Fandoms/Characters I will write for include

RE8 Village - Lady D and the girls and Heisenberg

RDR2 - All Characters

Overwatch - Not the cowboy currently

Geralt of Rivia

The Mandalorian

My Hero Academia - Endeavor. I’m not caught up so just ask if I know a character LOL

Maybe Ladybug or Sailor Moon but I know y’all don’t necessarily follow for that here

List of Kinks

(these are just general guidelines and ideas, y’all can look at other prompt lists to see if there’s anything else y’all want. I’m sure y’all got lots more ideas than me) I’ll put stars by my faves :3 uwu

Masturbation

Aphrodisiacs/Sex Pollen*

Size Difference*

Dirty Talk

Praise*

Teasing

No Pregnant, Only breed*

Humiliation

Biting*

Edgeplay/Orgasm Denial

Dom/Sub

Daddy/Mommy*

Begging

Shower/bath*

Handjobs/Fingering

Possessiveness*

Power Imbalance

Against the Wall/On The Counter/On a Non-Bed Surface

Oviposition*

Worship (Body/Boot/etc)

A/B/O*

Frottage

Collars

Knife/Gun Play

Somnophilia/Sleepy Sex*

Overstimulation*

Costume/Masks

Marking*

Watersports

Deepthroating

Lactation

Cockbulge

Sex Toys/Fucking Machines

Sensory Deprivation

Double (or more) Penetration (one hole or multiple)*

Breeding*

Corset

Petplay

Smoking/Shotgunning

Uniforms

Bondage*

Psychic Bonds (Telepathic/Empathic/Soul/etc)

Grinding

Cock-warming*

Massage

You had climbed into the back of one of the covered wagons, hidden from view unless someone specifically decided to peer over the tailgate. The entire morning had been spent unloading feed bags and dragging them to Pearson’s wagon one after the other. Most of the boys were out away from camp, and the ones that were still around were practically useless anyways. So you had carried most of the heavy bags all the way across camp by yourself.

Arthur had stopped by very early, helping you carry a few bags before he set off for the day. You admired his strength as he grabbed two bags at once and hoisted them over his shoulder, marching them easily to Pearson’s wagon. You were much slower, always stopping to set down and pick up the bag over and over again every ten feet. Bill and Uncle watched your huffing and puffing with mild amusement. You glared at them every time you passed, wishing you could cuss them out without Susan or Dutch descending upon you.

Arthur had helped as much as he could before leaving. You thanked him with a soft kiss on the cheek, wishing him well on whatever adventure the day held for him. His blush and flustered stammering had been all the reward you needed to push you through the next several hours of work. Arthur was so sweet, but he always doubted himself. You had made it your mission to show him as much kindness as possible, maybe then he would see himself in a better light.

The air was still and as silent as could be in the swamps. Frogs croaked and flies buzzed and someone was snoring loudly a little ways up the hill.

You were tucked in the empty wagon, fanning yourself every so often and flipping through a book Hosea had lent you. The heat had become too much, so you had unfastened your skirt, setting it aside so you could pull it on if anyone called for you. In just your chemise, the afternoon was much more tolerable. Your skin could breathe, and you enjoyed a bareness that you couldn’t wear around camp. Maybe you would take the boat out one day -- swim naked in the lake for a few hours just to feel the sun on your skin.

A head popped over the tailgate and you startled. Your visitor was equally as frightened, ducking away just as quickly as they had appeared.

“I’m so sorry, miss,” a familiar voice stammered. “I wasn’t trying to catch you unawares.”

You chuckled softly, poking your head out of the wagon. “It’s alright Arthur, I was just trying to escape the heat for a while.” He had stepped around to the side of the wagon, wringing his hands and staring at the ground. “You’re fine,” you assured him. “You’re welcome to climb in and join me if you promise not to bring the heat in with you.”

He glanced up in surprise, eyes searching frantically as you knocked on the wagon wood. He was probably busy, you knew, but it wouldn’t hurt to extend an invitation.

