuring, “Just… fingers’ve never felt good when I do it on me. Just hurts.”

Arthur hums. 

“You use vaseline? Spit?”

Shaking your head, he laughs.

“And you wonder why it hurts?”

Squirming, you respond, “Well- I get wet, so I thought that was enough…”

He shakes his head, pulling away suddenly and walking out. You stare dumbly, naked and spread on your bedroll, waiting for him. In record time he returns, a little tin of vaseline held in one big hand, which he unscrews and lathers two fingers in, resuming his place between your thighs. 

The material of your bedroll is soft and plush under your trembling thighs and he circles your entrance with a single slick finger, tonguing your clit as he slips it in. Flinching out of reflex triggers Arthur to raise his head, cooing, “Shh, shh. That doesn’t hurt now, honey. ‘S just a finger.”

It doesn’t hurt. But you think it should, it always hurts when it's just you. Arthur seems to pick up on that, continuing, “Gotta get out of that pretty head, sweetheart.”

He looks directly at you, finger gently massaging your walls, gentle and slick.

“Does it hurt?”

Swallowing thickly you answer, “No.”

The man smiles, caressing your cheek. “Good. Didn’t think it did. You’re awfully caught up in your head, huh?”

He gives you a playful tap to your forehead before trailing his big, warm hand to cup your breast again, making you squeeze his finger within you. Arthur laughs, deep and velvety.

“Easy, easy. Wait to squeeze like that till it’s my cock in ya, hm?”

God, his mouth is filthy. But you love it, God you do. Makes the pit of your belly all warm and fuzzy, head spinning and arms weakly holding at his biceps.

If only your daddy could see you now.

“Tryin’ another finger, honey. Tell me if it hurts, honest.”

The look on your face must’ve betrayed you somewhat because he soothes, hand rubbing up and down your side and thigh lovingly, “Don’t think it’s gonna hurt. If it does, we deal with it, but I think you’ll be fine.”

Inhaling deeply and breathing out softly, you nod. Even with his advice, you tense slightly, bracing for that stingy-stretchy-burning pain.

It doesn’t come.

What you feel is a little stretch, a momentary shock of discomfort as the second finger breaches you, then slips right in. Arthur chuckles. 

“Greedy little thing, huh? Swallowin’ my fingers up like that. And you were so convinced it was gonna hurt.”

You’re unable to respond as his thumb resumes to your clit, the two thick digits within you making a come-hither motion, trying to find that spot inside you.

And find it he does, as you keen and whine, gripping his bicep and the blankets of the bedroll. It feels dizzyingly good, the dual stimulation of the familiar thumb on your clit and foreign fingers within you.

“Arthur-”

You hear a little squelch as you unknowingly bear down, squeezing. Arthur chuckles, his two drenched fingers suddenly missing from you. 

“You squeezed ‘em right out, honey.”

“Didn’t-- mm, didn’t mean to.” You manage, and as he slips on in then the other he soothes, adjusting himself on his knees, “Easy, easy, darlin’. Know you wan’ me to fuck you, but I gotta make sure I don’t hurt you.”

He brings you right to the edge of orgasm, his fingers inside you and thumb rubbing tight circles on your clit. Whimpering and squirming, needy little noises erupting from lips wet with saliva. Arthur’s voice is soft and low as velvet, cooing, “That’s it, darlin’, cum for me. ‘S all good, I got ya, I got ya.”

With a strangled whimper your head lolls back, eyes firmly closed as waves of red hot pleasure rip through you, clit throbbing, squeezing on his fingers. Arthur’s ministrations don’t stop, stimulating you through your orgasm- the most powerful you’ve ever felt.

It’s not until you whine at him, rocking your hips away from the overstimulation that he stops. As your eyes open, sweat beading on your brow and lips parted, he sticks those messy fingers into his mouth, groaning.

“Tastes like honey, darlin’. Swear it does.”

You let out a weak laugh.

“It does not.”

Your words are a little slurred, tongue thick in your mouth. Arthur presses the fingers at your lips, encouraging you to taste yourself. Complying, you accept his fingers into your mouth, the slight tinge of vaseline a background to the slightly tangy, slightly salty taste of your arousal.

“Not honey. Maybe… tears.”

The man chuckles, standing up and moving his hands to his shirt- finally.

You sit up to watch the show as he unbuttons that blue shirt, suspenders hanging down at his knees. The shirt comes off and you’re treated to the sight of his bountiful chest, muscled and hairy with just a little pudge on his belly, a trail of hair leading from his navel to the hem of his trousers.

Arthur turns to look at you, a little grin on his face as he unbuttons his belt, his gun holsters long discarded. The belt sags, buttons of his trousers coming undone. He’s not wearing a union suit, you notice. Thank God.

Trousers removed he stands there in all his glory, clad in just cotton long johns. You stifle a little giggle at the underwear, coming all the way down around his feet like socks.

What’s less funny is the bulge straining at the front, which your eyes immediately draw towards. It looms downright painful, bigger at this angle. Arthur palms it, husking, “You see this, honey? What seein’ you come on my fingers does to me?”

You don’t have a response prepared- you just stare at him, waiting for his next actions. When you expect him to rip that flimsy cotton off, bury himself in you and fuck you with abandon, he kneels down next to you and tucks your messy hair back into place.

“You wanna do this all the way, sweetheart? You ain’t gonna break this old man’s heart if not.”

It’s so… sweet. Kindness you rarely see from the men around camp. Face softening, you overlap your hand with his as it cups your cheek and nod.

“Words, baby. Need to hear your voice tellin’ me.”

“I- I wanna.” You swallow thickly. “I want you to be my first.”

With that he removes his undergarments, dick springing out against the little layer of chub on his belly, hard and leaking, begging for attention. God, it looks mean. Thick and ruddy at the tip, it has to be seven.. No, eight inches. Eight. And thick as your wrist.

“It ain’t that scary, darlin’.” It’s like he could hear the cogs of your brain turning. You breathe, “It’s massive.”

He laughs, deep and hearty. 

“Ain’t massive, honey, but I appreciate the ego bein’ stroked. How big you think it is, huh?”

Your throat feels dry.

“Eight- eight and a half.”

He cracks up, tossing his head back, still not on top of you but rather besides you.

“Ain’t close to eight and a half, sweetie. Try barely seven.”

“What, you measure it?”

“If you had one you’d be measurin’ it too, sweetheart.”

Arthur’s playful banter with you serves to make your shoulders less tense, a smile return to your face. He speaks softly, entirely open to his suggestion being declined, “How about you… get familiar with it, huh? Make it less scary when you see how it looks smaller in your hand than it does now.”

God, you were waiting for him to suggest that. In record time to readjust yourself and wrap a hand around the base, coarse hairs tickling your skin.

“Mm, good girl, jus’ like that. Give it a stroke, hm?”

You follow his command, stroking up and down, following his gentle instructions to squeeze firmer, give a little twist on the upstroke, rub the underside of the head with your thumb. And just like that, it grows less and less scary. Still intimidating, but no longer fear inducing. He stops you, muttering something about not wanting to finish too fast.

It becomes so much more real as he places one of your pillows under your hips, parting your legs and guiding them to sit comfortably around his hips as the thick head of his length nudges at your entrance. He reguides it to rub against your clit and you gasp. Arthur takes the vaseline and coats himself liberally, until he’s slick as can be.

