Vladdy Daddy

He walked over, stumbling ever so slightly, drunk, smiling leisurely and with the utmost condescension.

“Yer’ stiff.” He nodded towards you, hands grasping his gun belt as he lent back slightly, eyes running along your dress, breasts, face. You notice, it piques interest, and a little feeling in your stomach; but your expression barely lifts from its furrow.

“I don't take much likin’ to parties.”

He chuckles softly and looks down, his hat leaving barely a view, then he steps forward, and again until he's at your knees. Your heart picks up, you shift on the crate you're sitting on, closing the tiny gap in between your resting legs, as suddenly that felt too scandalous.

He was too close and too big, he smothered your view, and your senses.

Your neck finally tilts to meet his piercing gaze, it was something you haven't ever seen before in him. It was incrediblely hungry, and intimidatingly wanting. Needy.

His eyebrows frown softly as he meets your eyes, his expression deteriorates into a silent beg. The rest of camp's singing and clamoring seems to die out as his calloused, rough fingers tentatively touch your soft cheek. Your breathing has picked up. His hand softly moves across your face to tuck hair behind your ear, then far more confidently his hand drags down your neck; you tilt your head further back for him, the feeling of his fingers slowly wrapping around your neck exhilarates you. And the bastard chuckled.

“Amused?” You huff out, annoyance filling your expression again.

“Quite.” He drawls, as his hand squeezes ever so slightly before gliding down over your collar bones, pressing his fingers into the skin around them. There was a fascination for you; your face, your skin, your body. He wanted to have you.

His fingers run over the mounds of your breasts as you watch with a hitching breath. Then suddenly, not roughly, his hands grip your jaw, and your hips, and he was kissing you, and you find yourself happily complying without a second thought. Your hands grab his vest and tug him into yourself as you part your legs; the crate, and your clothes, only stopping him from feeling you whole.

He pulls away abruptly with a small pant and leans to your ear. His lips and breath tickling against you.

“My tent, follow late after me.” He huffs. You nod.

Minutes later you eagerly shuffle to his tent, your arousal has only built, you could feel the soft slick warmth in between your thighs begging to be relieved. When you slip through the canvas of his tent you can barely reach his eyes before he drags you into himself. His lips find yours madly and urgently, you whimper and he groans. Your hands run over his shoulders and paw at his unfortunately clothed chest. He backs you towards his cot and his hips rut against yours, your wet walls can't help but flutter at your impending pleasure. He was hard and so painfully strained against his jeans, poor starved cowboy. It aroused you that he needed your touch so bad. And you couldn't be bad and deny him this, could you?

You both reluctantly put off each other, breathlessly boring into his eyes and him yours. Your hands start softly to undress yourself, and he watches for a moment, and a moment longer before he's encapsulated. He is staring so intently, it's intimidating; watching your nimble fingers fumble with your lace and buttons. The corner of his lips quirp up as his lips part, his face flushing as you reveal your bare breasts to him. You pause to look up at him, only then is when he meets your eyes.

“Whatchu’ stoppin’ for sweetheart? Keep goin’.” His voice is husky and low and demanding as he nods his head to you. You obey, removing your final garments till you are bare in front of him. His chest rises and falls faster as his eyes prey over your body, his hands look like they ache to touch you, though not more than his cock aches to be placed inside you, he palms his erection through his jeans, groaning softly before he meets your eyes. You fold your eyebrows into something of innocent pleading and again he has his hands on you. Groping your breasts and bottom and humping his hardness into your now bare damp warmth; it leaves a small dampness on his jeans. You moan and wrap your arms around his neck and he's pushing you finally back onto his cot.

You tug off his suspenders, he drops his gun belt, his hat, and he's unbuttoning his jeans and you his shirt.

“I didn't take you for such an eager man, Arthur.” The edges of your lips curve as he shoves his pants down, grasps your hips and effortlessly lifts and sits you up on his cot. You scoot back as he crawls over you.

“You do this to me, woman.”

He groans, almost whines, your name as he tilts his head with his best pleading expression.

Ache straight to your pussy.

You finally undo his last button and shuck off his shirt, pulling his union suit top down with it.

Good lord, have mercy.

He was beautifully and perfectly toned and carved, scarred and marred. Your lips part, eyes and hands running over his muscles. He grins a little as he leans down, lips against your ear, stumble scratching your neck as he drawls.

“Yer’ gonna take me so well, ain't chu'?” His voice spoke, again, right to your pussy.

“Yes.” You whimper, nodding eagerly.

“Please?” You beg as he starts kissing and sucking along your neck painfully slow, he was teasing you, you could feel the curve of his lips against you.

“Please what?” He murmured against your neck. You huff.

“Please…I need you inside me, Arthur.” Your voice quiets and whines as you beg him. Finally, he pushes the rest of his undergarments fully off. You can't help but gasp at his size. He smiled. His cock was thick and long, and so needy. Angry and irritated with pretty pinks and dribbling precum as it stood proud between his legs.

