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darkworkcourier · 2 years

Note

You’re doing Ghost!! Can I request an exercise in sharing body heat in cold conditions that turns into *other* forms of exercise? Preferably a non-military female reader if that tickles your fancy. So excited to see you back on tumblr, I loved your RDR2 and FC5 work back in the day 💕💕💕

Hi yes I’d like to apologize that this tiny prompt turned into EIGHT THOUSAND WORDS OF PORN OH GOD

(Also, try and find all the Far Cry 5 references. :3c As a thank you for hanging out with me all this time!)

Reader works for the National Park Service and gets pulled into a mission involving guiding Ghost to go after a (wink) paramilitary organization in (WINK WINK) Montana. Things go awry.

---

“Piss poor excuse for a shortcut, Ranger,” Ghost says to your back.

Your mid-back, actually, since you’re about two feet above him on the hillside which is way steeper than you remember. You could have sworn there was a trail cut through here, or maybe that was a half mile down the ridge, or maybe— Maybe it’s good to not second guess it when you think Ghost’s about a full thirty seconds from ditching you and going off on his own.

“You wanna get shot at?” you ask over your shoulder, voice slightly muffled in your scarf. “Because if you took the main road, that’s what you’d get.”

“I would do just fine,” he replies dryly.

Right, he’s got a tactical vest on. You have a down jacket that would just make for a really interesting display of flying feathers if you got shot. The best defense you have is the handgun he gave you for protection, and a Park Service badge that would elevate the threat of killing a federal employee. Not that Ghost’s targets would care, but it makes you feel better.

The two of you trudge through waist-deep snow, thick even on the incline. You’re practiced enough with winter weather hiking to approach it fairly spryly, but you’re also not lugging an incredible about of gear like he is.

“It’s not that far, anyway,” you tell him, just to make conversation. “It’s this ridge, then the Beaver Dam River, and then the lookout tower.”

“Real walk in the park,” he replies.

“Literally,” you say brightly.

His grunt isn’t very amused.

The biggest problem is the cold. It’s northern Montana in the depths of winter, and every shrieking sickle of wind that cuts through the mountains physically hurts. You’re prepared enough for the temperature drop, but you worry more about what happens after dark, when it goes from tolerable to goddamn polar. If it wasn’t vital for you to be out here, you would have stayed in.

For lack of anything better to do as you finish ascending the ridge, you think on the whole situation. A paramilitary extremist group hiding out in the mountains, some multinational task force you’d never heard of swooping into the park, and you getting swept up into it all and taken on as a guide. It sounds like something straight out of an action movie, but here you are and there Ghost is.

Hell, even his name and whole look makes the reality of all this seem that much out of pocket. He’s dressed in winter tactical gear, white and gray mottled camo, hood pulled down low over the skull-plated balaclava that you’re fairly sure he never takes off. He blends in with his surroundings, but at the same time, he really sticks out.

You get to the top of the ridge, pausing for a moment to take in your surroundings. Sure enough, by your reckoning, you’re about a quarter mile off from the actual trail. It’s easy to remedy, leading Ghost down the relatively level ridge to where the trail appears as a shallow divot in the snow.

Of course, he points it out.

“Got lost, did we?”

You roll your eyes. “Not lost,” you correct. “Just slightly askew on the directions. Everything looks the same in the snow.”

“Thought you knew this place like the back of your hand.”

“I do,” you say, stepping down onto the trail and grimacing when the snow goes up to your hips. Ghost is so damn huge that it probably barely goes over his knees, but you don’t turn around to look. “And I wasn’t too far off!”

“Slightly off is still off,” he retorts.

You really wish they would have sent the nice, happy Scottish guy with you instead.

Once you clear the ridge’s treeline, you see the lookout tower poking above the trees straight ahead of you. Grinning, you point it out to Ghost.

“Affirmative, Ranger. I see it.”

“You can just say ‘yes’.”

You can hear him sigh, and then, “Yes,” said like he’s punching the word out of the air.

The trail crosses over the river, cutting through at its shallowest section for this part of the park. The only problem is that the Beaver Dam River doesn’t freeze, so there’s a very real risk of soaking through your boots and defeating the purpose of having moisture-wicking socks. With any luck, you’ll have some downed trees or rocks to cross over, and the river won’t be too high.

That’s with any luck; the opposite being the luck you currently have, as the river’s clearer than you’ve ever seen it once you reach it. You hiss out a curse under your breath, glancing up and down the banks to see if there’s any easier way to cross.

Nada.

“Shit,” you mutter.

“What’s shit?”

“River’s clear, but it’s... well, it’s fuckin’ cold is what it is,” you say, watching the glacially-fed water happily rush by you.

He shrugs. “Looks shallow enough.”

“It is, except—” You look down at your boots, cringing at the thought of all the fun ways water can get in them.

Beside you, Ghost looks down at them as well. “They’re not waterproof?”

“They are, but probably not for walking through a river.”

“Jesus,” he murmurs, then steps right into the water. You see it course around his ankles, protected by his thick boots that probably cost more than a month of rent back home. Once he’s on the other side, he turns back to you, dark eyes peering out through his mask, making him look like a bizarre death motif hanging out on the banks of a very chilly River Styx.

“Damn it,” you hiss. You’ll have to be quick, not settling long enough for the water to leach into your boots and socks.

It’s probably comical to Ghost to watch you hopping across the river, up until your boot hits something—loose gravel, a slimy rock, or just a pocket of underwater bad luck. Whatever it is, it sends you right on your ass and into the water. The only good thing is that it’s not deep, but that does shit to negate the cold shock that knocks the wind right out of you. Cold pierces right through your clothes, hitting your skin like dozens of tiny knives. You gasp first, then yelp, and finally scramble out of the water and right into Ghost’s arms.

To be fair, in the shock, you didn’t see his sudden movement toward you, so you yelp again—right into his ear—when he scoops you up. His head jerks back, but he holds you steady regardless.

“Jesus fuck!” you gasp, already shivering hard. Parts of you are too numb to register on your brain’s running docket of limbs and appendages, but others hurt like shit.

“You okay?” Ghost asks, sounding a little breathless. His hands are on your shoulders, holding you in place.

Great question; you don’t have a good answer. You nod, but you’re pretty sure the uncontrollable shivering is telling another story.

“Let’s get you to that tower,” he says. His voice takes on the command form you only heard back when you sat in on the task force’s meeting. It’s solid, and strangely comforting to hear him take charge. “Sooner we’re inside, the better.”

“C-couldn’t agree m-m-more,” you manage, crossing your arms and digging your hands into your armpits.

Ghost takes the lead up the trail, which is good because your legs feel pretty damn numb. You don’t think it’s frostbite yet, but you know that’s a very real risk, especially as the clouds overhead start to darken with the oncoming evening. Because of the tower’s high perch, the trail snakes back and forth up the hill—a half hour’s walk in good weather and a steady pace, but longer in your state.

Ghost’s surprisingly patient, purposefully slowing his pace so you can keep up. He looks over his shoulder again and again, like he’s making sure you’re still there and not face-down in a snowbank. On your end, you keep your eyes fixed on his backpack, determined to keep it in your sight.

Halfway up the hill, Ghost decides to change tactics. He stops, shouldering off his backpack, then handing it to you. “Put it on,” he says. “Then get on my back.”

“What?”

“Just do as I say,” he says, brooking no argument in his tone. “It’ll be faster.”

You put on the backpack, not surprised that it weighs a metric ton. At the same time, your vision swims a little, dark shapes appearing in your vision before fizzling out like little firecrackers.

Oh, we’re in trouble, you think.

Ghost makes sure the backpack’s secure before turning around and going down on a knee to give you space to climb up. Non-hypothermic you would find this a great opportunity to make a down-on-one-knee joke, but you’re way too fucking cold to do much more than shiver and hang on to him for dear life. His hands go to the back of your thighs, supporting you while you cling to his neck, pressing your face into the back of his coat.

“You good?”

You nod.

“Need a verbal confirmation, Ranger,” he says, not without a hint of humor.

You manage a stifled, shuddering laugh and say, “Yep.”

“Good enough.”

He carries you up the hill, the incline steep enough to make the backpack feel heavier somehow. You don’t know how he’s managing it as well as he is, except for whatever freakish training they probably do in England. In your swimming, dizzy mind, you imagine Ghost hoisting crates of tea over his head, and that sends you into a giggling fit.

“What’s so funny back there?” he asks. However, you can’t miss the sliver of concern in his voice.

“H-how d’you train in Eng-g-gland?” you ask, the middle syllable briefly caught in the back of your throat.

“How do I what?”

“B-back where-e-ever you come f-from-m-m,” you say, shivering harder even though you can feel his body heat close to your core. “W-what do th-they make you d-d-do?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and all you hear are his boots crunching in the snow and the wind snapping through the trees around you.

“Vigorous biscuit lifts,” he says.

You snort against his coat, and then cling tighter, feeling your limbs prickle in the cold.

You’re silent the rest of the way up the hill, shivering and sniffling as Ghost carries you. Finally, you reach the top, and you glance up to see the lookout tower’s staircase which until now has never looked so fucking tall.

“Sh-shit,” you say.

“Just hang on,” Ghost says. “You’ll be fine.”

“N-n-no, I th-thought I’d l-l-let go,” you joke, but your arms do feel like they’re going to fall off, and you’re starting to lose feeling in your fingertips.