He doesn’t shove in you when he leans down over you, once more caressing your cheek. He just whispers, “You look so pretty, Absolutely beautiful.”

Eyes wide and a little nervous, you ask, a bit tetchy, “It’s- am I… do you think I’ll cry?”

Arthur’s face changes dramatically. He looks concerned.

“Cry?”

You nod, tracing your fingers on his bicep as a way to fidget.

“Yeah. Cry. Daddy said Hosea wasn’t allowed to teach me about losing my virginity, so daddy told me. He says it’ll hurt me really bad and I’ll bleed everywhere.”

Goddamn Dutch.

Arthur huffs, bringing both hands to cup your face and give your cheeks a little squeeze. He states, firm as stone, “You are not supposed to cry in pain. If you do, it means something is wrong, and we’re not doing anything.”

Before you can argue, Arthur squishes your cheeks again to make the words come out as a little ‘ghuh’. 

“Dutch- your daddy, he… He worries about you, honey. Worried you were gonna go and sleep with someone in the gang far too young. It’s not supposed to hurt, darlin’, and it’s not going to. ‘Least not bad. Might be a bit uncomfy, sure. The bleeding part is a bit true- you won’t bleed cause it hurts. Just cause you’re gonna be stretched more than you’re used to is all.”

It’s a lot to take in, initially- that your daddy lied to you about the pain of losing your virginity to deter you from doing it too early. Even as you trust Arthur with your life, with your innocence, it’s hard to disregard the firm teachings of your father. And Arthur can tell. 

“I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m going to go slow as you need. Trust me?”

He extends a pinky towards you, waiting for you to link it with your own. Such a sweet, childish gesture that makes the nerves melt from your mind.

Once the promise is sealed, Arthur positions himself, fat tip prodding at your entrance. One hand guiding himself and the other on your cheek, he coos, “Breathe in nice and deep.”

You follow his command.

“And out…”

As you exhale, he presses in. He immediately sees the grimace on your face and suddenly clamps his free hand over your eyes, blinding you from watching that intimidating length try to enter you.

“Don’t think it’s gonna hurt. Just feel what it feels like. Tell me, darlin’, tell me.”

Without seeing anything as he sinks the head within you, it forces you to just deal with the actual sensations and not the slight fear associated with the sight. You exhale, “Just- pressure. Stretch.”

“Pain?” His voice is velvet in your ears.

“No.”

“Good, good. Nice and slow, honey.”

Arthur keeps your eyes covered, peppering your neck with kisses as he withdraws a little, pushing forward a little. He instructs, “Push out a little, darlin’.” You do, and he sinks deeper.

“That-”

You make a garbled noise, unknowing that half his length is already situated snugly inside you with only a little pain blossoming from the stretch.

“Does it hurt?”

“Um- just… a little.” A truthful answer.

“Is it the kinda pain you can breathe through?”

You nod, whining slightly as you feel his hips rock ever so slightly, his breath hot against your neck.

“Bein’ so brave for me, baby. Know it’s awfully big for such a little thing like you.”

Another whimper, desperate noises leaving your lips as he moves further, slow and steady. Arthur kisses your neck, nipping and rubbing your breast and belly with the hand that was previously guiding his dick within you.

Just a few more moments pass until he’s more than halfway in, but not yet fully sheathed- but he can tell this is a good amount for you to take. His entire length would certainly be a bit too long for you.

Meanwhile, with your eyes covered, you imagine that it’s just the first two inches inside you, a mean five more waiting. But the hand suddenly lifts itself from your eyes and you see him, a stupid little grin on his handsome face.

“You did it.”

“Huh?”

Immediately looking to where he’s within you, your eyes widen upon seeing how much is in. The pain is nothing more than the feeling of a scrape or little cut, a bit of a nagging burn you can easily ignore behind the feeling of being so full.

“It’s- not all the way in.”

The voice that leaves your lips can’t be yours, all whiny and desperate. He chuckles.

“It’s not all gonna fit without hittin’ your cervix, honey. Trust me on that.”

You want to argue, not even remembering exactly what a cervix is, but you shut your mouth and trust him on that. So you just stare at him for a long moment, hands dumbly squeezing his biceps. He adjusts himself, grasping your hips and gently rocking, in and out, in and out.

“Arthur-”

The name leaves your lips all whiny and needy. He shushes you, tucking his head towards your neck and kissing that sensitive hollow.

“Shh, easy. Don’t squeeze me so hard, darlin’. Gonna make me slip right out.”

The last phrase leaves with a breathy chuckle from the man, but you only paw at his back, trying to pull him closer. Despite not enjoying it much earlier you feel the need to kiss him, so you clumsily pull his face to yours and press your lips together. Only a handful of times before your face tilts to the side, feeling the length of him stretch you, fill you so nicely, pressing right against that perfect spot inside you.

“Needin’ kisses now, huh?”

He teases, yet you can’t even find it in you to respond with anything besides incoherent little mumbles. Barely five minutes of him within you, and your brain has been replaced with a wad of cotton candy.

Apparently your noises grow from needy little whines to distressed sounding, as he stills and cups your face, asking softly, “Honey? If somethin’s wrong you gotta use your words. You need to stop?”

Shaking your head desperately you dig your heels into the meat of his ass, keeping him where he is.

“No- no, no, don’ stop-”

Arthur chuckles, rubbing little circles onto your flushed cheeks. You’re staring up at him, eyes wide and pupils blown, face all flushed and needy. You inhale deeply, regaining enough bearings to murmur, “Just… feels like I like it too much.”

You always heard tidbits of how sex is an act of pleasure for the man and a chore for the woman, but this felt like the opposite. Brain melting out of your ears, you realized that you couldn’t go without this. Not after getting such a delectable taste.

“You’re s’posed to enjoy it, darlin’. Supposed to love it. I can tell you are.”

Arthur leans forward, kissing your neck and nipping your ear just enough to get you to squirm.

“Can tell you love it. Love bein’ stretched full of my cock, don’t you?”

God, his mouth is filthy. It just makes that coil in your gut ever so tighter, makes you needier.

“Arthur, plea- mm, please, I need-”

“Ah, shh, shh. I know what ya need, honey, I know.”

One of his hands trails down to your clit, the first circle around it making you cry out and whimper. 

“That’s it, good girl. I feel you twtichin’, you close?”

“I dunno-”

Your tongue feels numb, mouth heavy and brain stupid, genuinely unknowing of if you’re close or not. Arthur lets out a little laugh, beginning to groan softly and breathe heavier. You try to speak, but the words leave less as actual words and more as little noises interrupted by whines and moans.

“Shh, shh. It’s okay, you’re takin’ me so good.”

His free hand trails to your belly, fingers splayed across the little curve of your lower tummy. He presses down slightly, making you let out a squeak.

“Feel me honey, all deep in you?”

A delirious nod. He feels you squeeze him when he praises you.

“Look’atchu, what a good girl. Takin’ my cock like a champ. So good, darlin’ so perfect.”

The praise makes you nearly squeal, reaching for him, just needing him close. Arthur responds by wrapping his free arm around you, holding you to his chest, still rubbing your clit. The angle change makes tears bud in your eyes, that spot inside you being perfect;y stimulated with every thrust.