He grabs your ankles, pushing your legs up and wide, spread for him as he eyes your pussy, throbbing and puffy and wet.

“Atta’ girl.” He groans low at the sight. His fingers softly reach and glide along your wetness. You moan softly as you rest your arms atop his shoulders.

“Arthur…” You whimper as he pushes a single finger into you, further and further until he can't.

“It's alright, girl, you'll be good, hm?” He groans as he pulls his finger out from your clenching pussy trying to suck and pull his finger back in, he can't resist pushing in and out again. You moan and roll your hips at the feeling, before he pulls his finger out. You sigh at the loss.

“I'll be real good.” You breathe out. And he's smirking when he finally grabs his cock and positions himself at your entrance, rubbing his head against your clit and running himself through your slick before urging himself forward slowly; the tip of his cock trying to push inside of you. And with a little more force, his tip slips into you, he groans, and you moan, your faces contorted in pleasure; a perfectly painful stretch, and squeeze.

“That's it.” The praise rumbles deep in his throat as he starts to push deeper into you. One of his hands finds your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek as his focused gaze drifts from where the two of your bodies connect, up your body to study your face. Your perfect face, looking up at him wide eyed and needy.

And he suddenly thrusts the rest of himself into you, forcing the air from your lungs right out through your already parted lips. He groans louder than before, eyes squeezing shut for a moment. Your arms tighten around him and you cry out.

“Arthur! God-”

His hand clamps around your mouth.

“Woman-” He huffs. “You'd better keep that mouth quiet.” He is trying to be stern, but his voice is strained, and his expression is furrowed and scrunched in pleasure. He was weak now; the only time you've seen the Arthur Morgan weak. You admire the moment.

Your eyes well as you nod, gasping for air as he releases his hand. For a moment he doesn't move, holding himself there, feeling you and letting you adjust. But that doesn't last.

He sets a slow pace. Feeling you suck and pull and strain and push against his cock like a vice. You could feel him inside you and all around you, one hand in your hair, one beside you, and his broad body hovering over you; he crowded you so good. With a small groan he sat up partially and hiked your hips up, forcing your back to arch, and positioning your legs over each of his shoulders, he leaned back down as he pushed into you. His cock sliding deep inside of you, kissing and poking at that perfect spot as he stretches your whole body to his will.

“Goddamn, darlin'.” He hissed.

You yelp out a moan.

“Holy- Arthur-!” You stamper, almost choking on your saliva, you gasp for air. Your hands scramble, and your nails drag and dig into his back. You're speechless. Your legs push themselves open, your back arches itself up, and your hips grind themselves forward.

This man has turned you into an animal. A damn cat in heat.

He urges you hips up again and shoves himself down into you, harder and rougher this time.

“Oh my god-!” Tears fall from your eyes, and you whine. Your fingers desperately lace themselves into his hair, searching for any type of grounding.

“Jesus Christ." He pants out. He looks pathetic. In disbelief. His face is scrunched and wound up so tight he looks like he's in pain; but his eyes tell and his cock twitches. He was impossiblely deep inside of you, intrusively.

He tries to move but he stutters, and stops midway. He groans as he shoves himself back in quickly. He stares at you, at your flushed and strung tight face looking up at him helpless and only wanting, needing. He grabs one of your hands and holds it over your lower belly, then he pushes your hand down.

Your mouth gapes as you gasp and moan.

“Yeah, that's it. You feel me donchu’ girl?” Low, gravely, strained voice. He smirks a little, then he starts moving again, slowly as he holds your hand there. You gasp, you whimper. You feel him, hard and big, moving inside of you. He hits that same spot over and over, pushing you further over the edge.

“Please, Arthur.” You struggle to gasp out as he subtly increases his pace.

“Please let me finish, please, I need-” Begging like a damn dog, he's got you.

“Easy girl.” He interrupts, with a strained smirk of self pride.

“I'll give you just what you need.” He speaks low before he moves faster. Faster and sloppily. He was close.

He gasps softly as he falls forward slightly, one hand bracing him as the other frantically grabs your hip, pulling you into him roughly as he slams his cock into you over, and over, and over, again. He can feel you letting go. Quickly, his thumb finds your clit, he presses down forcefully and moves his thumb side to side and in a circle. Pressing and probing your swollen nub.

“No- God- please Arthur-!” It hits you hard. You cry out, but he can't be bothered to care. The tight feeling in your belly explodes, and you feel like fainting. Your eyes shut as you let yourself feel all your convulsions. You shudder and hump your desperate cunt into his cock. You feel him too, he shutters and frantically thrusts into you, then frantically out, releasing his spend in thick pulses over your belly. He cries out your name in a broken whimper and collapses to his forearms over you, his scent intoxicating and wonderful. Your arms go limp around him and your body feels weak. You're both breathless.

After a moment, you both come out from your dazes. You blink slowly up at him. He stares at you, admiring and with pride. Stupid. He reaches his hand out and wipes your face from tears with his thumb, a rough man who could be gentle with you.