He grunts and adjusts his hold on your thighs, then starts the ascent up the stairs. You really do have to wonder about his physical training regimen, because you’re pretty sure you’d be dead before you reached the top in your state. He’s only panting, breaths coming out in thin clouds in front of his balaclava.

“S’it locked?” he asks.

“No.”

“Good,” he says, letting you down onto your numb feet so he can open the door. He goes in first, hand close to his thigh holster, quickly scoping the single room before letting you in. "Clear.”

Your steps waver a little as you walk in, then quickly fall onto the bed without much ceremony. You’re a shivering mess, every part of you that you can still feel trembling with the cold. It’s not much warmer in the tower, but at least the wind’s blocked out. Ghost walks over and helps you shoulder off the pack, then leaves your line of site, his presence indicated by heavy footsteps, the sound of the backpack’s zipper being opened, and then soft clanking and thumping.

Your consciousness wavers on a very dangerous precipice, and you know you really need to get out of your wet clothes. You’re not at the paradoxical undressing stage of hypothermia, which is a good sign. But that also means you have no strong desire to strip, either.

Somewhere in your half-doze, you hear Ghost working on the potbelly stove, opening it on its whiny hinges, loading its gullet with wood left over from the last restock, then striking a match. It doesn’t take long to hear the throaty crackle of burning wood, and that’s a comfort in of itself.

Ghost is back at your side, gently shaking your shoulder. “Hey, Ranger,” he says. “Let’s get you out of those clothes.”

“Mmn,” is your best response, and not a particularly eloquent one.

“C’mon,” he presses, then manhandles you up into a sitting position. Your muscles give a pretty passionate protest, and you blink wearily up at him as he helps you take off your gloves, then unzips your jacket. His eyes flicker up to yours, assessing you. “You still with me?”

You nod, lifting your stiff arms for him to help you out of your sleeves.

“You know the signs of hypothermia, right?”

“Y-yeah,” you say, squeezing your eyes shut as a fresh rush of pins and needles goes down your right arm.

“Alright, let me know if any of ‘em get worse.” He drops your coat in front of the stove, then gestures to your half-soaked sweater. “Can you get that off by yourself?”

You nod again, then start the suddenly grueling work of getting out of it. It’s heavy wool, designed specifically to be as thick and warm as possible. That also means that it’s a bitch to get out of when your arms feel like cooked pasta. Still, Ghost’s already doing a lot for you, so the least you can do is prove that you’re better at a toddler than taking your clothes off.

Oh. Yeah, there’s that. You’re taking your clothes off in front of Ghost. That’s a whole thing to parse through.

But you manage to get out of the sweater, and that’s a victory. You drop it next to the bed, then start undoing the laces on your boots, fingers fumbling the whole time.

“Need help?” Ghost asks.

You look up at him, and then feel a very welcome heat rush to your face.

He’s ditched his coat on a chair next to the stove, tactical vest laid aside on the lookout’s desk. He’s down to a skin-tight black long-sleeved shirt that does wonders in showing off his musculature, and his hand are— Holy shit, he’s undoing his belt.

“W-what are you d-doing?” you ask. Bonus points for you that you’re not shivering as hard. Lack of bonus points that you’re openly ogling the lieutenant like he’s a prime beef steak (and he is).

He gestures back to you, one boot off, the other half-undone. “Getting undressed,” he says very plainly. “Fastest way to warm you up. You know that.”

You do, is the problem. It’s in every survival manual you’ve read and every class you’ve taken for your job. At the same time, it’s in at least four romance novels you’ve perused. And you’ve spent nearly four full months without coming into contact with any human being for more than an hour at a time; getting naked with a gigantic, musclebound man nearly sends your addled brain into a tailspin.

You quickly undo the other boot, trying to will your hands to stop shaking.

This isn’t the time to get shy, especially as your limbs ache in new and profound ways and you feel like you’re never going to be warm again.

The boot comes off, then you peel your wet socks off and drop them on the floor with a very telling plap sound. Your feet prickle and ache as the chilled air hits them and your shivering renews in spades. The faster you get undressed and under any kind of cover, the better it is for both of you.

Snow pants go next, then your work pants, until you’re down to a t-shirt and long underwear.

And Ghost is—

Fuck.

If there was any blood left in your suffering arms and legs, it must redirect right up to your face, making your head swim in a whole new body of water. Ghost’s stripped down to his boxers and (of course) his balaclava. His back’s to you, but that means it’s on full display as he puts all of his clothing in a semi-neat pile. When he turns back to you, you see his eyes widen a little as he lifts his brows.

“Still wearing too much, Ranger,” he states.

You know that, but there’s a pretty firm disconnect somewhere in your synapses, body firmly resisting any higher command to do literally anything useful.

He seems to register that issue, because he’s at your side in an instant, tugging on the hem of your t-shirt to help you out of it. You squawk in surprise, almost falling back onto the bed.

If you could read masked expressions a bit better, you might think he’s amused.

“I— I can d-do it m-m-myself,” you stutter out. Fighting down any urge to be bashful in a survival situation, you get out of your t-shirt, then maneuver yourself enough to take off your long johns. At the end, you’re down to just a sports bra and panties. Pointedly, you don’t look up to see Ghost’s reaction.

“Take this side of the bed,” he says, gesturing to the edge you’re sitting on. “It’s closer to the stove.”

You do so, feeling him get on the bed and go over to the far side closest to the window. He pulls up the blanket and quilt, then slips underneath them before holding them up for you.

With your back to him, you lay on your side and shimmy under the cold blankets. Behind you, Ghost grunts in what sounds like irritation.

“Turn around,” he says.

You swallow hard, worrying that he’d say that. Reluctantly, you roll over to face him. Or, rather, face his chest, which is alarmingly close. And it’s a good chest, all muscle-y and firm, with a fine dusting of light blond hairs on his pectorals. When you look up, he’s still wearing that balaclava. You squint at him.

“H-how come y-y-you’re still wearing th-that?”

“Doesn’t come off, Ranger,” he states, although the corners of his eyes crinkle like he’s smiling.

“Ever?”

“Affirmative.”

You groan and lean your head forward until it touches one of his collarbones. “Just s-say yes-s,” you complain.

He actually laughs this time, a low, rumbling sound deep in his chest, before you feel his arm wrap around you, pulling him close to him. It’s startling, and damn embarrassing, but you definitely can’t argue with the results. Almost immediately, his body heat seeps into your skin, first warming your hands pressed in between your chests. One of his feet brushes over one of yours, causing you to jump, and then settle with your eyes squeezed shut in mortification.

But that mortification gives way to blissful comfort as everything warms up. The stove radiates heat as the wood crackles and shifts, and Ghost is a stove in himself. The little space beneath the blankets is a pocket of glorious heat, and you start to feel the ache in your limbs recede and your head clear of its chilly fog.

You don’t know how long it is before he speaks again, but his voice comes in close to your ear. “You doing alright, Ranger?”

You’re relaxed enough that you nod and smile with your eyes closed. “Yeah,” you say.

“You ever do this in survival training?”

You scrunch up your nose a little. “I read about it. We never actually practiced stripping down and cuddling.”

He snorts. “It’s not cuddling.”

You crack open an eye, looking up into his greasepaint-ringed gaze. Feeling emboldened by the fact you can feel your arms and legs and nothing hurts, you gently shove his chest. “What do you call this, lieutenant?”

“Hypothermia prevention.”

You roll your eyes. “Just say it’s cuddling. It’s easier. Less syllables.”

He doesn’t say a word.

Before long, the crackling of the fire and Ghost’s steady breathing lull you into a doze. You go in and out of sleep, deeper and deeper as the sky darkens outside and causes the fire to make strange shadows around the room. You wake once to find your arm around Ghost’s waist, your chest pressed against his, the crown of your head under his chin. You’re sleepy enough that this doesn’t strike you as odd or something you should remedy. It’s way too easy to fall asleep after that.

You wake again to Ghost moving against you, getting out from under the blankets and crawling across the bed until he steps down on the floor. You groan and roll over to watch him as he crouches in front of the stove, opening the door to add more wood to the fire.

He stands back up and looks down at you, shadows making his face look like an eyeless skull. You admire his body cast in the warm light, more than happy to openly stare at him when he walks back to the bed.

“You feelin’ alright, Ranger?” he asks.

“Mm. I’d be better if you got back in bed,” you say, heart outrunning your mind by leagues.

He lets out a soft laugh and shakes his head. “Things that sound better outside of a survival situation,” he says.

As he crawls over you and back under the covers, you do manage to parse that sentence out through the thick haze of sleep. You turn back to face him, looking up into the dark sockets of his mask.

“What does?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“What sounds better?”

He’s silent for a thoughtful moment before he breathes out through his nose. “Nothin’. Forget it.”

Nope. You’re not forgetting it, especially as you wake up a little more and take in the sight of him laying next to you.

Briefly, you think back to the meeting back at the ranger station, when Captain Price outlined the mission to gather intel on the extremist group. You stood across the table from Ghost, watching him as he stared down at the topography map, then at the dossier in front of him. But then he looked up at you, eyes striking in his mask. After that, you felt his eyes on you all afternoon, and again in the morning when you set to head out.

At the time, you thought he was just observant. He needed to know he could trust you to lead him through the wilderness, assessing you in depth and measuring you up against the other rangers at the station.

But now? Well, now you’re not so sure. You could test it, though. Now that you have all your faculties pretty well in check, you’re tempted to see how he would react to you.