“Easy, easy. I gotcha, no need t’ wriggle away.”

You didn’t even realize you were squirming until he squeezes you tighter, a little reminder to stay still. A murmured ‘I’m sorry’ leaves your lips as a little whimper.

“Shh, you’re okay. Stay still, honey, I know what you need.”

Arthur changes the pace of his thumb on your clit, experimenting- until you make an angry noise in the pit of your chest at the unsatisfying new rhythm, and he returns to his old tempo with a little ‘sorry’.

“Such a needy thing, huh? I feel you’re close. Doin’ so good, gonna cum on my cock like a good girl, yeah?

Arthur’s thrusts are growing faster, a little deeper as your body becomes far more accommodating. It’s dizzying, the perfect angle, the thumb on your clit- you barely  manage, “‘M gon’ cum- Arthur, Arthur, Arth-”

Everything goes blank for a moment. You register the pleasure, white hot nirvana circling through your veins, floating you onto a cloud. You hear him groan, sticky hot seen painting your belly and tits. It’s only when you manage to hear “Shh, shh, you’re okay, ‘s alright-” that you realize, in your visionless haze, you began to sob.

Pathetic noises leave your lips as Arthur disregards his post-orgasmic haze to tend to you. He cradles your face, cunt sore and aching with a pulsing heartbeat that feels so good.

“Honey, look at me.”

You open your eyes, bleary with tears, a dopey grin on your lips. Arthur huffs, exhausted.

“Had me worried I fucked you to heaven.”

“Heaven…”

You echo, voice soft and brain stupid. Now that he knows you’re alright, he lets you just lay and recollect yourself for a few minutes- your bearings slowly return and you try to sit up, only for Arthur to push you back down.

“Easy, not yet. Gotta clean you first.”

He takes your handkerchief and steps out of the tent for a moment, naked as the day he was born, using the water from his canteen to soak the rag. When he returns he softly speaks, “Gonna wipe away all that mess. The water’s not too cold.”

Your cunt is sore and you wince- he coos, “Shh, it’s alright. You’re gonna be sore for a bit, but judgin’ by how hard you came it was worth it, huh? Made out like a little bandit.”

You dopily grin in response. He cleans you diligently, gently. When you’re clean between your thighs he shows you the handkerchief, for the sake of truthfulness.

“See? Told ya you wouldn’t bleed much.”

There’s maybe a half dollar coin sized splotch of blood. Nothing more. You only sleepily hum in response.

Next to be cleaned is his spend on your chest, which as he wipes off, you begin to drift to sleep.

Weakly opening your eyes again greets you to the sight of Arthur putting his night clothes on, and he asks softly, “You warm enough to sleep naked?”

You nod, drowsily murmuring, “So long as you snuggle me.”

He laughs.

“Course.”

With your eyes closed he spoons you, caressing your hair and sides as you drift in and out of that post orgasmic sleep. In that daze you mumble, sounding proud, “I ain’t a virgin no more…”

A soft laugh.

“That you ain’t.”