Arthur shifted his weight back and forth. His jaw worked as he considered your offer. “You don’t mind sharing your hiding spot with me?”

“Not at all,” you grinned. “There’s plenty of room, and it’s mighty cool -- especially after a long day out riding.”

“Alright -- sure,” Arthur clambered into the wagon with as much grace as possible for a man his size. You scooted over to make more room as he settled in beside you. He glanced away nervously as you moved your folded skirt but made no effort to put it on.

“Stop being so bashful, Mr. Morgan,” you teased. “My calves aren’t going to start a revolution. Besides, we’ve all seen far too much of Uncle to be worried about one little lady’s legs.” Arthur snorted and seemed to loosen up a little. Your chemise was modest enough that you wouldn’t mind just wearing it plain if the other members of camp wouldn’t give you too much trouble. Surely Arthur was more mature than some of the men you had the displeasure of living with. You figured Arthur had seen plenty of women in his day. He was handsome and charming. Who could resist? 

He pulled a handful of raspberries and a bottle of rum from his satchel, offering some to you with a shy smile. You took a few berries and hummed appreciatively at the sweet taste. 

“These are delicious! Where did you pick them?” You inspected the ripe fruit.

“They grow all along the lakeshore. You’d be amazed at some of the stuff I’ve found washed up in the sand.” Arthur smiled and took a pull from the bottle of rum.

“I’m so envious,” you pouted. “Even Sadie gets to go out these days, but when I so much as look outside of camp someone starts telling me off for being lazy.” You accepted the bottle and helped yourself to a long drink.

Arthur patted your shoulder awkwardly. It was a weak attempt to console you, but you appreciated the gesture. “I just want a little freedom is all,” you sighed.

“Which horse is yours?” Arthur asked. You glanced at him in confusion but answered anyways. What did she have to do with this?

“Peanut? She’s the paint mare with the dark mane. I can only imagine how cooped up she feels these days.”

Arthur nodded, eyes trained on the canvas ceiling of your cozy paradise. “I’ll see about getting her some proper tack. As soon as she’s properly outfitted, then you’re welcome to ride with me anytime you like -- save for the work I do for Dutch.”

You stared at him with wide eyes. “You mean that? Surely I would just be getting in your way.”

He shook his head and smiled. “Naw, miss. You would have to put up with me if anything. I’m always wandering about -- never seem to be able to keep to one direction for long. You might get sick of me real quick.”

“I could never get sick of you, Arthur,” you said. “If I’m being honest, you’re one of the only reasons I’m still hanging around with these vagrants. I hate to say it, but I’m having a hard time following Dutch’s vision these days.” A heavy sigh escaped you, and you hugged your knees. You could make it on your own if you tried, but it was nice to have a family, even if they were disrespectful and lazy. 

“Dutch is doing everything he can,” Arthur said. You knew he would defend the leader of the van der Linde gang until his dying breath. In his eyes, Dutch could do very little wrong. You were less deceived, able to see that Dutch was blinded by his own ambitions.

“I still don’t think it’s enough,” your voice was soft.

“Everything is gonna be fine, sweetheart,” Arthur wrapped an arm around your shoulder. You felt him tense up as he realized how affectionate he was being, but you leaned into his side and he relaxed.

You didn’t voice your worries. Instead, you leaned in close to Arthur, ignoring how warm his skin was and just relishing in the comfort. Even if things didn’t turn out okay, you would always be thankful for Arthur. He was kind, and strong, and you knew he would do his best to look out for you if you needed it.

Arthur was one of the few men in camp you could truly call a friend. He was quiet, thoughtful, considerate - much better company than some of the other drunkards Dutch kept around. "I was wondering," Arthur had taken his hat off and was worrying the brim with his thumbs, "if you would like to come eat with me - just a little ways away from camp." You grinned wide, moving to your feet and placing a hand on Arthur's wrist to get him to keep still. "I'd love to join you, just let me go get Old Girl and meet up with you, okay?" Arthur stopped you before you could turn away, "We can both ride my Dixon… if you want.” It was then that you realized how pink Arthur’s cheeks were, how red he was all over. This must have meant a great deal to him.