Besides, it’s dark and the two of you are isolated in the Montana wilderness. The only bad thing that could come of this is a very awkward morning.

So, in line with Ghost’s whole vibe—go big or go home.

You pull yourself into a sitting position, tucking your fingers up and under the elastic hem of your sports bra. The second you pull your bra up, you hear Ghost’s breath hitch. He doesn’t make a sound as you take your bra off, sighing in relief and dropping it off the side of the bed.

Behind you, Ghost’s voice is a dry, hot rasp. “Feel better?”

Nervousness flutters around in your chest as you shimmy back under the covers, bare chest now just a suggestion in the fabric. You force a smile. “I hate wearing a bra to bed, and you’re not wearing anything.”

“Thought you’d be warmed up enough by now.”

Taking in a breath to steady your nerves, you don’t answer but raise one of your hands to brush over his chest. He doesn’t move back, or seize your wrist. Instead, he holds still, letting your fingers explore the textures of his skin—scarring and all. One particularly rough scar catches your attention, and you run your fingers around its circumference.

“What’s this one?”

You don’t look up, but you feel Ghost’s eyes burning on you. “Bullet wound from an insurgent. 2017. Laid up in hospital for three weeks.”

Your hand goes lower, finding a raised scar as long as a pencil above his navel. “And this one?”

His breathing is steady, but you’re more aware of it now, of the rise and fall of his chest, your shadow cast across his skin. “Hunting knife to the gut from a drug trafficker in London.”

“When?”

“2012.”

“How long were you in the hospital?”

“Two and a half weeks. Most of it was from surgery.”

You nod, getting bold enough to scoot closer until your breasts press against his chest. His breath hitches, which feels like some kind of success. Something you should report back to Captain Price.

Then, one of his hands brushes over your side, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, down to your hip. Goosebumps rise on your arms and a shiver runs up your spine, thrilling you. His hand goes back up, then follows a line downward over your stomach to a set of small scars on your right side.

“Appendectomy?” he guesses.

You smile. “2019,” you respond. “In the hospital for two whole days.”

“How did you ever survive?”

“Ibuprofen and HBO,” you reply.

You see his mask move with a smile, and then his hand goes up to your chest, following the divot of your sternum. Below his hand, your heart beats deceptively quick, threatening to upend your calmness. Ghost notices, of course, moving his hand to rest over your left breast, your heart threatening to break right out of there like an escaped prisoner.

His voice is like liquid heat in your ears when he says, “Do you want this?”

You could ask him to clarify—play dumb, like you have no idea what you’re insinuating. But the darkness is so all-encompassing, so protective. The world outside doesn’t know about the world in this room, in this bed. You feel safe here, and there’s an opportunity literally laying in front of you.

You smile, and say, “Affirmative.”

He doesn’t jump into action. Instead, his left hand moves down, massive palm covering your breast, pressing gently as he leans his head down close to yours, hard shell of his mask pressing against your forehead.

You look up at him, reaching to tug at the bottom of his balaclava. “Can you take this off?” you ask. “Or at least pull it up over your mouth?”

Another thoughtful silence, and then he does something a little more unexpected. He pulls you close to him, chest to chest, and bodily rolls you over until you’re on the far side of the bed and his back’s to the stove. This way, you can’t see his face, his mask disappearing in his silhouette. You see him reach up and pull the balaclava off, some of his short hair clinging to the fabric before falling away. He sets it down behind him, probably within arm’s reach.

“That better?” he asks, his voice clearer now, hotter, like he’s removed a physical and emotional barrier.

You grin. “Is there anything stronger than ‘affirmative’?” you ask.

“Hard copy,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

“Well, then, hard copy, sir.”

And you lean in, pressing your lips to his. In the dark, you miss a little, kissing somewhere closer to his chin; Ghost corrects the approach and kisses you in full. His kiss is like him—strong, solid, an undercurrent of ferocity as he catches your bottom lip with his teeth. Your left hand goes to the side of his face, reeling yourself into him and deepening the kiss. In a word, it’s exhilarating. Maybe it’s in part because of what you’ve gone through today, but you go at him like you crave him, and he returns the favor.

His right hand cups the back of your neck, a gentle but firm pressure. His other hand moves down to your chest, thumb brushing over right nipple, drawing a gasp out of you against his lips. You feel him smile against you, then tweak the nipple again. A small, hot shock of pleasure follows a current down your spine, relaying right into your core and sparking a small fire.

If that’s how he’s going to do it, you’ll do the same.

Pressing your hand to his chest, you bring up one of your knees in between his legs, pressing gently against his crotch and making him bite back a curse. You’re quick to kiss him harder, shutting him up before he can say anything about it. In retaliation, he drops the hand on your neck to palm your other breast, massaging both simultaneously as you moan into his mouth.

Where you were freezing before, it now feels like the room can’t get any hotter. That spark lit by Ghost’s first few touches fans into a fully-fledged flame, threatening to burn right through you. You begin rocking your knee in between his legs—alternating pressure, then no pressure—until his hips begin to move against you, his cock growing hard against your thigh.

You tilt your head back and grin. “Well, isn’t someone an eager beaver?” you tease.

He groans and presses his forehead against yours. “Your pillow talk needs work,” he replies.

Your response to his complaint is to reach down and stroke your fingers over his tented erection, earning a surprised grunt and a hissed, “Shit.”

“What’s shit?” you ask, echoing his words by the river.

His voice is all irritation and arousal in equal parts, “The fact we still have clothes on, that’s what’s shit.”

“Oh. Easy fix.”

Again bypassing ceremony, you curl in on yourself enough to pull your panties off, wiggling out of them before tossing them somewhere in the direction of the stove and hoping they don’t get burnt. Then you hook a leg over his still-clothed hip, grinding against his thigh.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, reaching up to run his fingers through your hair, then forming a half-tight fist so you’re forced to look up at his silhouette. “Now who’s eager?”

“I think it’s a firm tie,” you say, feeling another thrill of victory as Ghost reaches down to shove your leg off and pull down his boxers. Once they’re gone, all the proverbial bets are off. Aside from the shadow he’s wearing like a second mask, he’s completely exposed to you, bare and vulnerable to every touch. It’s like a drug to you, intoxicating and really fucking addicting.

Apparently, Ghost thinks about the same of you. His hand is back on your hip, but trails down to your sex, palming your mons, fingers just brushing over your labia.

You feel him look at you. “Can I?”

No further question from you, especially when your arousal is threatening some serious whiteout conditions in your head. “Yeah. God, yeah.”

One large finger slides against your slit, and you hear yourself, the slick, wet sound audible above anything else in the room. Ghost curses again, drawing his finger back and forth, listening to that sound like he can’t get enough of it.

“Fuck, Ranger. You’re so fuckin’ wet.”

“You kinda have that effect,” you manage to say, before the pad of his finger brushes over your clit and draws out a moan that you bury in his chest.

But his other hand finds your shoulder, pushing you back, before he nudges up under your chin. “No. It’s just us two out here. I wanna hear you,” he says, his voice so hot, smoldering in your ears.

He rubs your clit again, and there’s nothing to hide behind, no muffler to conceal the gasp and moan that follow. Your pleasure is completely on display, and Ghost seems more than happy to draw it out further, admiring it from every angle. He draws circles around your clit, teasing you, adding more fuel to that particular fire—the irony of feeling this way in a tower meant to watch for fires isn’t lost on you.

His finger goes lower, trailing down to your opening, going back and forth several times. The friction is damn near unbearable, and it takes every iota of self control not to grind on his hand. But your hips roll outside your control, and he catches the movement with another low rumble of a laugh.

“There somethin’ you want?” he asks, index finger running a low, lazy circle around your entrance.

You nod, shuddering when he only just dips the tip of his finger in. “Ghost, please.”

“Please what?”

You hear yourself whine, a sound you never thought to hear coming out of your own damn mouth. This man makes you feel ridiculous. And he also probably gets off on hearing you say stuff like this. “Finger me,” you say, exasperated and aroused. “Please, for fuck’s sake.”

“That’s not very pretty,” he teases, and you’re very close to shoving him off the bed. But then he pushes his finger in, and any retort you were set to say or do dies immediately, consumed in the wildfire he’s ignited and fed. He presses his lips to your cheek as you moan, now very unapologetically rolling your hips against his hand as he fingers you, per request. You feel a second finger insinuating against you, and then hear Ghost whisper, “Okay?” against your ear.

“Yes. Oh my God, yes, please.”

“Much prettier,” he says, and the second finger joins the first.

The thought that he’s done this before only just brushes your thoughts as he hooks his fingers in a ‘come here’ gesture, sending hot sparks of pleasure running through your body, using your nervous system like an electrical conduit. You rock against his hand, moaning and gasping as Ghost kisses your neck, scraping his teeth over your tender skin.

“Good girl,” he says, breath hot over your shoulder, before he presses a kiss against your clavicle. How his kisses can feel so chaste while he relentlessly fingerfucks you is beyond your comprehension. The praise just makes it better, making that hot coil inside of you turn tighter, ready to be sprung on a hair trigger.

Ghost picks up on that, too. He suddenly doubles down on the effort, fingers thrusting into you at a much more rapid pace, the wet sound of his hand against your pussy practically deafening. Only his murmurs of praise against your ear register above that.

You’re reduced to a repetitive litany of ‘god’, ‘fuck, ‘please’, and Ghost’s name. All those months without seeing people and having only your hand to keep you company make this oncoming orgasm all the more vibrant and bright, a flare launched high into the air with a huge charge set to explode.

