Hi, dove!!
I absolutely love that prompt you got sent about Arthur baking and I adored the drabble that you wrote!!! <33
It got my mind churning with ideas and I was wondering if you'd mind if I wrote a oneshot or something inspired by it? I'll credit the original post, of course. If not, it's no problem! <3 I love your posts!
Please! Go ahead, it would be awesome! Can’t wait to see it!
do you think arthur would like to bake?
like hear me out a second. obviously he's a pretty great artist, and that's one hobby that (in a perfect world with a happy ending, shhh) he could probably pursue at home with paints and notebooks and whatnot... wouldn't it be something to do something that simple with him? bread, at first. y'know, all that kneading. could really use some help with the physical labor, mr morgan... and then quick breads, the kind that use fruits and baking powders. little introductions of luxuries that never really occurred to him to create, because why would they? he wasn't made to make things— only oops, he's an artist. he has it in him.
also the idea of him braiding little bread accents for scored loaves is knocking me out. also also, tell me he wouldn't be the type to think about building one of those bigger bakers ovens. he strikes me as the type to always need a task, even if you technically have a perfectly good cast iron oven *right there.*
give the man a constructive hobby, that's what i mean. because (after he builds the house, bc if that was in john's nature it's definitely in his) he needs one.
your brain… your brain…. i have so many thoughts about this and this will be more of a thought drop rather than full blurb because hello??? oh em gee….
—
arthur, who after slipping the noose promised by micah and dutch with his sweetheart at his side, finds comfort and joy in building her a house with his blood and sweat. with a desire to build a small homestead in the grizzlies, he purchased a plot of land blooming with wildflowers and painted with lines of a flowing creek, where he spent hours resurrecting his monument to his love. a place where you could sleep without fear. a place where he could finally be free.
sweat slick and sore, he not only built the house itself (with the help of his friends of course) but he also built the fence that surrounded the property. and after that, he built a barn and a couple of pens. in his mind, the labor purified him. the sins of his past bled out from his pores through acts of pure devotion. he’d come in to the meal you prepared for him with a kiss and a mumbled thanks and quickly fall asleep the moment he had your warm body next to him.
with the labor born of devotion and bred for purification, his pure love of creation for the sake of creation helped keep him to himself. more detailed sketches in his journal, widdling wooden keepsakes. the love of creation never died within him, so as he watches you one fine morning delicately cutting flower shaped slices into a dough of bread before baking, the gears in his head begins grinding.
eventually, when the chores have been done and he ensures you have nothing to do but what you please, you find him in the kitchen. he’s covered in flour in a way that makes your heart clench with how endearing he is. he focuses as he carves out floral shapes into the bread the same as you did, blade hand steady and unwavering.
it seems that gunslinging steadiness has finally paid off.
Oh my god please hear me out: Arthur. Pining.
Maybe it's just me but a man pining is everything. He's so resigned to the way being in love makes a fool out of him. He's whipped and he knows it and it drives him insane, but dear god, he cannot and would not ever trade away the way he feels. He says he would, maybe even believes he would, but he wouldn't. Not when holding and being held feels so sweet.
Your writing is everything by the way!!!
thank u sm for your kind words and more importantly thank you sm for this delicious FOOD OMG
arthur was born with heartache in his veins, unfortunately. yearning is as much part of his dna as the color of those turquoise eyes. falling in love was rare but rich in depth and heat. so much so that when he began to fall for you, it was as if he was choking on it.
he watches you in the mornings through the steam of his coffee, elbows on his knees as he rests by the fire, heavy with the weight of exhaustion from a long night’s ride. you brush your hair with a comb missing more than a few teeth and bind it into a braid with a frayed ribbon. the next time he finds himself in town, he replaces the comb and buys you a ribbon the exact shade of his eyes.
“oh, arthur.” you hum with pleasure when he shyly gives them to you. “these are beautiful. you really didn’t have to do that for me.”
your smile was damn near sweet enough to break his heart.
those around camp can see he’s lovesick despite his gruff attempts at nonchalance. they use your name like a weapon, watching with satisfaction as your mere mention drags his focus to you without hesitation. micah, damn him, taunts the man for his softness. arthur’s snarled reply denies any redemption offered by love, though he knew better.
by loving you, he was getting redemption he never deserved. if he had any sense in him he would put a thousand miles between himself and your darling eyes, yet there he was, tucking into your tent in the pitch of night, kicking off his boots and laying beside you in your bedroll.
you reached for him instinctively, still asleep, seeking his warmth. soon, you were curled against his chest and sighing at the smell of gunpowder and leather, and he was left holding you and succumbing to the sleep that always beckoned the moment he allowed himself to lay down.
Finding flowers and putting them in Arthur’s hair cause he’s so beautiful 😭😭🩵
oh my god 😭😭 here is what played in my mind in this moment
______
“what’re you doin?” arthur asked quietly, voice rough with sun-drenched drowsiness as he lay in the flower spotted meadow with his head in your lap. the sounds of summer gave way to his deep timbre and the hush of the river fell onto your half deaf ears.
arthur’s hat lay beside you and currently acted as a bed to the bundle of flowers you had plucked from around you. deep purples, faint yellows and sweet pink petals lay carefully plucked and waiting as you began to tuck their stems carefully into arthur’s ashy brown hair.