Realization settled with a slow smile, and you nodded. “That’s just fine by me.” You tucked your book in your satchel and followed him to where Dixon was hitched.

“What were you reading back there?” Arthur asked as he helped you into the saddle.

“Some silly romance,” you looked down at your hands sheepishly, “I can’t help but see myself as the outlaw. I don’t guess I’m much of a heroine anymore.”

Arthur swung into the saddle behind you, satisfied with whatever he had been packing into the saddlebags. “You’re doing just fine.” His voice was right in your ear, and you couldn’t help the shudder that ran through you at the sound.

You didn’t ride far, just a few miles along the edge of the woods. Arthur urged Dixon to stop at a small clearing tucked just behind the first line of trees. A small stream slowed to a shallow pond along one edge of the clearing, while several large trees shaded the soft grass. Large growths of Spanish moss created soft, gently swaying curtains that caught the light and created an ethereal glow among the branches.

“How did you find this place?” you asked, breathless with awe. It was beautiful.

Arthur hesitated for a moment. “I spend a lot of time riding by myself. It’s always nice to wander, enjoy what the land has to give me.” He dismounted and helped you to the ground as well.

“Thank you for sharing this place with me,” you grabbed Arthur’s hand, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. He cleared his throat and began unpacking the saddlebags.

You wandered around the glen as he laid out a quilt and fetched some canteens and a few wrapped parcels. The moss was soft against your palm, the dirt damp beneath your boots. The thin grass was cool as you yanked some up, letting the blades scatter in the breeze, floating to rest on the smooth surface of the pond. You watched the ripples, strange oblong shapes that bumped into each other again and again.

When you turned, Arthur was sitting on the quilt watching you with a curious expression. You flushed as you realized how childish you must have looked. You took a seat beside him and accepted the venison he offered you.

Arthur had packed quite a bit of food. Meat, cooked vegetables, some canned fruit, and even a few cookies that looked soft and chewy.

“This is quite a spread,” you noted. “Doesn’t look like Pearson’s usual product.”

Arthur chuckled and shook his head. “No, this is straight from the stores of one Susan Grimshaw. She recommended that I take you out somewhere nice for a meal.”

You blinked in surprise. “I can’t believe Mrs. Grimshaw didn’t recommend that you take me to wash Marston’s long johns.” The thought alone made your nose crinkle, and Arthur laughed again. You were glad to see him in high spirits, he usually stormed around with a crease in his brow and anger in his eyes. You knew the work he did for Dutch wasn’t easy… or good.

“Susan’s got a good heart,” Arthur assured you, “and Marston can do his own damn laundry - if he don’t drown in the river trying, that is. Do you know what I heard him telling Jack the other day?”

You shook your head. If there was one thing Arthur loved to do, it was make fun of John.

“Abigail and I come up on the river where John was supposed to be watching Jack, and they’re both poking around in the mud. John is saying ‘well Jack, when tadpoles are ready to become frogs, they build themselves a cocoon underwater and wait to grow legs before they come back out.’” Arthur shook his head as he tried to keep from laughing too hard. “Anyways, Abigail was on him in seconds, snapping at John and desperately trying to reteach Jack before any of that nonsense stuck.”

You tried to hide your grin behind a slice of bread. Arthur held no such courtesy.

“A tadpole? In a cocoon? You’d think the boy was raised by wolves.” He was pounding the dirt with his fist as he shook with laughter.

“I’d say you shoulder some partial responsibility for John’s miseducation,” you pointed out.

Arthur waved his hand, “No, that falls entirely on Dutch. He insisted on molding John into ‘the perfect outlaw.’ Look at him now,” Arthur broke into another fit of laughter, “Frog cocoons!”