Your hips arch up, and Ghost hooks his fingers again, saying, “Come for me,” in a firm command tone.

And you are not one to ignore a command.

You come hard, crying out and arching off the bed, toes digging into the mattress, hands grasping for literally anything solid, including Ghost. He fucks you through it, coaxing your release out with the finesse of someone defusing an explosive. You come down in fits and starts, catching on little plateaus of pleasure along the way, moaning all the while. Finally, you go practically boneless on the bed, and only then does Ghost relent and pull his fingers away.

You hear him chuckle, a dry and throaty rasp of sound that makes you feel hot all over.

“What’s so funny?” you say, although your words are slurred as endorphins run relay races through your body.

He holds his hand up so that the firelight catches it, and you very plainly see how wet his whole hand is. To show it off, he presses his fingers together, then spreads them out, showing thin strings bridging between them.

“Oh, God,” you squeak, covering your face with your hands and fighting back a round of giggles. “I am so sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart,” he says, clearly pleased. He reaches somewhere behind him, presumably to wipe his hand off on the side of the bed.

And sweetheart. This man is going to kill you, and it has nothing to do with his occupation.

You tilt your head up to kiss him again, sighing against his lips and pressing yourself close. His right hand finds the side of your face, residual dampness from your orgasm still very present. Except he treats it like a trophy, dragging it down to your neck so you can feel it.

It’s also impossible to ignore his arousal prodding against your hip. Not that you intended to ignore it.

Before you can think and reason out an appropriate response, your primal brain takes hold. “Can I ride you?” you ask, and only after it’s said do you feel any kind of horror at outright asking. He purposefully arranged the two of you so you couldn’t see his face, like a Montana wilderness version of Eros and Psyche. Now you’re asking for him to lay on his back, exposed to you in every way.

He’s silent, and you’re about to apologize and suggest spooning or something when he says, “Sure.”

You blink, almost certain you misheard. “Say what?”

“You can, yeah.”

“What about the—”

It’s his turn to kiss you quiet, taking the opportunity to pull you close again and roll on his back. You meet the movement with your own, straddling his hips and feeling his erection press against your sex with insistence. You keep kissing Ghost with your eyes closed, finding his hand next to his head with your own and weaving your fingers together. His grip on your hand is firm—a solid, warm reassurance.

You turn your head, keeping your eyes closed. “I can keep my eyes shut if you want,” you tell him, only to feel his other hand come up and run over your back.

“You can look,” he says.

It feels like a point of no return now. Seeing his face, knowing that a person who this morning was still a stranger with a codename is now going to be very real—you’re almost breathless at the thought.

Slowly, you sit up while astride him, and open your eyes.

He’s— Well, handsome doesn’t seem like a well-rounded enough word. You were more on the mark with the Eros and Psyche metaphor. Firelight and shadow play across sharp features, making him look otherworldly. There’s still greasepaint around his eyes, which makes his gaze all the more intense. But the intensity is mitigated by a plush mouth, a distinctive nose, and a firm jaw. His light hair catches the warm ember-gold hue from the fire. All his features put together make for a face that you want burnt into your memory.

“Jesus, Ghost. You hide this on purpose?” you ask.

He smiles, and it’s only hearing him speak that connects the Ghost you know to the man underneath you. “Yes,” he says. “And it’s Simon.”

You must look owlish, eyes wide, blinking, damn sure you misheard again.

Ghost seems pleased by your reaction, reaching up with his free hand to brush hair out of your face. “That’s my name. My actual name.”

“Simon,” you repeat. A human name to a human face. There’s some poetry in there, but you’re too dazzled to work through it.

“Sounds good when you say it.”

You preen a little, then lean down and kiss him, savoring the sensation for everything it’s worth. And you know he read your name on the dossier, heard it from the other rangers—still, you whisper it into his ear like a secret, and he repeats it back to you in his low voice, accent curling around it perfectly.

Yeah, you’re absolutely going to ride this man until sunrise.

You reach down and take his cock into your hand, stroking it a few times and pressing your thumb up under the exposed head. Ghost—Simon moans and tilts his head back, watching you under half-lidded eyes. Carefully, you go up on your knees and align yourself with him, slowly lowering down and adjusting as needed. He’s big, which you expected from everything else about him. But it’s not a painful fit; if anything, it feels damn good.

“Fuck,” he breathes, hand stroking over your hip as he looks to where you’re joined. “You have no idea what you look like right now.”

“Neither do you,” you reply, very much enjoying the angle. He fills you up completely, the strain of him just a pleasurable ache. You moan at the sensation as you experimentally rock on top of him. “Ohhh, I am so glad you got me off first.”

“What can I say? I’m chivalrous,” he replies, although it sounds a little strained as you move your hips again.

“That’s what you call it?”

Another roll, and he looks like he’s seconds from thrusting up into you. But he’s being conscientious, letting you adjust and go at your own pace. His eyes flutter closed, and you almost want to ask him to keep them open so you can enjoy their expressiveness.

“Something, something about being a British gentleman,” he mutters, and you can’t help but laugh. Apparently, that sensation’s pretty good for him; he shudders beneath you and keeps his hand braced on your hip.

Without his mask, you want to put him through the paces of reaction, committing each expression to memory, cataloging them for future use. So you go up on your knees again and come off his cock, then bring yourself back down. You do it a few more times, watching Simon’s expression with enormous interest, the pleasure and arousal doing fabulous things to his face.

He moans your name, and you’re definitely going to use that as fantasy fodder in the future.

Your earlier orgasm gives you plenty of lubrication to work with, and so you start to fuck yourself on him in earnest. In return, you’re rewarded with a low moan and a quiet, “Fuuuuck.”

The friction feels way too goddamn good, setting up another explosive charge inside of you as Simon starts meeting the bounce of your hips with thrusts of his own. Two opposing forces working toward the same goal, and it feels incredible.

You start to rock back on his cock, using his upward thrust as momentum to hit you just right. It’s the perfect angle, apparently for both of you, as Simon’s now breathing heavily, sweat a fine sheen on his skin.

“Yes, Simon, fuck me,” you whisper, beyond turned on at the wet sound of him fucking into you. You can’t tell if it’s hearing his name like that, the command, or both that make him really lean into this, but he’s pushing up hard, groaning and pulling you down so you’re pressed to his chest.

You wonder how long it’s been for him, too—briefly thinking oh god what if he’s got someone back home and I’m a fucking homewrecker before one particular upward thrust makes you cry out, clenching down on him in a way that’s audibly very good for him. You turn your head enough to see your joined hands, and when you squeeze his hand, you don’t feel any rings on his fingers. He does squeeze back, though, and it just feels like another reassurance.

There’s no way to keep track of time, and you really wish this could go on forever. The heat generated between the two of you is scorching, all-encompassing, a forest fire caught on the cusp of the lookout tower and reported to no one but yourselves.

His pace stutters a moment, the first hint that he’s very close. He releases his grip on your hand to grab at your other hip, pushing you up and off of him before you resolutely sit down, taking his cock in full and drawing a sharp gasp out of both of you.

“No,” you pant. “No, I have an IUD. You can— Ah, fuck— You can come inside me, Simon.”

“Oh, bloody fucking Christ,” he breathes, eyes wide and beautiful. “You’re sure?”

In response, you rock back against him, squeezing hard around his cock. “Affirmative,” you say, then lean down and kiss him again. “Very hard copy.”

And that’s enough to tip him right off the edge. He thrusts once, twice, and then he moans against your mouth, one of his hands going up to card through your hair, pressing you so close to him that you can feel his heart beating against your chest. You feel him come inside you, a pulse of heat, a sense of fullness. The room seems to take on new, brighter colors, and when you look at Simon, he looks fucking euphoric. The firelight gives him a look that’s like a touch of divinity, a golden cast over his face and body.

You take your time getting off of him, enjoying the feeling of him inside you too much. That, and there’s no bathroom, no shower—the comedown also means that reality’s a little too close at hand.

Simon catches his breath, hand loosely stroking your hair, and he presses a kiss to your temple before letting his head fall back onto the pillow. “Holy fuck,” he says.

You grin and nod against his shoulder, then slowly pull yourself off his softening cock, causing both of you to groan, albeit far weaker than before. You collapse onto the narrow bed beside him, nuzzling up close to him, hand on his chest, as he pulls the blankets up over you and wraps an arm around your shoulder. Your foreheads touch, and you listen to his breaths even out, his heart rate firm and steady under your hand.

“Probably too late to ask if you have a partner, huh?” you say, smiling as you run your thumb over his skin.

“If it’s any consolation, I don’t, and I also feel stupid for not asking.”

You look up at him, the orange line of firelight tracing his features. “I don’t either. You’re good.”

He smiles, and you set that expression in your memory, drawing it in great detail. “My job kind of gets in the way.”

“Mine, too,” you reply, tracing spirals over his chest with your index finger. “It’s hard to get a date when you live out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Didn’t want to go check out the paramilitary extremists next door?”

You grimace and hide your face against his chest, shaking your head. “Gross. No.”

His chest shakes with laughter, and it’s wonderful.

---

Morning comes too quick, dawning cold and gray, reminding you that there’s a whole weird world outside the confines of the lookout tower. You and Simon get up, both aching very pleasantly, exchanging one too-brief kiss before his radio goes off.

“Ghost, how copy?” Price’s voice comes through in a crackle.