His words are accompanied with a kiss to your head that lulls you to a deep slumber through the night.

~~~~~~

When you come back to camp the next afternoon, your daddy doesn’t notice how you hold yourself a little prouder atop Arthur’s horse, using the stirrups as a bit of leverage to keep your sore center off the rough saddle. Arthur helps you off, hoisting the two deer over to Pearson. You can just spot your father speaking to him, interrogating him on how it went, and like the liar he is, he assured Dutch that you were a great help while hunting (as if you didn’t spend the whole morning hunt in the tent sleeping.)

You lounge around camp, wondering if everyone can just tell you’re all grown up now. It’s not until nightfall that Arthur retires to his tent, winking at you on the way in, and keeping the flap open just a little bit as an invitation.

[hihomeghere]

Salt and Pepper | Arthur Morgan / Reader

Word count : 1.4k Summary : Arthur notices his hair is starting to gray. I saw a post on here about Arthur with salt and pepper hair and I couldn’t stop myself hehe. Warnings/Tags : talk about death, getting old, Arthur loves his wife, no tb, Arthur and reader own a house, mention of past gang members, cursing, lots of fluff, self deprecation on Arthur’s side, bullets, mention of weight gain (in a positive way)

“Godamn ugly bastard.” Arthur huffed, his gaze piercing as he looked into the mirror. He hadn’t meant to have himself a pity party this morning. In fact he was feeling quite fine this morning before looking in the small bathroom mirror. Waking up next to you always puts a spring in his step. Especially when he’s waking up in a real bed, underneath a soft quilt that you happened to sew in some free time. Mismatched patches and all, it was his favorite thing in the small home you two shared. Hell, you were becoming quite domestic ever since the house was completed.

But he wasn’t exactly expecting to find gray hair sprouting from his hairline. He wasn’t that old, was he?

“Jesus.” He sighed, inspecting further he realized it wasn’t one or two gray hairs, it was almost twenty. Hidden under his longer than normal locks after forgoing a haircut for the last couple weeks. He was surprised you hadn’t noticed them, especially with how much you loved to run your fingers through his hair. Although, he loved it just as much, maybe even more.

God, he needed to get rid of these before you saw them. He was sure you had some tweezers around here somewhere. He opened up your drawer, rifling around for your tweezers. Bingo. His hands gripped the small piece of metal, a triumphant smile on his face.

It was only once he looked back up into the mirror, determined to fix this issue before you woke up, that he noticed you padding into the bathroom. Rubbing sleep from your eyes, you wrapped your arms around his middle.

“Mornin’.” You hummed, laying your cheek against his bicep, smiling sweetly at him through the mirror.

“Mornin’.” He said, clearing his throat.

“What do you need those for?” You asked, eyeing the tweezers in his hand. Caught red handed, he tried coming up with some excuse.

“Nothin’ sweetheart.” He said, giving you his signature smile, kissing your forehead. He slipped the tweezers into his pocket for safe keeping, at least until he had a free moment without you around. After all those years on the run and he could come up with nothing, Hosea would have been so disappointed in his lack of an answer. He swore he could hear the old man chastising him now.

“For a former outlaw you sure are an awful liar.” You tutted, shaking your head, slipping your fingers into his pocket and pulling out the tweezers.

“Well it ain’t my fault,” He huffed playfully, “Could never get nothin’ past you anyway.” He said, rubbing the back of his neck. You removed your hands from around his waist, leaning back on the sink as you looked up at him.

“Spill.” You said raising an eyebrow, your arms crossed over your chest.

Knowing he’d been caught, Arthur hung his head, a low sigh leaving his lips.

“It’s just-“ He cursed, turning to look away from you, “Well I’m goin’ gray.” He admitted, not meeting your eyes.

“And?” You asked in such a nonchalant manner.

“And?” He asked looking up at you, his brows furrowed.

“So you have some gray hairs.” You said with a shrug, “You’re acting like the damn world is ending.” You chuckled softly, a smile tugging on your lips.

“Well-“ Arthur sighed, pursing his lips, he didn’t want to be vain but damn it, it did feel like the world was ending.

“Honey.” You said softly, reaching up to cup his cheek. “Ain’t nothing wrong with some gray hairs.” You said, shaking your head, looking so goddamn patient as always. What he did in a past life to deserve you he would never know, he definitely didn’t deserve you in this one. You smiled, running your thumb over his couple day old stubble. He couldn’t help but sigh softly, leaning into your touch.

“Just makes me feel old ‘s all.” He shrugged, closing his eyes.

“Arthur.” You said softly, he opened his eyes. His bright azure pools looking into yours. “Getting old means we’re still alive.” You said pointedly, not missing the way your fingers trailed lightly down his chest.

He sighed softly, anyone who said he was the most like Hosea had obviously never had a one on one conversation with you. You had shared the same dry wit along with being just as wise as the old man. Sometimes he wondered if the two of you were more closely related than just being adopted by him as a kid.

As your hand settled over his heart, he couldn’t help but remember a time when you didn’t have this place. When his next breath had been an undeserved blessing. When you and Charles had pulled his broken body off that godforsaken mountain. You were right, he should be grateful for these gray hairs and new lines on his face. Should be grateful that he made it this far out west with you, where the air was dryer and slowly his lungs didn’t hurt as bad with each breath.

If anything he should be grateful that you’re here, here in this house. The house that he built specifically for you. That you’re not buried six feet under like most of the fellow gang members. That you didn’t catch a bullet like Lenny or Sean, how he wished they could have had the chance to grown old. Even as mouthy as Sean was, the poor bastard didn’t deserve that. Lenny was just a boy, foolish enough to be sucked in by Dutch’s silver tongue. He shook his head trying to clear any thoughts of the past.

God, along with the fact that somehow both of you still happen to be standing, the fact that you chose to stand by him after everything you went through makes his head swim. You could have left him at any point, hell he had begged you to leave after his death sentence. And yet, here you were.

“Guess you’re right.” He said, a small smile tugging on his lips.

“Course I am.” You teased, a smile spreading across your face. You leaned forward, brushing your nose against his. He accepted your silent invitation, pressing his lips against yours. So soft and warm and inviting. He could feel you smile against his lips. That small smile warmed him from the inside out, nearly making his toes curl.

Jesus, he was lucky. More than lucky, he still couldn’t figure out how he had tricked you into marrying him. He wanted to be the best version of himself for you, he had made a promise to try every day to be a better man for you. You shouldn’t be tied down to a miserable old fool like himself.

As if you could read his mind, which he often suspected you could, your soft voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

“Besides,” You began as you pulled away, “I like the salt and pepper look.” Arthur scoffed, shaking his head.

“Really?” He asked, raising a brow.

“Really.” You nodded, running your hand through his hair. “Think you get more handsome every day.” If anyone was getting prettier every day it was you. Your hair was longer, cascading down your shoulders in waves. No longer tied up in a tight braid or bun. You looked relaxed, at peace. You became softer once you both settled into your new lifestyle. Not just emotionally, although you still had that fire which had first drawn him towards you, like a moth to a flame. You were physically softer, your harsh edges smoothing out as you started to eat and sleep better. Your curves became more prominent, and he certainly didn’t mind having more to hold onto late at night.

Maybe you truly did feel the same about him. He had never known you to lie. A blush settled on his cheeks at the thought. He shook his head, a small chuckle rumbling through his chest.

“Yeah, alright darlin’.” He says taking your face in his hands, kissing you again before you had the chance to embarrass him further.

Maybe getting old wasn’t so bad if you had someone to grow old with.

[2kiran]

STATUS: ON-GOING | READ ON AO3

HERE LIES THE five times Arthur called you ‘honey.’