You stood your ground in John’s defense. “He’s just trying to do right by Jack. These past few months, he’s really been trying. He’s not the worst father a boy like Jack could have gotten.”

Arthur seemed sobered by your words. “I guess you’re right. He’s been good to Jack since he got back. I can’t fault him for trying.”

The air fell quiet. You noticed Arthur’s expression had grown more somber.

“You’d make a good father,” you said. Arthur looked up in surprise.

“Me? I couldn’t do something like that. I’ve got too much blood on my hands.” He stared at the dirt. Your heart twinged at how empty his voice sounded. You moved in closer, resting a hand on his arm.

“John’s doing it. Hosea raised you just fine. I think you could do it - if you wanted to.”

Arthur turned to face you, and you tried to pull away. You were too close. He held you still with a hand on your waist.

“Thank you,” he said. You closed your eyes, and Arthur’s lips brushed yours. He pulled away suddenly. When you looked, he had tucked his face into his arm.

“I’m sorry,” his voice wavered a bit as he apologized. “That was very… forward of me.”

“Arthur,” you placed a hand on his cheek, guiding his gaze back to you, “it’s okay.”

You kissed him gently, brushing your thumb along his jaw as he froze, and then relaxed under your touch.

Satya is stubborn and determined. It’s one of the first things people notice about her upon introduction. She has an air of ferocity about her, and she is going to reach her goals no matter what it takes.

And those goals include taking Jesse McCree’s cock.

More specifically, taking Jesse McCree’s cock in her ass.

It’s something they’ve been working up too, starting with fingers, moving to plugs. Jesse is a large man, and it takes preparation to accomplish such a feat.

So Satya wears a plug under her skirt, squirming and flustered the entire time she’s at work. She gets home earlier than Jesse, and the anticipation is killing her. Sure, she could get off, but she doesn’t want to be exhausted when Jesse finally gets home, so she tries and fails to do work as she slowly rocks on the plug.

Jesse comes home and she’s on him instantly. He doesn’t even have time to set his things down before she’s pressed against him, lips working against his neck. “Jesse, please fuck me.”

He’s seen her worked up before, but this is still a pleasant surprise.

“Are you ready?” He unbuttons his shirt and tucks his thumbs into his belt. He knows this will be a lot for Satya to handle, and he doesn’t want to rush her. “We can wait if you want to.”

“I need it. I need you.” She palms him through his jeans and drags him towards the bedroom. The two of them fall on the bed, all hands and lips and Satya’s breathy moans.

Jesse kisses her and flips her over, onto her knees. 

He undresses her down to just her stockings, kneading the flesh of her ass and thighs. The plug is nestled between her cheeks, a mere promise of what is to come. She’s perfect. And Jesse could spend hours admiring her just like this.

“Please, now.” Satya is desperate and bossy, and Jesse sets aside his reverence in exchange for blistering desire.

His hands leave Satya’s skin. His belt buckle clinks. She wiggles her hips, trying to spur him on.

“Never were very patient were you?” he tugs on the plug in her ass.

She moans as he teases her with the plug, making sure she’s nice and stretched before he pulls it out.

His fingers press into her, slicked with more lube than one would think necessary. With the size of Jesse’s cock, it’s absolutely necessary.

Satya rocks back into his palm.

She wants it. She wants it enough that she whines and cries and tries to force her hips back onto Jesse’s fingers.

“Please, Jesse,” she begs. “Your cock.”

He lets out a low groan presses his lips between her shoulder blades. The soft hairs on her back brush pleasantly against his lips.

There is a pause, a brief few moments where all sensation drags to a halt and Satya’s throat begins to tighten with anticipation.

Then Jesse’s hand rubs over her back, down over her hips and ass. The head of his cock presses against her entrance and Satya shivers.

He presses forward. He is thicker than the plug, and the stretch makes tears prick in Satya’s eyes.

“You alright, darlin’?” Jesse asks, thumbs roving back and forth over her hips, grounding her.