“Fuck,” Simon hisses, getting up and crossing the room to his radio. You at least can enjoy that he does so fully nude. He picks up the radio and keys it, scratching at his stubble as he responds, “At location 29-B and holding, Captain,” he says, his voice a dry scratch of sound. “The ranger had a medical issue.”

“Is she alright? Do you need a med evac?”

“Negative,” he replies. “We’re moving in about an hour.”

“Rog’. Keep me posted.”

“Will do, sir.”

An hour. You groan and fall back on the bed, staring up at the bare wood ceiling, decades worth of cobwebs in the corners. Simon falls back into bed beside you, cupping your face and drawing you into another firm kiss. Then, something dawns on you, and you lean back, looking over his handsome face in the morning light.

“When you say we’re moving in an hour, do you mean moving out, or just moving?”

His brows go up, slightly crooked smile on his face. “I think I didn’t specify, Ranger,” he says. “Do you have a preference?”

You laugh, leaning in close and pressing your forehead against his again. “Affirmative,” you say.

Simon laughs and shakes his head. “You could just say yes.”

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #modern warfare ii #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #prompt fill #VERY big prompt fill oh god i'm so sorry #i've spent most of the day on this!!#and it's not edited yet because it's 10pm now and i'm very tired #did i have cody in mind as the model for the reader? yes. do i kinda ship her and ghost now? YEAH

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feathergail · 1 year

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Cowboys using their lasso to capture and tickle their lee!!! 🦋🦋🦋 And saying all the random little nicknames in the southern accent- 🫣

“Aww, does that tickle darling~”

“Yee Haw! This spot is making you buck wilder than a raging bull!”

It’s so funny yet so flustering to me-

OH MY GOODNESS

dude cowboys/cowgirls are so flustering bc of the southern drawl + nicknames. like “darlin” “pumpkin” “sugar” WHAT IF I DIED ON THE SPOT. plus the lasso thing u just mentioned AGGGHHH

need to redownload rdr2 NEOW

#inbox

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neppy-34 · 9 months

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I made a short post about this last night but i dont care im doin it again

LORD i wanna tickle Arthur Morgan so bad, i wanna plop myself right beside him and squeeze his sides and pinch up his ribs. I wanna dodge his slaps and pushes. I wanna hear how he wheezes and his chuckles and snorts.

He seldom laughs in game, but when he does I find myself replaying those moments in my head, i desperately want to hear him laugh more. Its so cute. Imagine being a ticklish cowboy??

I think he would blush too, it’s embarrassing being such a tough guy and getting all cackly from a few pokes and squeezes, the redness would compliment his eyes so wonderfully i think.

#nep rambles #sfw tickles #tickling #lee arthur #rdr2 tickle #this is so cringe AHAHAH #i just think hes so neat #oh my hod tickling right above his belt and pinching at his stomach.#i have a new crush #miguel is still my number one though she is fantastic

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ofallthingsnasty · 2 years

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through the briar

Pairing: Micah Bell x F!Reader Tags: dead dove: do not eat, hard noncon, sexual coercion, chubby reader, fat-shaming (reader receiving), alcohol, vaginal sex, this is not a happy fic, Micah Bell as his own trigger warning, Arthur Morgan is a good man but he can’t save you Word count: 4.8k Summary: He's a rotten man. And you've always been too soft, both in mind and body.

In the end, it all goes wrong after a ruined job.

Note: Please read the tags properly! I admit I don't like him but I like his character - if that makes sense? He is despicable and that makes him fun to write for. English is also not my first language, so if anything reads a little weird for the late 19th-century setting, that’s probably it. Sorry in advance. And please if you wanna talk rdr2 darkfic/smut, I am so here!!

The flames in front of you are high and merry.

During the day, they sting your cheeks in the Lemoyne heat, but at night they wrap themselves around you like a cozy blanket, a welcome addition to the tepid air that settles over Flat Iron Lake as soon as the sun sets. The days are long and suffocatingly hot here, something that you especially feel, under your skirts and in every crevice of your body. You spend them with rolled up sleeves and a prickling nose, entrenched into your chores with sweat dripping from your brow by noon. Only now, when the sun finally relents and stops spurring on the muggy air of the lake, can you appreciate the temperature. The nights are nice and, if you ignore the bugs that bite and nip at every inch of exposed skin, they’re even downright comfortable. Colter seems a long way from here now, and you’re grateful for it. You like it, sweat or not, and still you are sitting by the fire instead of sleeping, restless and your mind in coils. The other women are already in bed, even Karen, who is the one to stick around the longest these past few days, has long since started snoring. Truly, at first they had been understanding, but after days even they have grown a little tired of your groveling, especially now that Arthur is back from the brink of death and everyone busy with his recovery. No one cares about your little quarrel with Micah anymore. It has to seem small to them, you’re sure. It’s huge to you - you, the one who had a gun pressed to her forehead, almost a casualty of a failed stagecoach robbery - but at the end of the day, it’s nothing. And you agree, in part. It’s entirely your fault, you feel, that a silly, botched job has gone to your head that badly. It shouldn't irk you as much as it does, because you have seen many things go south in your time, after all. But it’s not every day that you stare death into the face, as well. You aren’t Arthur. Or John or Sean or even Micah, for whom it seems to be a daily occurence. You’re just you: soft in both mind and body, someone of Dutch’s ever-growing menagerie of pets and misfits. Picked up like a flea-ridden stray from the side of the road because you tickled something in the big, grand heart of Mr. Van der Linde, for whatever indiscernible reason.

You aren’t quite useless. But you aren’t all that helpful, either. And so it stings all the more to know you’re just a little more vulnerable than you thought you were. You didn’t botch the job, you’re quite aware of that. It had been Micah who messed it up; not acting quickly enough and rushing into the attack, paying no mind to you, who had been standing out in the open without protection. It certainly hadn’t been your looks that made it end badly, like he insisted afterwards, or your inability to handle a gun.

But Micah’s needling and taunts are hard to ignore when he knows just how to crawl into every however tightly guarded insecurity of yours.

He had been at his peak immediately after you crawled back into camp, clutching the reins of a borrowed shire like your life depended on it, eyes wide and hands cold. And even though you had already expected the treatment that followed after he stormed away from the busted-up coach when every single man around you was dead, it had stung immensely.

You did nothing but tuck your chin into yourself and let your eyes burn with tears while he berated you for mistakes that weren’t yours. Walking away didn’t help - he was like a hungry dog, nipping at your heels with venom in his voice and quick hands that waved around wildly, drawing everyone’s attention to your lecture. He pushed and prodded until your cheeks were a stinging, hot mess and you could only mumble about how sorry you were. Only Arthur arriving in camp with fresh game and a few dollars in his pocket had saved you. Micah rode out, then, and Arthur had shuffled you away to the main fire, a calming hand on your shoulder. And oh, Arthur. He had been the kindest about it all. Always a watchful eye on you when he was around because Micah did not let go of his venom - and when he was around, the blond would at least leave you with a couple of sarcastic remarks, but nothing quite as malicious as when he caught you on your own. Arthur stepped in between you and his abuse more than once, always with a tight jaw and hard eyes, telling Micah to finally forget about it. But it only helped in the moment. The busted coach is just the latest issue he has with you, and one that he can finally hound you for without attracting too much attention. Out of all the women, he seems to like you the least and he isn’t quiet about it, either. While you’re all useless baggage, just many, many more mouths to feed for him - your biggest wrongdoing is not even being nice to look at. Too big, too unpolished, too quiet. Sometimes he acts as though you’re everything he hates distilled into one person, even though that is just another one of his exaggerations.

Even in Colter he made off-handed comments about how you'd never starve, how you looked like some kind of grizzly bear all bundled up in your coat and yet you sometimes catch him staring at your cleavage, especially when you have to cover up less than you'd like. He is an animal, nothing more than that. And you know you shouldn’t let his words get to your head but with every word, every crude gesture, every goddamn look at you he tears you down, leaving you to feel raw and wrong all by yourself. He knows too well how to get under your skin and likes to do it just as much.

And it all escalated just days before he, Dutch and Arthur rode out to meet with Colm. He threw you one of his shirts while you were scrubbing away at the tub, already sweaty with the midmorning heat and arms strained with the task, barking something about you fixing it for him. Stunned into silence, you simply let it happen, not even able to utter your usual apologies. You had never seen Arthur storm over quite as fast as he did when you pried the red, mingy fabric from your eyes, having watched from the edge of camp, just as Micah was about to get rough with you. They got into one of their typical squabbles afterwards, only this time you were at the very center of it. Arthur’s gruff tone and curt words had held well against Micah’s sneering and he had finally relented when Arthur threw his own shirt back into his arms. He kept his distance afterwards, seemingly done with his taunts. You know now that he just had found something more interesting to do with his time. Riding out to talk to Colm had sounded like a truly insane idea, even for him, and your worries were confirmed when Arthur barely made it back to the gang, shot up and paler than a ghost. That had been a week ago - and just thinking about it in comparison to your bickering, it feels trivial, almost petty to still be bothered by it. But Micah’s words have touched something in you. His constant reminders of your stature and skill just won’t leave you, especially not when you’re all alone with your thoughts. Maybe it’s why you double down in your care for Arthur, both to thank him for his effort and so that you can focus on something else for once. Like the others, you have spent the last couple of days fretting over him. Sitting by his side in the evenings, silently mending or knitting while the sun is still up and fetching him anything he needs, when he asks for it. He doesn’t say it, but you can tell he likes the company, likes that someone is watching out for him. You can’t imagine what’s brewing in that thick head of his during the days - but it isn’t pretty, not with the way he grunts and whines when he dozes off and leaves you to brood. You usually trudge back to the main fire once he’s out for good, at least when Micah hasn’t already taken up a seat.