Van Horn feels like the miserable end of something. The boards groan underfoot as if the town itself is tired of holding its shape, and the wind coming off the water smells like rust and muck and water rot. You step into the run-down saloon with Arthur at your shoulder, skirts brushing your calves. Oil lamps hiss and drunken men mumble over cheap whiskey.

You choose a table that unfortunately wobbles. Arthur steadies it with two fingers and doesn’t look at you while he does. He never quite looks at you lately—not long enough, not eye to eye. The awkwardness sits between you like a dirty third glass.

The whiskey burns clean and hot. You cradle it with both hands because it gives them something to do. Arthur’s hat shadows his eyes, and when he tips it back to drink, you watch his throat work and then look away, startled by the heat that pools low in your belly. This is the part that feels dangerous—the not-looking. The careful space. The way every small thing feels charged.

You don’t know when it started, this strangeness between the two of you. Maybe before Blackwater?

“You ever notice,” he says, voice rough as the table, “how this town feels like it’s about to tip into the water?”

You snicker. “It’s leaning,” you say. “Like it’s a sad old drunk.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound tucked into his chest. “Yeah. That’s one way of puttin’ it.”

You drink again. The room sways a little, or maybe it’s just you. You think of the camp waiting west, high above the Dakota, the steady comfort of easing back into routine. You think of the long road back and how it might feel to leave this place behind, its splinters and smoke. You think of Arthur’s knee under the table, close enough to feel the warmth, not close enough to be intimate.

“We should head back,” you say, too quickly. Or maybe he says it first and you’re just echoing him; it’s hard to tell where your thoughts end and his begin lately. “Horseshoe Overlook’s home for now.”

Arthur nods, slowly. “Been thinkin’ that myself.” He glances at the door, then back to his glass. “Ain’t much here for us right now.”

Us. The word lands both soft and heavy at the same time. You don’t comment on it. You both know better than to reach for something you don’t yet have the nerve to name.

The piano stutters to a stop. Someone curses. Chairs scrape. Arthur pushes his glass away and stands, tall and sudden, and for a heartbeat you’re aware of the shape of him—broad shoulders, a steadiness that comes naturally. He offers you his hand, not as a flourish, just a fact. You take it, and feel a spark you pretend not to as you rise.

Outside, the air is cooler. The docks creak, and the water slaps wood insistantly. Evening has turned the sky to a bruised violet. Arthur’s horse waits where he left her, head low, tail swishing. The buttermilk Kentucky Saddler mare lifts her ears when she sees him, a soft sound in her throat.

“Rhiannon,” he murmurs, and there’s something gentle in his voice you don’t often hear, reserved for his sweethearts. Your chest constricts a little.

He checks the cinch with practiced hands, the leather stretching. You smooth your dress without thinking, tugging it into place. Arthur swings up easy, settling into the saddle with a creak of leather and bone. He reaches down without looking, palm open, and you step close.

For a second, you hesitate. It’s silly—you’ve ridden together plenty before—but tonight the space feels narrower, the moment sharper. You place your foot where he guides it and let him take your weight. His hand is firm at your waist, fingers splayed, and the lift is quick, controlled. You find yourself seated behind him, skirts gathered, thighs braced against the curve of the saddle, your chest inches from his back.

The world narrows to the feel of him. The warmth through his coat. The solid line of his spine. You tell yourself to keep your hands polite, resting light at his hips, but the horse shifts and you slide forward, just a touch, until your breath ghosts the nape of his neck. Arthur clears his throat. The mare steps off, hooves ringing hollow against the planks as you leave the lamplight behind.

Van Horn falls away—the saloon’s glow, the mutter of voices, the smell of whiskey and brine. The road rises and the night opens up, crickets stitching sound into the dark. Arthur sets a steady pace, not too fast, as if he knows exactly how much jostling you can stand. You count the sway of the horse, the rhythm of it, like a metronome for your thoughts.

You want to lean in. You want to rest your cheek between his shoulder blades and let the wanting go slack. You don’t. Instead, you look at the stars coming out, and think of the campfire waiting far to the west. You think of the morning light at Horseshoe Overlook, how it spills like honey over the cliffs, and how maybe these next days will be easier.

Arthur speaks without turning. “You alright back there?”

“Yes,” you say, and it’s true in the small way that matters. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit,” he says, but there’s no bite to it. His shoulders relax a fraction. “We’ll make camp before it gets too dark. Rhiannon’s got good sense.”

She does. She carries you sure-footed through the rise and fall of the road, ears flicking back to catch the murmur of Arthur’s voice, the quiet of your breathing. The wind lifts your hair and tangles it, and you tuck it back, fingers brushing his coat by accident. Or maybe not. He doesn’t comment, but his hand comes back, steadying you at the knee as the path dips.

It would be easy, you think. Too easy. To let this turn into something it isn’t yet. To read meaning into every touch and breath. You don’t want easy. You want sure.