“Yes,” Satya moans through clenched teeth. “I want this.”

“You’re something else,” Jesse chuckles and rocks his hips, pressing in just a bit farther.

Satya whines and grips the sheets. Why is Jesse so fucking big?

He slides in just a little further, moaning appreciatively at how tight Satya is around him. His rocking becomes a bit more insistent, more confident.

Satya moves her own hips experimentally. This isn’t so bad. It feels really good, and she is glad to do this for Jesse. Her fingers slip down to rub her clit, surprised to find that she is already dripping with slick.

The stretch is assuaging to a pleasant sensation, and Satya is grateful that Jesse has managed to press into her without much difficulty. He moves against her once more and she moans at the sensation, her pussy spasming even though it remains untouched.

“Almost halfway in, darlin’,” Jesse says. His hands move to rub her back again.

Satya freezes.

“...Half?” she asks, eyes wide with fear.

“You’re doing great so far,” Jesse assures her. “You’re so tight.”

“I- you- It’s too big!” she cries. 

Jesse’s hand reaches beneath her, brushing hers away so he can rub her clit. “Can you take it?” he whispers in her ear, teeth dragging along the sensitive skin. “Can you be a good girl?”

Satya hesitates before nodding.

“That’s my girl.” Jesse punctuates his praise with a harsh thrust. Satya cries out, head falling back. Something is shoved into her mouth, and she tries to pull away only to have Jesse’s rough hand hold her still.

“Bite down on this,” he orders. He had shoved his belt between her teeth. He pushes in again and she moans and drools around the worn leather.

Jesse’s hand returns to her clit and pussy, dragging her slick through her folds.

His other hand fists in her hair, pulling her head back as he swiftly buries himself inside her.

Satya comes, her teeth marking the leather belt as she clenches around Jesse’s cock. It’s too much, he’s buried inside her to the hilt, and she’s never felt so full, so thoroughly fucked before. Jesse’s hand in her hair, on her clit.

The sensations are overwhelming and she collapses into the mattress, vision going black.

It is mere seconds before Satya comes back to herself, but she nearly fades out again. Jesse is fucking her relentlessly. She moans around the belt, drool sliding over her chin.

Satya reaches for her clit with a shaky hand.

“You’re such a little slut,” Jesse teases, dragging a finger along her dripping pussy.

She moans in agreement, rocking back into Jesse’s every thrust.

A sharp slap sounds in the air. Satya cries out and bites the gag harder. Jesse is already raising his hand to spank her again. “You get so tight,” he groans as his hand collides with her other cheek.

This time her cry tapers of into a filthy moan. Jesse’s hand comes down again and again, until Satya’s bare skin is bright red.

She comes once more, shaking and clenching, slick dripping down her thighs. Jesse groans and buries himself inside her. A few shallow thrusts and he finishes as well.

The haunting musician appeared to be death himself. Dressed in an opulent black cloak and a black and silver sombrero that hid his face, a shadowy figure was hunched over the most gorgeous guitar you had ever seen. The instrument was painted to resemble a skull, beautiful and flowered on the body of the guitar. Smoky gloved fingers strummed the haunting melody that had drawn you to this part of the gardens.

The phantom-like appearance of the musician warned you to be wary. You had great respect for the dead, and you did not wish to meet your end by crossing the Reaper himself. As much as you wanted to turn away, return to the fountain and enjoy the wraith’s music from afar, you could not will yourself to move. The music was too beautiful.

“Come out, Princesa,” A dark and distant voice called. You knew the strange guitarist had seen you.

You took two tentative steps forward. Then two more. The brim of the Sombrero lifted, and the face of death was revealed to you. A white skull with dark eyes looked upon you with interest. You noticed the skull held the same markings as a calavera.

Lip trembling, you clasped your hands as if in prayer and dropped to your knees before the strange figure. Heavy footsteps resounded on the stone path, and you looked up to see the guitarist standing over you, hand extended. You placed your small hand in his large gloved palm and allowed yourself to be gently pulled to your feet.