And today you’re lucky, so you sit and revel in the heat, your shawl loosely slung around your shoulders to ward off insects and unwanted attention. You left Arthur to snore softly on his cot, calm for once, and the only sounds around you are the soft nickering of the horses and Cain sniffing about, licking up any residues of food on plates and spoons the others didn’t bother to put away. A few members of your posse are missing, scattered about Lemoyne doing odd jobs or drinking, no doubt, and the rest is sleeping. You and Micah are the only ones awake, aside from Bill who’s on guard duty. You’re keenly aware of the fact that the blond is sitting by the scout fire, doing god knows what. He never really sleeps and that makes your nightly ruminations all the more difficult. You're always tense, always feeling his presence behind your back. Furrowing your brows, you poke at the fire with a stick, much like Jack often does.

Maybe it all has to stop? The thought strikes you suddenly, as you move a log. You could simply try to forget about this, especially now that you all have to work a little harder with the gang’s enforcer out of commission, but you doubt that Micah is going to let go of it any time soon. Your mind runs faster than any logical thought. An appeal to his ego could work. An apology? Thanking him? Everything in you bristles at the thought of apologizing to him. It wasn’t your fault - but he did save you, ultimately. If it hadn’t been for his quick aim, you’d be buried somewhere in the red soil near Clemens Point now. And maybe it’s the crux of the issue; that he both caused this and, somehow, resolved it again. You don’t feel indebted to him at all, it’s more of an even bigger annoyance to you. If only you had been a faster draw, then at least you would have something to hold against him. You sit and stew in the notion for a few minutes. Maybe it could really work, could get him off your back. Maybe you would catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, maybe it would give you some sleep back - if you stopped being his favorite target for a little while. And maybe you could forget about this whole thing a little faster without him constantly at your throat. You know that you’re not one for confrontations - especially with quick-tongued opponents like Micah Bell - but you can try a thank you, even a stuttered one. Even if you can already hear Karen scream at you over being even remotely nice to a snake like him, it might just be the right thing to try. You prod at the logs once more, then you swallow your pride and get up, mind quickly made up.

Micah’s red shirt glows warm and almost orange in the light of the fire. His hair falls forward as he leans into the warmth, seemingly unbothered by your slow approach. He looks peaceful, almost serene and only lifts his head ever so often to sip away at a bottle of unidentifiable liquid, no doubt alcoholic in nature.

He doesn’t even acknowledge your presence when you come to a halt in front of him. Seated on one of the stools, he only spins the bottle in loose circles as he holds it in his lap and you can hear the liquor splashing inside. Still decently full. Both of you say nothing for a couple of heartbeats, then his head finally cocks up and he pulls his left shoulder up to rest one hand on his thigh. You feel all your courage plummet from your stomach to your feet, suddenly bewildered by your earlier thoughts. He says your name with too much flourish and it makes you cringe. “Well, what did I do to deserve the honor?” You fumble with the tassels on your shawl, unsure what to respond and already full of regret for even getting into his line of vision. But it’s too late now - simply turning around and leaving again will only give him more ammunition for tomorrow, you just know it. “I- '', you grasp a handful of thread and stare into the fire, anything to avoid his eyes. “I suppose I wanted to thank you. For shooting that bastard, I mean.” He laughs at that, even if it’s at least a little true.

“Thank me? Aren’t you the sweetest little thing?” His tone is mean and enough for you to want to turn around again. But you just furrow your brows and finally look back at him, not trusting your mouth anymore. He sighs with fake strain and then chortles. “You know, sugarpie?”, he leans his head back and it leaves his face open, owlish eyes glinting at you. “It only showed me how much of a dead weight you really are.” The double entendre doesn’t go over your head. He’s referencing your statue, as he so often does - and it makes your cheeks sting with heat again, makes you pull an indignant face. But you have no fire to give back, you just break eye contact and grab your shawl tighter. He suddenly swings back, arms spread wide in an attempt at a welcoming gesture - it’s such an unexpected change in behavior it catches you off-guard. Laughing as though he can read your exact thoughts, he slaps the rock next to him, voice jovial.

“Relax, relax. Come on, have a drink with me.” You eye him warily and he looks right back at you, neck of the bottle tilted in your direction. There is nothing harmful in those big, blue eyes and although something in you bristles against fraternizing with him, you finally take a seat and the whiskey out of his hands. Raising it in a bastardized toast, you sniff the liquor and give him a nod. You take a generous swig, pulling a face as the alcohol burns the back of your throat. His eyes are on you all the while, his whole body leaned over to you, watching you with awe, almost. He is chuckling to himself and you can smell him, even over the terrible sting on your tongue. Like sweat and sun and morass, a day spent in camp, no doubt. He laughs when your lips release the glass, wet and deeply amused. “Good stuff, hm? Come on, woman! Another! Loosen up a little.” It feels wrong, the way he talks, the way he switches his tone around in a second. The only time he’s at least cordial is when he’s drunk but even then he manages to be condescending. The liquor rises to your head immediately, the little food you had in the late afternoon doing absolutely nothing to ward it off. Your cheeks heat up with a more intimate burn than the one from the scout fire, a warmth that isn’t entirely foreign to you. You know this isn’t a good idea, but the thought of enduring his company without at least a slight bit of a buzz to take the edge off is just as unappealing as getting a little too friendly with Micah. He almost cheers you on as you tip your head back again, watching you down another mouthful and shivering after it runs down your pipes.

“That’s better, isn’t it?”, he grins at you and you feel like you’ve never seen him clearer - he’s so close suddenly. There is warmth on your shoulder and you realize it’s his hand, resting on your body as if it’s nothing. “I guess”, you say, before taking another sip, just to get rid of the weird feeling of him touching you. You pass time like this, sharing the bottle between you two. He talks about the job gone wrong, about Colm, about everything and anything, but with every swig from the bottle the chatter washes over you more and more, until it’s just noise. You nod and hum and dig your feet into the soil, the warmth of the alcohol enough to make you pull at your shawl and place it over your lap. His hand has wandered from your shoulder to your thigh, and he squeezes it ever so often, over the fabric of your skirt. It’s too close to your hip, too warm and too heavy and the alcohol makes you keenly aware of it, while not really minding it. It’s an odd feeling, something you almost preen at, something that has your stomach in slight knots. Somewhere, deep down, you know that this isn’t wise, that it’s the liquor working its ways into you but then his fingers twitch and you throw all the caution to the winds. He’s just getting more and more tipsy, you figure, and let him continue. He lets you finish the bottle just as the fire in front of you is slowly dying. You should rekindle it, you know, keep it lit so that Bill won’t have to do it later but you can’t bring yourself to care. The less it burns, the less heat is on your cheeks and the pleasant buzz in your head is just enough to keep you warm. Your eyes are just about to droop from exhaustion and alcohol when his hand slides just a little too close to your crotch, feather-light and careful, awaiting your reaction. You feel so unlike yourself, a spark of something white and hot coming to life deep within your belly. Some tiny part of you is telling you to stave it off, to snuff it out because you’re beside yourself, but it dies off instead when he leans over, his hair almost tickling the skin of your face.

You glance back at him, a silent question hanging in the air even though you can barely see him in the moonlight.

And to your shame, the whiskey has worked its claws into you. You don’t say anything in response but you lean into his touch, just so.

He looks at you for a heavy second, then inhales and - laughs. It's dark and breathy with liquor, the first time you've ever heard him laugh properly, the sound humiliating. He doesn't need to utter a single word, all he ever could tell you is in his chortling. Disbelief that you want this. Mockery at your undignified state. Heat for you.

It fades into giggles and you want nothing more than to bury your face in your hands. “Come on, sugarpie”, his voice is almost dark, so close next to you. You let him help you up and only notice just how drunk you are when you finally stand, the ground suddenly softer than you remember and your legs clumsy. One step, then two and you already stumble over your own feet. Two rough hands steady you, grab your waist while you breathlessly giggle, your predicament strangely funny to you. Wordlessly, he pulls you towards the treeline, his touch never leaving you. You try your best to keep up but find that you can barely walk straight. If he is annoyed by it, he doesn’t mention it, just wordlessly guides you away from camp. Your head is thick with it, so thick that you can’t stop yourself from speaking.

“Where’re we going?”, you push out and it sounds like someone else is saying it. “A little walk ”, he says, voice so surprisingly sober next to your wobble.

You stumble alongside him, disoriented and mind hazy. Just up through the trees, right by the lake - your thoughts are splotchy and all mixed up, every second step a blur.

Your eyes feel slow and your body so heavy that the earth has to shake whenever you plant your soles on it, you’re sure of it. You barely notice when he pulls you aside, just far enough from camp to be undisturbed, a little spot that is free from trees, where you can see the stars dance on Flat Iron Lake. Swaying as though you’re dancing to some imaginary tune, you have almost forgotten that he exists again, too caught up in the warmth of the liquor. You don’t even know how you end up on the floor, the world around you spinning with the change in balance, turning and turning and never stopping. Micah is above you and you grip his arms to steady yourself, noises of confusion spilling from your lips like water. “What are you doing?”, you mutter into the darkness, feeling the muscles of his upper arms twitch underneath the fabric of his shirt. “Getting a proper thank you, sweetheart.” His words take a moment to reach you and by the time you open your mouth to answer, he is already nipping at your neck, the hairs of his beard scratchy on the tender skin. A hand fumbles and slips under your skirts - when did he bunch them up in the first place? - and the touch makes it so real, sobers you up.