PAIRING: Arthur Morgan x Reader

CONTENT WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, Bounty Hunter!Reader, Ex-Military!Reader, top male reader, bottom arthur, canon-typical violence, fluff, hurt/comfort, reader gets injured, arthur does not have TB. warnings included in every chapter.

SETTING: Red Dead Redemption 2

THE DIRECTORY ❯❯ PROLOGUE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

EXTRAS ❯❯

TO BE CONTINUED

[scftangl]

Me every time in a fanfic they villainise a female character just so there's unnecessary drama or a stupid love triangle:

[dustandthought]

Falling for Charles Smith means watching him hunt, patch up a coyote, and say five words in three hours — and you’re just thinking, “Yep, that’s the perfect man.” He’s quiet, focused, and doesn’t even ask why you’re crashing in his tribe’s tent again.

Meanwhile, you’ve already come up with couple names for your bison and future kids.

[heartsickspider]

(soft) arthur morgan aftercare headcanons <3

arthur immediately cocoons the two of you in blankets after sex, regardless of how hot and sweaty the both of you are.

touch, touch, touch - he wants to hold you close and feel your skin against his. gentle forehead kisses, tracing soft patterns across your body with his calloused fingers, braiding your hair, spooning, etc.

despite not being super verbal for a long while after sex, arthur will ask to make sure you're okay in that raspy drawl of his. "you alright, darlin'? i didn't hurt ya, did i?" he's a bit overbearing with it, but he just can't stand the thought of accidentally harming you in any way.

arthur always takes the opportunity to sketch you in your blissed-out and half-lidded state. pages of his journal are dedicated to drawings of you curled up in bed next to him flushed, sleepy, and content as hell.

acts of service - arthur does everything in his power to make you feel comfortable afterwards. he'll get you water or food, clean you up with a cool washcloth or draw a bath, massage your sore muscles... literally anything.

sometimes, arthur will hum softly as the two of you are cuddling.

this man definitely keeps some salve on hand for any love bites or marks he might have left on you.

arthur reads to you to help you fall asleep afterwards. he knows how much you love hearing his inner thoughts through his journal entries, so oftentimes he'll read you a recent passage. other times, he'll read from a book the two of you are enjoying together.

also, he definitely uses your chest as a pillow (he’s a silly man that loves boobs).

a/n: i love soft arthur sm, he consumes 98% of my thoughts 😔 howeverrr, i’m thinking of potentially writing some low-honor arthur stuff as well?? idk why that makes me so nervous lol, but lmk if you'd like a low-honor version of this and i will try 👀

[moonlightkitties]

Van der Linde Gang boys when you fall asleep on their shoulder.

Gang Members: Arthur Morgan, Bill Williamson, John Marston, Dutch Van der Linde, Kieran Duffy, Sean MacGuire, Micah Bell, Charles Smith.

Arthur Morgan

Doesn't try to move you. He's glad you feel safe enough to fall asleep on him. His cheeks are most definitely red but at least no one can notice because of the fire.

Bill Williamson

Like Arthur, he doesn't try to move you, he will wrap his arm around your body and move you closer towards him though. His big body and the campfire help you warm up and stay asleep.

John Marston

He tenses up once he feels your head fall on his shoulder and he does try to move you but when you grumble and tell him that you're comfortable, he stops. He relaxes once he realizes there's no way he's getting out of this without waking you up and he really doesn't want to live with the consequences.

Dutch Van der Linde

Gets really cocky once you fall asleep. Will sit their with the smuggest face and puff out his chest a little. He thinks that this is a sign of his authority and control, as if you’re so comfortable around him that you trust him completely. Deep down though, he is glad that you really trust him enough to lean on him.

Kieran Duffy

Face becomes completely red it looks like the campfire gave him third degree burns. Tenses up and moves around a little until he realizes that you're fast asleep and comfortable so he stops. He relaxes into you and accidently falls asleep with you and gets made fun of by Sean and Bill.

Sean MacGuire

Like Dutch, he gets cocky as well. He'll crack a few jokes about how you think he's "so irresistible" that you fall asleep on him. Secretly, though, his very nervous about waking you up and a little bit protective that he wraps an arm around you.

Micah Bell

He's immediately uncomfortable. He's not used to someone, especially someone like you, getting close to him (he's not used to close contact anyways). Still, he doesn't want to wake you but you can be sure he is going to tease and act upset with you when you wake up.

Charles Smith

Isn't surprised at all and doesn't mind. He knew you were exhausted with the weight Grimshaw and Dutch were putting on you so he let you sleep. He'll position himself to where you're more comfortable and even carry you back to your tent when you're deep asleep.

[kiana12113]

⁺⊹RED DEAD REDEMPTION HEAD CANONS⊹⁺

➤ Arthur Morgan, Hosea Matthews, Javier Escuella, Sean MacGuire, John Marston, Kieran Duffy x Fem!Reader

Note: I’m not quite sure if these are still considered “head canons” since I’ve definitely made this wordy.

(ﾟﾛﾟ;) This is my first post here in Tumblr, despite lurking here for a while. XD

Also Author, a month later: I’ve posted this merely a month ago and I feel inexplicable cringe. thank you for reading

WC: 5.7k

Warnings: Major Character Death (Spoilers), Illness, Profanity, Mentions of Injury, Sex, Alcohol, Violence

References:

♥︎ ; fluff ♣︎ ; angst ♦︎ ; general ♠︎ ; smut

ARTHUR MORGAN

♥︎ ; When he is offered to go somewhere, or to do anything in general, he always says his signature comment. “Hmm, I’m not sure. Let me ask my wife first.”

♥︎ ; He says it every single time. There is no day he doesn’t say this statement. Some people find it annoying, like, per sé — John, when he asks Arthur to go steal something with him and Arthur isn’t in the mood. He rolls his eyes in annoyance, and crosses his arms, “Oh, are you comin’ or not?” The other half, though, do like it, like Mary Beth — who smiles and chuckles, “Of course, Mister Morgan.”

♥︎ ; One time, he was out in Saint Denis without you. He just came for the trapper and some things in the general store, when a woman came to talk to him. She walked slowly along the wooden plank floor, and whispered, “Oh aren’t you just what a lady dreams of?” Arthur immediately knew what she was after. He looks at her with a deadpan expression, saying, “That so? Damn, it might be true. I should ask my wife for confirmation, huh, madam?” And she got the message. It pissed her off, while Arthur chuckled and shook his head.

♥︎ ; He also likes flashing his wedding ring a lot. He thinks it’s some trophy (which it is). He never takes it off, even in showering.

♦︎ ; Ever since you got married, he’d become more reserved in missions or going outside. He didn’t want to lose you. Didn’t want to lose the peaceful life he was close to getting. Plus, every time he did, you would reprimand him.

♦︎ ; He met you at a café and bakery shop that you owned. He was entranced the moment he met you (which was closing time, and he was covered in blood). That night, he’d become a loyal customer, always getting to order the same coffee and bread every week.

♥︎ ; At that time, he’d often come back to camp smiling, and they’d know. “Who’s the lucky girl, Arthur?” Hosea asks, with a small smile as he lifts his head from the newspaper. “Nothin’, Hosea.”

♥︎ ; “Hey, miss… I’d reckon the coffee’d taste better if it was served with you.” He tried to flirt once, and you thought it was assault. He was almost permanently banned that time. When he told this story to Karen. The girl laughed her ass off. “Arthur… You’re a lost cause.”

♥︎ ; He constantly has baby fever, when he’s with you, you’d find him staring at Jack often. “Now imagine one of our own, I’d… I’d be so happy.” He’s smiling like an idiot. You refuse and he pouts. “Oh, come on, darlin’…” But he never forces you. It’s just sometimes he’s so cute it feels as if you need to do it.

♣︎ ; He is often unaware of his own looks and looks down on himself. When he gets sight of a mirror, he can’t help but sigh and comment. “Yer becoming old. Old and ugly, Morgan.” It’s one problem you two are working on together.

♣︎ ; “You just… don’t get it. Of course you think that. Yer my wife, darlin’…” He frowns. It’s a heartbreaking thing to hear, since you’d do just about anything for this man.