“Come sit,” The same voice commanded, “Listen for a while.”

You did as you were told. Taking a seat among the dahlias and listening to the soft notes that drifted among the flowers. The sun fell low in the sky, sinking below the garden wall and bathing the both of you in shadow. The guitarist played on. You didn’t stir. As the moon rose above the terrace, the air began to turn cold. The dark musician noticed the slight tremble of your shoulders before you did.

You started as the garden fell silent. Warmth encompassed your shoulders as the Reaper wrapped his own coat around your slender shoulders.

“Who are you?” You asked.

“I believe you already know.” The skull mask responded.

“Eres la Parca?” Your voice was small.

“Si, something like that.”

You didn’t want to question further, didn’t want to put yourself in danger. The Reaper spoke next. “It is late. You should return home.”

“Are you going to play more?” You couldn’t stop the question. A low laugh bellowed from behind the Reaper’s mask.

“I will play until there is no one left to hear my song.” The Reaper lifted his coat from your shoulders. “Go home, Princesa, and listen for my lullaby.”

You left the garden. And once you were safely in your bed, you heard the distant sound of the Reaper’s guitar drifting through your window.

The next day arrived, and you found yourself in the garden once again, sitting among the dahlias and humming the same lullaby that had carried you to sleep the night before. A guitar began to play along with your quiet voice, and you jumped to your feet. La Parca was leaned against the wall, a stark contrast against the many blooming flowers. You smiled as he took a seat next to you.

“Wait here.” You ordered, dashing off to gather an armful of flowers. The Reaper watched you in silent amusement as you carefully selected each bloom. Only once you had gathered a pile of bright stems did you take your spot next to the Reaper. He said nothing, only began to play. The smoky precision of his fingers distracted you for a moment, as you watched him set the notes of his song to the wind, scattering them as seeds in the spring.

You turned to your own task. Carefully twining the stems of the flowers together as you listened to the Reaper’s songs.

“I’m finished,” You exclaimed after a short while, holding up the colorful wreath you had made.

“Es hermoso, Princesa.”

“It’s for you.” You stood over the dark guitarist, gently placing the wreath over his sombrero. He did not move to stop you.

The Reaper chuckled as you looked upon your masterpiece with pride. “Why don’t you crown me properly?” He asked. You raised your eyebrows in question. What did he mean?

Delicately, you took the wreath from his sombrero, cradling it in your arms. To your surprise, the hat itself disappeared as if blown to dust by the wind. The skull mask disappeared as well.

You gazed upon the Reaper’s face. He looked like a man, dark eyes, strong jaw, groomed beard. His hair was long and fell to his shoulders. Yet, just as he was a man, you also saw the Reaper beneath. With every shift of the light or turn of his head, you could see a shadowy skull seemed to occupy the same space. When he was absolutely still, you could not even tell you were seeing the Reaper himself. But a shadow would change, or his jaw would tense, and you would see the sharp bones and many teeth of the Reaper’s true face.

Gently, tenderly, you placed your wreath upon his head, crowning the face of death with the bright, lively colors of fresh summer blooms. The Reaper smiled. You smiled back.

Your hand trailed to his face, knuckles brushing down his jaw.

“Es hermoso,” You whispered.

The Reaper stood. You stared up into his dark eyes as he cupped your face in his gloved hands. You wondered if his hands carried the same spectral skeleton as his face. Slowly, as if he was afraid, the Reaper leaned in, brushing his lips against yours.

This kiss felt like a spark. Your eyes widened, and you pulled away. Was this how it felt for the living to kiss the dead?

The Reaper stumbled backwards, afraid he had scared you. Afraid he had pushed too far. You deliberately stepped back into his space, wrapping your hands around his neck and pulling him in so that you could kiss him properly. The Reaper softened in your embrace, his own arms circling you so that he could pull you in closer, envelop you.