You're about to make a grave mistake. What had flickered in your stomach just minutes ago were ideas, misguided thoughts - not real desire. Just the alcohol weaving its way into your head, putting things into it that shouldn't be. You try to wiggle away but his grip turns to steel, unrelenting and hard on your shoulders. Tears prick at your eyes as he coos down at you with fake concern, his breaths heavy in between words you don’t hear.

“Stop- Please, Micah-”, you gasp, tongue still heavy with alcohol. Everything seems slow and fast at the same time, even his hands on you don’t hurt as much as they should and yet - you’re terrified beyond belief.

“The liquor already leaving you, sweetheart? A shame. I liked you real bold”, he groans into your ear and you’re suddenly overly aware of the hardness pressed against your clothed inner thigh. “Sh, sh”, he laughs, clamping a hand over your mouth. “Bill's on guard right now, he won't hear you, sugarpie. No use in crowing for that idiot.”

You shake your head against his grip, tears pricking at you eyes.

“Or are you calling for Morgan?”, he says, even more amused. “Bet you’d like this better if it was him. I’ve seen how you look at him, sugarpie.”

His words stir something in you awake, deep and unsightly. Is he only doing this to get back at Arthur? The thought sours your stomach until you can feel the bile rising and you go limp against him. He takes it as confirmation and almost shakes with fake laughter. “Oh, I’m gonna enjoy this, sweetheart.” One rough hand brushes over the muslin of your drawers, the other still on your mouth. You can only screw your eyes shut and silently weep against him, can only endure the way his skin warms your cunt through the fabric. It leaves for a few moments and he shifts above you, reaching somewhere - you don’t dare to peek, too afraid of what it might be. “There-”, he grunts, then the muslin strains against the fat of your thighs, pulled upward. It snaps and the unmistakable cold of a blade touches you for a split second. “There we go.” By now your grip on him has slacked, your hands barely holding onto his arms. The futility of trying to stop him sweeps over you like a veil, leaves you numb and weak. You can feel the summer air on your core, the way it cools the heat that the liquor had ignited, the way it gets churned around as he moves your ruined underwear around to gain him access. Thick fingers fumble around until they finally find what they seek and he laughs, deep and ugly. You don’t even sob when he lets go of your mouth to undo his pants. It earns you a throaty good girl as he frees himself and you open your eyes to glance up at him. He’s on you, his form an inky mass against the light of the moon as pushes himself into you, slowly and hissing at every inch. You’re not quite prepared, the alcohol mixed with terror making you dry but he doesn't care. It burns and stings and scratches, and you can feel how tight you are around him, how much you don’t want this. His hands reach up again, cradling your face in almost tender fashion while he savors the feeling. Barely giving you a moment to breathe once he bottoms out, he starts a mounting pace, grunting at every push and pull. You’re rattled with the motion, helpless and almost numb. The liquor dulls the pain but still you can’t help the yelps that leave you; not loud enough for him to care, but just loud enough for him to notice. He bows down and presses a slew of open-mouthed, wet kisses over your face, a bizarre mirror of a loving gesture, and bites you weakly whenever you clench around him in discomfort. It’s a ghastly feeling. “Oh, you're real sweet, darling, real sweet”, he moans out in a shaky exhale. You've never heard him so desperate, so genuine. He sounds grateful, almost loving, yet it’s all a ruse. You only murmur his name in response, lost and teary. You just want him to stop, just want him to get off you and go back to camp. You just want your bed, just want to hear Karen snore next to you. “I know, I know”, he mutters and clutches your shoulders again, grunting before he continues. “You’re so goddamn tight, sweetheart-”

It sounds like he wants to say something else but he chokes on the words before they climb up his throat. Instead, he fucks you harder and you’re grateful that your body finally complies and supplies you with some lubrication. In and out and in again, his full weight snaps against your hips, his thrusts slowly growing sloppy and more shallow. He grips you then, the hardest so far, and buries his face underneath your jaw, keening and sucking at your skin as though his life depends on it. Finally, he spills himself into you, ignoring your weak protests. It’s hot and wet deep within you, the mark of a rotten man. You silently cry as he catches his breath, sweaty face pressed into your neck. Minutes pass like this, him regaining composure and you trying to drown the dread that blossoms in your stomach, too afraid to move. His whole weight is crushing your chest that rattles with sobs, a weight you’ll feel for weeks to come. He slips out of you with a weak groan and heaves himself up to his knees. You feel his seed trickle down, stinging your bruised skin. He says nothing as he tucks himself back in, but you can feel him stare at his work in the moonlight. Patting your thigh, he whistles lowly, much like one would do to a horse and you tense at the gesture. “Now”, he laughs between heavy breaths. “Wasn’t that fun, sugarpie? I should thank you for the good time, hm? Real good time we had.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just adjusts his shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles that have formed. “You're a wild little thing when you’re drunk, you know that?” Another chuckle. He fastens his neckerchief, then palms one of your still-folded knees. “And darling”, he croons, still sucking in the musky air around you like he's suffocating. “Remember: You wanted this. Gave old Mr. Bell something for his troubles, didn't you?” The hidden threat doesn’t go unnoticed. You know how well he can twist his words around Dutch and you have no doubt that if you were to tattle to anyone, you’d be the one getting kicked out of the gang, not him. So you nod.

“Good, good. Don't go telling that big bad”, he grins as he pushes the words out with fake sweetness. “cowboy next thing tomorrow morning, alright?” This time he doesn’t wait for your confirmation, just gets up and stretches himself with obnoxious ease. “See you around, sugarpie.”

His laugh is dark as he strolls back into camp, leaving you behind, empty and still drunk.

End note: I hope you enjoyed it! I have reworked and edited this many, many times so I definitely developed a little bit of tunnel vision. I must have written at least 8k for this in total and revamped every scene at least once and I know that some transitions are a little hamfisted - but I had to finally let this one go, it's been with me two months since its inception and I am just done with it haha. Please be kind when leaving feedback, I am not too confident in this one. And don’t be too shy to chat me up!! I am desperate to talk anything smutty and/or dark for rdr2 with someone!!!

#micah bell x reader #micah x reader #rdr2 x reader #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 x reader #chubby reader #tw.noncon #tw.alcohol #tw.coercion #tw.fat shaming #/rdr2 #/micah bell

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fuckin-sick-bih · 10 months

Text

Bounty of Sneezes

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2 Summary: Slightly pre-events of Red Dead Redemption 2, Arthur is heading out on a bounty job and seems to be coming down with a cold. Luckily he has some help. CW: period typical gun violence, some mess, cold sneezes Word Count: 2,391 words MINORS DNI Author Note: i had an ask a long time ago i am so sorry for something rdr2 related and i hope this will do and i hope i did the cowboys justice bc i had to just keep picking at it. also i make no apologies for subjecting you all to my equine bullshit.

The change in seasons from summer to fall had always been challenging for Arthur, both as a young man and as an older one. Bounty hunting wasn’t exactly easy work either, but it was good pay, which the gang needed right now. Money. A lot of it. So, Arthur would do what he always did. Provide. Pull his weight. Because that’s what he was to them. A workhorse.

While everyone else was sitting comfortably down near Pike’s Basin, Arthur had chased a bounty up in Tall Trees. The chill of the air got worse as he followed the lower Montana River further up North. The bite of the air was starting to make his nose run.

Although, come to think of it… his nose had already been running when he left camp this morning. He sniffled again, just as he’d been doing all last night while trying to pick his way through Pearson’s threadbare stew. Gathering up the edge of his coat sleeve, Arthur swiped at his nose tiredly.

He knew he was about due for his annual cold, and it hitting now that he was away from the rest of the gang was probably for the best. Lest the rest of them get sick because of him and blame him for going around camp with everyone in such close quarters. A subtle itch had started somewhere in the back of his left nostril, and Arthur grunted as he shifted in the saddle, sniffling to try and disrupt it.

The sniffling didn’t seem to be doing him any good, so he briefly stood, readjusting in the saddle before sitting a little deeper and pulling his thick, blue coat closer. He’d woken up cold this morning, too. No surprise there. Arthur naturally ran hot, but when he was sick? He froze over. Squeezing his hands into fists on the reins and then stretching them out again, Arthur tried to ignore the growing itch that was building in his sinuses now.

It was starting to make his nose run worse, and he cleared his throat a little, wincing at the sharp and grating pain that tore through his throat from the action. He swallowed, wincing when that hurt, too. This time, he brought a hand off the reins to scrub a little more roughly at his nose with a finger, causing a soft sort of squelching noise that made him grimace. Still, it did nothing to alleviate the itch, and his other hand began to brace on the horn of his saddle in preparation for what was to come, his heels pressing down a little more just in case his horse spooked.

The poor creature beneath him was new. Still learning. Arthur was still learning her, too. He didn’t know if he could trust her not to spook at his sneezes. The sound of another set of hooves coming up behind him at a fast-paced trot briefly caught his attention, but Arthur was quickly becoming all too consumed with the coldish tickle niggling at his nose.