♦︎ ; People would describe him as an angry old man. Well, back then. When you and him became a thing, he tried his best not for his emotions to get over him. The only thing he screams “Damn it… for God’s sake!” now is when the animals are eaten and escaped again (since you two live in a ranch.)

♠︎ ; Arthur likes to guide you through sex, praising you quietly. He’s quite nonverbal other than that. But trust he will always make sure that you are comfortable, and your needs are being fed. “Ah, good girl.”

♠︎ ; He’s on top of you while his right hand is gripping the headboard of the bed, to which it is shaking. He’s not rough, though, he makes sure he’s gentle enough and has a fear of accidentally hurting you. He’s slow, taking in every moment and every inch of you and how your body twitches and arches. When he’s drunk, though, maybe it’s a different story. It brings out a different Arthur. A little wobly in his actions, but delivers either way.

♥︎ ; When he found out you were pregnant, it was the happiest day of his life. Oh, he smiled like an idiot, holding your hands and repeatedly saying “Really?” “Seriously— are ya serious?” “Really?” “Yer pregnant— really?” You laughed, nodding and nodding and nodding. “..’M sorry, love, I… I jus’ I can’t believe it.”

♥︎ ; He’d plan so much. Like he’d be very overreacting to the point he already bought clothes for BOTH genders. He didn’t care. A boy, a girl… It doesn’t matter. It was his child. With you. And that made him the luckiest man in the planet.

♥︎ ; When you two are laying in your shared bed, he’d put his head on your stomach (even if it wasn’t even that big yet) and coo. “Are ya… Are ya there? Oh, pa’s… pa’s excited to meet ya. So much,” He murmured, kissing your stomach gently. “Pa loves you and ma so much.” He added, circling your stomach as he sighs, smiling. It’s heart warming. He’s so excited.

♦︎ ; The journey of pregnancy wasn’t easy, of course, but he was always there. He’d wake up in the middle of the night to accompany you to relieve yourself, or would offer to clean and cook. You almost lost your life in giving birth, and it scared the hell of out Arthur, holding your hands and pleading. It seemed he wasn’t that bad of a man, though, as you live and have a healthy baby girl.

♥︎ ; All the pages of his journal contain you, your face, pretty much. He never lets you read it, though. “No, darlin’, it’s private,” He says gently, but when you give him about two long “please”s, his resolve would probably crumble then.

♥︎ ; He is a girl dad. Proudly so. He would lift your little girl (and you too) and spin you both around, laughing. He would learn how to tie pigtails for his girl. He would teach her the colors of the rainbow, how to draw and write, how to identify animals for when she’s old enough to go hunting. But oh, boy, he’d be one hell of a protective dad, though. When miss grows up into adolescence, he’d make sure no boys are near her. “No boys? Alright, you can go.”

♣︎ ; The day he finds out he has tuberculosis, though, he doesn’t say it to you and your daughter. He keeps it inside, hoping that you two wouldn’t find out — he didn’t want you stressing over him. He knew his time would come, so he’d rather spend it all with you without worrying you.

♣︎ ; But it doesn’t get better, it gets worse. And you notice, but he shuts you off. “It’s nothin’, darlin’… Just…” He coughs, clutching his chest. “Arthur… You know you can’t hide this from me. Tell me, please.” You pleaded, hand on his back as you waited for his coughing fit to finish. His palm had blood. “I… ‘m sorry, darlin’… I jus’ don’t want you to worry ‘bout me.” “Oh, you fool… You should have told me, Arthur. You…” “I’ve tuberculosis— says the doctor. I—I don’t want you to raise her alone… I don’t wanna die, but…” You hug him, tears flowing down your eyes. “Shut up, will you? You’ll live. You’ll live, Arthur.”

HOSEA MATTHEWS

♦︎ ; After Bessie, he never thought he’d like— let alone love someone again. You; who had reminded him of her in so many ways. At first, when you had found out he used to be married, you closed yourself off in respect. He respected this decision, after all, it was what he wanted. But he found himself growing restless. He saw her in you. But you were you, different, and yet, so alike.

♥︎ ; In some warm, nice mornings, he’d dance with you.

Put Your Head on my Shoulder

Can’t Help falling in Love with you It would be sweet and romantic, even though both of you are now a little slow.

♥︎ ; He calls you ‘darling’, and doesn’t fail to compliment your beauty first thing in the morning. “Good Morning, Darling…” He grunts a little as he pushes himself near you, kissing your forehead. “Beautiful as ever.”

♥︎ ; He loves to braid your hair, or any other hairstyles that he’s learned. “Mhm… this one looks good on you.”

♦︎ ; Honorable mention, he’d be the type to wear those wizard blue pajamas at night. You, on the other hand, would wear those fluffy extravagant night dresses.

♥︎ ; Before sleeping, he’ll likely be reading mystery novels. Both of you like them, but instead of reading it individually— you found that him explaining the plot to you was easier and better. He’s a bit of a nerd, and you like seeing his face light up when you ask, “So who do you think did it?” He’ll gladly explain to you for hours before finding out you’ve already slept halfway through his ramblings.

♣︎ ; “I’m getting old, darling,” “So am I, Hosea. We both are.” “Fair point… I just…” “I just want to live out the rest of my days with you. I imagine I’ll probably leave you first.” “Don’t say that.” “When I do…” “Hosea.”

JAVIER ESCUELLA

♥︎ ; He loves singing songs he made for you while playing the guitar. “This one’s for you, hmm?” He smiles, and that look of surprise in your face always gets him. It brings a warm feeling to his heart that can’t be explained.

♥︎ ; Pet names! Pet names! Pet names! He just can’t get enough of it. But oh, when you do the same to him, he suddenly loses all his charm and flare, and turns into a puddle of putty. That’s how bad he has it for you.

♥︎ ; Despite playing the guitar for years, he’ll often complain about the pain in his fingertips after he plays. It doesn’t really hurt, of course, due to the built up callouses, but he just wants your care and attention. He especially likes it when you kiss them. “Ow, ow… My love, my fingertips are bleeding.” They aren’t. “Will you please kiss it to make it better?” He says dramatically. You, of course, indulge.

♥︎ ; He’d teach you to dance. “You don’t know how to dance? Well, come here, I’ll teach you.” “My ma taught it to me, told me… I should know how to. It’s a skill. And to swoon women, ah?” He chuckles. You roll your eyes, as your fingers are intertwined and he guides your feet through the pace of Dutch’s music. “You’re a natural, hermosa.” (You were stepping on his feet the whole time.)

♥︎ ; He’s quite protective of you, and even though he doesn’t show it, gets jealous easily. One time, you two were in a saloon due to a mission, and this one guy approached you— his gaze revealing his intentions already. “Hey, darling. You look like a real fine woman, hmm?” Javier immediately notices this but knows you can handle this yourself. He tries to play it cool, nonchalantly observing the interaction. You reply with a lifted brow. “Not interested.” “Aw, come on, darling. Aren’t you at least a little lonely?” And in a swift action, Javier is next to you already. “Didn’t you hear her, asshole? She’s married, okay?” He was ready to throw hands.

♥︎ ; “Oh, I wasn’t aware we were married,” You said jokingly the way back to the camp, striding on the horses at a calm pace. He scoffed. Every time he got reminded of the interaction, he could swear a vein would pop out. “No, no yet.” He replies.

♥︎ ; Another moment you remember is when you two went to fetch something for Pearson. You were buying something, and it seems the shop keeper had taken a liking to you. “You want that one? Sure, it’s for free, my lady.” Javier’s ears perked, his eyes from the sky suddenly to you two. “I don’t mind a little other payment.” The shopkeeper continues, the underlying statement obvious even for an idiot. Javier, irritated, walks closer in a fast pace. “Ay, ay! That’s my wife, pendejo! ¿Eres una idiota, ah? ¿Tienes un deseo de muerte? Do you want a knife in your throat? Ha? Fucking— Hijo de puta!” You took him away, whispering to him, “Ay… Javier, be quiet. We’re supposed to keep a low profile in Rhodes,” He mumbles back, “I can’t be quiet when these assholes think they’ve got a chance.”

♥︎ ; He often is very conscious on how he looks. This man has a wide selection of clothes in his wardrobe, and they are all equally loved and important to him. When people in camp start to realize his beloved poncho is not being worn, he just points a finger at you, since you wore it. He didn’t mind if you stole his clothes, rather, it was a quite intimate thing that he cherished. He loved seeing them on you.

♥︎ ; Carves your initials in his precious knives. This means a lot to him.

♠︎ ; This man cannot keep his hands to himself, never. One moment you’re doing something niche around the camp, like reading a book— and the next he’s right behind you, hands snaking on your waist. He tugs you closer to him, and he rests his chin on your shoulder, squinting his eyes a little as he tries to read the printed words. “What’re you reading, querida?” He murmurs, his warm breath tingling around your neck. From the get-go, you knew what he was trying to do. “That book more important than me?” He takes the book swiftly as you look at him in confusion. “You know I wish those hands were doing something else.” His gaze darts over to your lips, as he licks his own in response. God, this man. He finds that the risk of getting caught while in the act is more exciting.

♠︎ ; He likes when you tug his hair, his little ponytail behind him. His favorite thing to do is murmur sweet nothings in your ear, all dirty and the sort; as he hands work magic on you and his lips nibble on your ear’s shell. He couldn’t care less if you two were still fully-clothed, as well. In fact, it was better for him. His hands are the best part of him, capable of letting out noises from your mouth you didn’t know you could make. His eyes bore into you, half-lidded, while his mouth is slightly agape, struggling to make any words while his fingers push in and out in a rhythmic manner. It feels so good, the sound of wet skin against itself added more heat through your lower abdomen.

♠︎ ; Javier loses it when he’s about to finish. The only thing he can do it mumble and occasionally moan out a few incoherent Spanish words, repeating your name over and over again. “Ah.. mi amor.. E-estoy… cerca, Dios mio…”

♣︎ ; His loyalty to Dutch blinded his own decision-making abilities. So when you died in the middle of the gunfire’s chaos, he knew it was his fault. The way your lifeless body fell to the ground with a thud, and yet, the world still kept spinning drove him insane. And he couldn’t rush there to cradle you in his arms, since if he did, he would die, too. He thought about it. He remembered everything, and in that moment, it was as if the world was cloudy, hazy, and he didn’t know what to do. He felt empty.

♣︎ ; He didn’t say anything. He looked at the corpse, but he couldn’t hold you. He couldn’t. He fled, and ran away — back to Mexico, and then one quiet night while hiding away he would finally reveal his tears. “I… was selfish, mi amor. Please. I can’t…” He looks at the ring in his fingers. He can’t make an excuse. He’s torn between his loyalty for Dutch and you. He’d remember all the promises he made, and all the ones he failed to keep. After this whole thing was over, he would marry you, and he would live with you quietly along some river or forest. It didn’t matter, as long as it was you. Maybe even a little girl, sure. But now that was all gone.

♣︎ ; All he has now to carry is the burden of guilt and some silver ring. He knows he’ll die, too, at some point - but he’s not sure he’ll meet you. “Ah, mi corazon… I’m sure you’re up there. I’ll probably rot in hell for my sins.”

SEAN MACGUIRE

♦︎ ; Sean is a dirty man. Both mentally and physically— so he wouldn’t imagine even after ten bottles of beer that someone like you would tolerate him, let alone like him. You fell first, he fell harder type of situation. He dropped the bottle of Whiskey he was holding when he heard Arthur say something. “Sean, come on, listen to Hosea. Get up, will ya? Can’t believe [READER] likes this sack of shit.”

♦︎ ; “Huh? She does? She likes me? [READER]?” He says in a dumbfounded expression, as Arthur clicks his tongue, puts his palm over his forehead and shakes his head slowly in disappointment. “Of course she does, you damn idiot. And I can’t believe it, either. I could’ve sworn she liked smart men.”

♥︎ ; He isn’t well-put together, in fact, he’s downright nasty— reeking of alcohol, unwashed clothes for days, and unkept hair. But when he finds out this information, he suddenly learns how to take a shower once in a while, and people notice that, often making knowing faces to each other. “Hey, mister MacGuire, you’re looking real fine today,” Javier starts, wiggling his eyebrows. “Well— yeah I am! I always am!” Sean replies, fixing his hat.

♥︎ ; Sean describes himself as the woman charmer, though in reality, when he’s faced with you, he can’t help but stutter — his Irish accent making it more unintelligible. It doesn’t make him cool. One time, he tries to flirt (given the beer has granted him confidence this time) and leans on the empty barrel next to him with a grin. He falls down, “Ow!” and he rubs his head. He couldn’t look up at you. For the next few days, he appears to avoid barrels every time he sees them.

♥︎ ; “My lady,” He says, bowing down with a smile as he lets you go first in this venue he’s gotten to somehow weasel his way in. He takes your hand in his, as you two act as if you’re a wealthy couple coming here in their regular dinner. Times like these he always remembers to cherish. Because although he wished to, in this life, he can’t spoil you the normal way.

♥︎ ; This man gets piss-drunk and makes a beeline to your tent, occasionally bumping into other gang members in the process. “Sean, watch your step…” Lenny says, sighing and shaking his head. When he gets there, he plops his whole body down your cot as you jolt up in surprise. “Sean?” This is normal — you felt the weight and you knew it was him. It’s either he’s already asleep, or you hold his chin and look at his sad face. “Darlin’… You’re leaving me?” He lips curl into a pout, and his eyes swell. “I love you still… Don’t, please.”

♥︎ ; Loves getting a rise out of you. He knows what you like and don’t like, and uses it to his advantage to mess with you just because. He loves annoying you, and is always oddly proud about it since you’re one of the calmest people in the camp. One time, he enters your tent with that grin of his, holding something in his hand. It was a really stinky plant. You frowned. “Sean, get that out of my face, you’re disgusting,” He puts it even closer. “Sean!” He laughs, jiggling it in his hand. “What? Ye don’t like it, me love? It’s a great present from handsome ol’ me,” When he sees you about to gag, he puts it away. And you look away, refusing to talk with him any further. “Er— sorry, I… Sorry…” He gets all guilty and quiet. He then asks for your forgiveness the whole day.

♥︎ ; Has the most stupidest laugh ever. It doesn’t help that when he sleeps with you, he often giggles and speaks incoherently, shifting around and occasionally kicking you. He doesn’t mean it. “Mmh… Heh,” He snickers quietly. “No, John… She’s me girl. We can’t share.” And his Irish accent gets even stronger, if that’s possible. “No, get away, Arthur…”

♠︎ ; When he sleeps with you, every limb is tangled as if you two are now one entity altogether. A hand usually slips inside your shirt, in need to feel your skin. It’s rarely in a chaste way— you know Sean. It usually lowers down to your abdomen, his index finger circling the surface softly. And he’ll just keep going. When you notice what he’s about to do — you grumble and he laughs quietly. “Aw. c’mon. I’m not even doing anything.”

♣︎ ; Sean’s convinced no one really believes in him. The confidence he displays is usually for show, to make himself believe that he really does have a contribution and worth to himself. He’s seldom quiet — but when he is, he’s usually away thinking about it.

JOHN MARSTON

♥︎ ; The scar on his right cheek at this point is his signature. It doesn’t hurt anymore, as it’s fully healed, however - he still asks you to put ointment on it. Just because he likes you touching his face, and that little face you make when you’re deep in concentration. “Stop moving, John,” You say, and he straightens up, eyes on you. “Of course, darlin’. You know… I like this view a lot.” He says with a small grin. You should have put the ointment in his mouth.

♦︎ ; Running away with this man wasn’t easy, but at least it didn’t end up like Dutch and Molly. Oh, dear.

♥︎ ; His favorite thing to do with you is to place your hand in his, bring it up to his lips, and kiss your soft knuckles gently. “M’lady.” “Ah, shut up. You know I’m not.” “Anymore— ‘cause of me.” He replies, but there is no teasing glint in his eyes. You sigh briefly, tucking the loose strands of his behind his ear. “You know that doesn’t matter to me, John.”

♦︎ ; Your parents and life were miserable. You could say John saved you, when the gang went to the mansion and stole everything in sight. You pleaded, when you saw him, “Please. Bring me with you. I… I can’t live here.” And John was the first guy to convince Dutch to let you come with them. “What’s goin’ to do us good bringin’ a princess with us? It’ll only make the bounties on our heads bigger.” Arthur butts in, but Dutch shakes his head. “No… No, I’ve got a feeling she’ll be useful.”