“God daahh… ax’TSHHiuh! Snff! Huh…” Arthur pitched forward in the saddle, bending at the waist, careful not to jerk back on the reins as he pressed them flat to the crest of his mare’s neck. Said mare nickered anxiously, tail lashing up and down at the sudden sound of the sneeze while starting to sidestep off the road. “Easy, girl. Woah. You’re alright… Just a sneeze.”

“Some sneeze.” And if that wasn’t the most irritating voice in all creation, Arthur Morgan didn’t want to hear today of all days. “I’d say you nearly fell out yer damn saddle, Arthur.” Because, of course, John Marston had to have followed him up here on Old Boy.

The elder outlaw gave a gruff sort of huff and sniffled once again, able to feel the congestion in his nose threatening to leak. “If anyone’s going flying out of their damn saddle, it’s you, Marston.” He snapped back, his mood only soured more by a blanket of exhaustion that was settling on him. “Thought I left you back at camp.”

By now, John and Old Boy were matching pace with Arthur and his mare, riding beside him on the road. “You did. Dutch sent me out here after you. Said we could use some brotherly bonding time.” He sounded just as bitter about it as Arthur felt. The two hadn’t exactly been on the best of terms lately, given John’s disappearance that Arthur had taken somewhat personally, not just as a hit to Abagail, Jack, and the gang. There were plenty of complicated feelings Arthur had brewing for the outlaw he once treated like a younger brother.

“Dutch should know better. I do this kind of work alone.” Arthur growled, but it only served to irritate his throat further, making him turn from John to cough roughly into a gloved fist. He could feel John’s eyes on him as the coughing tapered off, and he patted his mare’s neck, sliding a hand under her mane to keep it warm. Then he turned his eyes back to the road and surrounding trees, pretending to ignore John.

For a few brief moments, there was just the sound of hoofbeats on the dirt road before Marston spoke up. “Because you’re just so damn capable…” He muttered, and the words were distinctly bitter now, instantly stoking that ember of anger in Arthur.

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” The blonde snarled back before he had to dissolve into another fit of coughing, this time leaning against his saddle horn for support. His mare danced off to the side skittishly, and Arthur rubbed her neck as the fit died off, leaving him feeling distinctly more tired after each one.

By the time Arthur could look over at John, the younger outlaw was leaning to reach back into his left saddle bag. “That.” His voice was that same rasp it always had been since the brunette hit puberty. “You’re sick. Same damn time as last year. You think I don’t remember? You always get sick around this time of year, Arthur. We’ve practically been brothers for how long now?”

A scoff left Arthur, and he took one end of his reins to smack Marston’s leg with it for his meddling. “I ain’t sick, Marston. Just ride along back to camp and tell Dutch I sent you h-home.” The itch was back but in the opposite side of his sinuses now, making itself known much faster than the last tickle. So much so Arthur barely had time to grab the saddle horn and make sure he kept his reins low as his whole body jerked with the sudden sneeze. “Eh’TSHXuh! EXXtsh! Woah! Easy, girl!”

Quick as a flash, Arthur was going from sneezing to soothing his nearly spooked mare while driving his heels toward the dirt like his life depended on it. The horse below him had taken off at an anxious lope as if trying to escape the sudden explosions from her rider. “Ahh, easy- woah, come on now, girl. Nothin’ to be scared of.” John on Old Boy kept pace just behind them as Arthur eased his horse back to a walk.

“So… you ain’t sick?” John checked as he pulled up beside Arthur again with a smug smirk.

Arthur grimaced and rolled his eyes. “Shut up. Why’s it matter? I’ve worked jobs sick before.” Once again, his wrist came up to rub at his nose with a thicker sniffle now, every rub causing a wet squelch. If he wasn’t careful, he would be more congested than when he’d had a cold over Christmas.

When Arthur looked over, he spotted a bottle in Marston’s hands that looked like a tonic of some sort. “Because usually there’s a whole posse behind you, right?” It was like John was trying to direct him in a particular train of thinking, and Arthur was just too damn sick and tired for it.

It did earn a semi-congested snort of amusement from Arthur, who hastily had to press his wrist back to his nose and sniffle. “Contrary to what you might believe, Marston, I ain’t like you. I pull my weight. I run jobs by myself all the damn time.”

“Shuddup, ain’t like that-” John defended instantly.

Arthur fixed him with a stern glare but did down the tonic before continuing. “You wasn’t even in camp for a damn year!” The thought did occur to Arthur that talking this loud while tracking a bounty this close maybe wasn’t such a good idea. “You came back for two or three big jobs. Couldn’t e-ehh…” His voice trailed off as his breath hitched that itch coming back.

Suddenly, though, John slowed down his stallion while reaching for Arthur’s reins. “Arthur, not now-” For some reason, John’s voice seemed to have gotten quiet.

Tears of irritation formed in Arthur’s eyes as the itch prickled and brushed through the most sensitive parts of his nose. The ticklish sensation was strong enough to make his mouth fall open as he hitched, “Hehh-! Eh-!”

“Arthur-!” John’s voice was an urgent hiss now as Arthur’s mare began to prance beneath him. Something was wrong, very wrong, but he couldn’t-

“EXT’shhiew! HiT’SHiew!” There was the sudden chaos of six shots ringing out, and Arthur gasped as he choked up on the reins as his horse reared before well and genuinely bolting. Old Boy did just the same as the bounty they’d been searching for came guns blazing from the brush.

Element of surprise gone, Arthur threw a leg over his horse’s back and dismounted before she could run too far. He stumbled a little on the landing but drew his revolver before ducking behind a tree. “Come out, Treva! Wanted poster said dead or alive! Don’t care how we get the money!”

Another three shots hit the tree he was hiding behind, and Arthur looked around for Marston, wondering if they could get this fool to run out of lead and reload. He spotted the younger outlaw moving in closer and shook his head, waving a little before motioning to call out.

“What’s the matter, Treva? Too chicken shit to come find us? We’re on our way to finding you!” John called; not exactly wrong either. He’d been well on his way to getting close.

One shot whizzed by Arthur’s hiding place on the left, then on the right. Just barely clipping the edges of the tree and sending shrapnel of bark flying in every direction. Treva could aim, but could he reload fast enough once he’d shot that last round? Arthur took off his hat and stuck it on the end of his revolver, nodding to John just before peeking it out from behind his tree.

Crack. With a hole in Arthur’s hat, John made his move and launched from his own hiding place. Arthur stuffed his hat back on, sniffling back the mess threatening to run down his lip, and went to follow. By the time Arthur made it to John, Treva was out cold, and Marston was preparing to tie him up.

“You got ‘em, Marston?” Arthur crackled out, sniffling and rubbing his gloved hand against his bright red nose. It already felt like that tonic was wearing off.

John pulled the binds tight and nodded. “All set. Just gotta get him to town.” He stood and hauled their bounty over his shoulder, both men whistling for their horses. “You should get a room in the town when we drop him with some of the money. I’m sure Dutch won’t mind…”

Arthur glared at the younger gang member as he caught his horse by the reins, soothing her gently. “Bullshit. We oughta drop him and get back.” He said gruffly, putting a foot in the stirrup to haul himself back into the saddle. Now that the action was over, his nose was still running, and Arthur could still feel that prickling tickle teasing at the back of his sinuses. “Hhh…”

They rode silently for a while, Arthur still struggling against that incessant sensation in his nose. It was like an entire feather pillow had been stuffed in his nose, tickling and blustering about as if in a dust storm. He squeezed his saddle horn and pressed his heels down, “Heh-eh! EXt’Shhuh! Hhh… hih-! Hh! HDt’SHH! Christ alive!”

Thankfully, given his outbursts this time, his mare seemed to only toss her head in displeasure. He patted her neck and sniffled thickly, exhaustion weighing heavily on him as he followed her motions without conscious thought. Riding was second nature in this business. He could do it while sleeping, let alone while sick as a dog, and if Arthur spent enough time with one of his mounts, they became quite the pair working in sync with one another.

“Bless you,” John mumbled under his breath, and Arthur grunted a quiet “Thanks” in reply. It continued on in much a similar fashion until they reached town. Their bounty was delivered without complaint, though Arthur found himself on the receiving end of more than a few curious sets of eyes watching him. Townsfolk were always suspicious of strangers riding in.

It was not uncommon, but now he suspected it was because of how poorly he was beginning to feel and look. He stayed mounted in his saddle while John handled everything inside. It felt like he wouldn’t get back up once he dismounted. He was too exhausted from it all. He just wanted to make camp, maybe have a fire, fall asleep, anything to rest and warm his bones.

A shiver ran through him, and Arthur huddled further into his coat, rubbing his raw, chapped nose against the wool lining with a gurgling sniff.

“That don’t sound too good.”

John had appeared at his side, offering him his cut from their bounty job, which he took and stuffed directly into his satchel with a nod. “You’re tellin’ me.” He rasps back and winces. “We should go.”

“No. You should rest. Abagail will kill me if she finds out I let you ride back like this.” Without any more warning, Arthur suddenly felt himself being dragged from the saddle. He protested halfheartedly, stumbling as he tried to find his footing once on the ground. “We’re gettin’ a room. C’mon.”

And without another word, the two outlaws set off for the closest hotel.

#snz #snz kink #snzblr #snzfic #r/ed dead redemption 2 #cowboy sneezes #cowboy snz #tw mess #cold sneezes #a/rthur m/organ #j/ohn m/arston

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