♥︎ ; John can’t swim — and apparently, the water is his biggest enemy. This makes him not bathe for weeks. You force him to, most of the time; and he will keep on refusing you until you come up with a consensus. “No— no, darlin’— the dirt makes me stronger and resistant to—” He hears your sigh and the sees the way you pinch your nose bridge. “I’ll take a bath with you.” “…Okay.” It’s as if he’s some child.

♥︎ ; He likes your nape very much. He kisses it gently, leaving a chaste trail down until the tip of your spine. When he sees your hair up, exposing this delicate part of yours, he’ll come like a moth to a flame, hugging you from behind. He loves your smell, — he finds it comforting. “Mm… My Angel.”

♣︎ ; He swears to you he’ll be a better man, to be not a fool, to get you out of here and live the normal life you deserve— with him. You can tell the poor man is trying, but sometimes, it annoys you because it gets to a point where he disappears for days and comes back with a new scar. He knows you’re worried, but it’ll always be the same excuse from him, “It’s for the better.”

♥︎ ; You two had an argument about him acting brash and reckless, and it lasted for a long while, maybe a week or so. That time, he was barely seen in camp, and so were you. “They’re fighting, aren’t they?” Charles would ask Arthur, and he’d nod. “Yeah, well, look at jus’ how much John is out. He’s probably robbed all of Valentine at this point.” Fighting with you makes him act more stupider, actually. He comes back to your tent with another injury, and this time, you couldn’t keep it anymore further. “John, what the hell?” You ask, walking over to him and inspecting it. He looks like a guilty dog. “You’re… Just come here.” You tend to his wound, as silence ensues for a while. It was tense, before he sighed. Both of you speak up at the same time, with a mutter of “Sorry.” This earns a mutual stare of surprise, and a dumbfounded look painted on John’s face. “Oh, darlin’…”

♠︎ ; John rolls his eyes in pleasure, mouth slightly agape as moans threaten to leave his mouth. You were so good, so sweet, sucking his cock as his body leaned behind him for support. It made his knees weak, and you just about were doing the best job. “Ah.. Ah.. Darlin’…” He feels himself reach the back of your throat, as you took in every liquid that came from him. At this point, your mouth had memorized every vein and put it into memory, and your hands held his hips tightly. He lets out a string of cusses, holding your head as his fingers dug through the strands of hair in need. “Yeah… God, just like that…” He pushes you further, and he feels your throat tighten upon the action. You were taking him in like a drink, and he wouldn’t complain. The fluid that stains your lips are licked upon contact, and he can’t help but sigh at the relief. “Fuck…”

♠︎ ; John doesn’t say it out loud but you know he enjoys being under you, while you give him handjobs. Your hand cups his length, moving in a just pace while you murmur how pretty he looks. He’ll be all whiny, and needy, asking for you. “Ah, yeah… I’m… I need you, [READER].”

♥︎ ; He proposes to you and tries to be romantic. It’s been a week since the two of you were staying in this hotel, and you were contemplating if it was your birthday since he was with you the whole time. No missions, no going out… just with you. You’re both sitting quietly away somewhere, by a lake, and the sun is almost set. He holds your hand gently, and you wonder why he actually looks clean today. In reality, he’s been planning this for months, and he’s brought out his best suit and his hands are practically shaking in nervousness. He’s talked about this with Hosea, Arthur, even Mary Beth. He doesn’t want to fuck this up. “Just be yourself, John.” They’d all say. Now, he looks at you, smiling while he kisses your hand. Kneeling down, he shows a ring. “I… [READER]. I know it’s not much, but… I’ll try to make you happy. Will you marry me?” And he tries to be romantic, he really does, but he can’t help but shift himself awkwardly and try not to evade your eyes that were now swelling up. “Oh, you idiot,” You say, urging for him to stand up. “Yes, yes… I will. I’ll marry you.” His face lights up like a Christmas tree, as he holds your waist and spins you around acting all giddy. “You do? You will?” He can’t believe it.

♣︎ ; And you knew one day that the mistakes, the crimes, and overall bad he’d done would catch up to him. You were having a baby to be delivered. You hadn’t told him yet, hoping to surprise him and get a reaction out of him. You’d bet he’d cry. But Bounty hunters were coming, and they couldn’t care less. They opened the house’s doors with urgency and force, the guns’ barrels pointing at you. “Found the wife,” One said, eyeing the ring on your finger while you tried to protect yourself. “Where’s John Marston? Listen, we’re in a hurry here. I’ll blow you brains out if you don’t tell me where he is, woman. Don’t try anything funny.” In a panicked state, you grabbed a nearby hidden revolver and shot the hunter by the abdomen, as he groaned in pain and fell to his knees. The fellow bounty hunters pulled their triggers in unison, though only one bullet manages to pierce you. Unfortunately, it placed itself by your stomach. John barges through the door, horrified, as the hunters dropped to the floor. All you could hear were bullets flying, your own fast, ragged breathing, and John repeatedly calling out your name. “No, no, no, no… [READER], look at me. Don’t go. [READER].” He says softly, as his hand tries to stop the blood from flowing any further. You could see in your blurred vision that he tears were falling from his eyes. “No… No, please. Please.” He says again, and you manage to speak despite the blood coming out of your mouth. “John… John, I’m pregnant.” Everything is shattered for him. He freezes. “I love you, okay? We love you.” You add weakly. He wished he came sooner. Regret, guilt, and fear began to fill his heart when he saw the light in your eyes fading away. “No… Please… I—I love you. I love you both. Don’t… Stay with me, please.”

KIERAN DUFFY

♥︎ ; You caught Kieran plucking the petals of a white flower, sitting down on a rock as he mumbled quietly to himself, “She loves me… she loves me not… she loves me. She does?” He says, and realizes you were listening. He turns red and nervously throws the flower stem away, coughing. He had a cute little crush on you. It was painfully obvious — he knew that equally.

♥︎ ; He would stare at you from afar, talking to Branwen absentmindedly. “Ain’t she just… the prettiest girl you’ve seen?” He says, like the horse could understand.

♥︎ ; Flirting with him (or attempting to) was a comical and cute sight. You’d say something completely innocent and blood would rush to the tip of his ears and dust his cheeks immediately. “There he is,” You say. “How’s my lovely Kieran doing?” He forgets to breathe.

♥︎ ; The mere act of fingers brushing would startle the poor guy, however, he tries to make amends for his terrible nervousness with trying to at least make small advances to you. “Hey, uh, [READER]. You’re… looking really… pretty today.”

♥︎ ; His hands are sweaty and shaky when you hold them, but he manages to always gently caress your knuckles with his thumb.

♥︎ ; Kieran loves the feel of your lips. It gets him giddy and excited inside, and he looks all shy and cute on the outside as well. He loves when you plaster kisses all over his face, especially on the bridge of his nose, like a little branding. He always looks a little dizzy after the assault.

♥︎ ; “I… ain’t ever had a relationship before, but… I know I ain’t leavin’ you. Ever.” He mumbles, with a small smile as he hands you a necklace. “I… I love you.” He says, for the first time, and it makes you the happiest woman in the world. “I love you too, Kieran.”

♠︎ ; Gets hard really easily. One moment you’re fishing with him, and the next you see him urgently facing his body away from you, having a hard time holding the fishing rod. You could swear he was shaking, clutching it with a grip of an eagle. “What’s wrong?” You ask innocently, but he refuses to indulge in giving you an answer. “N-Nuthin’…” He manages to get out.

♣︎ ; The last thing Kieran ever says to you is “see you later.” It’s a simple statement, a short promise, that he broke soon after. He always had that nervous smile when he departed with you, scared that something unpredictable might happen. Life was going good to him, at least, when he met you. The man had a whole life to live ahead of him, albeit his past posing as a shadow. The news of his death didn’t register in your mind until a few weeks later, when you had yourself on your knees, clutching the necklace he gave you in your hands. And it hurt twice as much when you realized you were practically the only one mourning him.