“hush.” you replied scoldingly, though the curve of your lips spoke of nothing but bliss as you crowned him with the colors of the earth.
arthur opened one turquoise eye to look up at you, amused to see the sly grin that plastered itself onto your face, and let out a faint hum of satisfaction as he once again closed his eyes and allowed himself to fully surrender to the peaceful place he found himself in.
it was one of the first warm days of the summer and after a quick breakfast of coffee and venison, the two of you had ridden towards this little slice of heaven near horseshoe creek. the sounds of the camp vanished before the song of the wild and it was here that the two of you settled in pure enjoyment of the scene around you. arthur, given the chance to relax, had promptly settled his head into your lap and sprawled onto his back.
when all the flowers had found their place in his hair you took this moment of stillness to admire him. the strong lines of his face were sun-marked and scar flecked. fine wrinkles sprawled like sun beams around the corners of his eyes and his full mouth sat pressed in a perpetual pout that made you smile.
you brushed a thumb over the coarseness of his short beard, ran it over the strong shape of his jaw. it was incredible that he could not see how beautiful he was, how sweet despite his sins. the marks of years passed seemed as much of a stain to him as it was a means of worship for you and even as you studied him now you felt as though the years had strung the two of you together.
his eyes opened again, serious and beautiful. you felt your throat thicken up with the pure joy of meeting them.
“c’mere.” he muttered, hand traveling up to brush a stray piece of hair away from your face. then, his fingers hooked beneath your jaw and urged you down.
when your lips slotted against his, his mouth sweet with the taste of wild raspberries, you considered the absurdity of praying, and how your words of gratitude would not be enough thanks to whatever force had brought him to you.
—-
HAHWBWHWBWSNWHWJ guys im going to cry i love him so much. he is truly so…. SOOOOO….. ugh if i describe him again yall will get another 20k words.
“are you going to say anything or are you just going to sit there and wallow?”
arthur started at the sound of hosea’s voice from behind him. he flushed, embarrassed, and shrugged. “couldn’t imagine what you’re talking about,” he replied shortly before bringing the lip of the bottle to his lips. beer flooded his mouth and quenched the growing dryness.
hosea chuckled and took a seat beside him on the fallen log. the crackling fire before them snapped over the sounds of singing and javier’s guitar. arthur, as much as he cursed himself for doing it, allowed his gaze to slip back to you.
you were dancing with uncle with a grin that could’ve torn the skin off of arthur’s back and he would’ve thanked you with how much he adored it.
though to most uncle was a lazy meandering drunk, you held a soft spot for him. his crude humor and indirect kindness endeared him to you so that you thought of him as his namesake. arthur knew this, and although he didn’t understand it he couldn’t help find your appreciation of the man endearing.
“you’re no fool arthur.” hosea said. “you know how you feel. being bitter isn’t going to make her yours.”
arthur scowled at the grey-haired man and the truth in his words. he was bitter, disgustingly so. your recent talk of a new man had made arthur feel so turned around and venomous that it made him sick to his stomach and he had spent the last couple of days avoiding you.
you, in turn, had taken to ignoring him and much to his irritation, had continued to visit your new companion in rhodes.
the song began to pick up its pace and uncle began to give you a twirl. your hair and gown twirled and swayed wildly and you belted a laugh that made those around you follow suite.
“she’s got a chance.” arthur growled. “she’s got a chance at a real life, with whoever this man is. some banker. no sense in me stopping it.”
hosea stared at him, eyebrow raised. “do you really believe that?”
arthur scratched at the short length of his beard.l and sighed. “i don’t know if I believe in anything.”
hosea fell silent for a moment. the two of them watched as the song came to a close and applause broke out. sean’s irish brogue asked for another song and almost too quickly the others agreed. the guitar struck again, and karen’s singing voice casted out towards the stars, and you settled into a seat and brought a jug of whiskey to your perfect mouth.
“you better figure it out quick.” hosea replied. “years of watching you deny yourself things has sickened me. i’d like to see you happy on my deathbed.”
then, without another word, he stood and walked towards his tent, leaving arthur to nurse his jealous wounds on his own.
how it ached to see you like this, whiskey-stung with a feral grin. how it ached to watch the way you leaned sleepily into tilly’s shoulder as the liquor slowly began to bribe you to bed, just as it always did.
what a fool he was to love you.
what a fool he was to yearn painfully over a woman who’d better leave him behind.
a familiar shuddering in his chest pressed in on him and he moved to drown it out with burning drink. then he stood, swayed on his feet for a moment, then moved to the join the revelry. at the sight of him, you perked up.
“do you still have it in you to dance?” arthur asked quietly. heat shot to the tips of his ears.
the sound of his voice sent your stomach into a spiral. when you gave him a nod that you prayed didn’t seem to eager, a smile that was almost boyishly shy quirked the shape of his sinful mouth. you took his hand, the callouses rough and warm, and let him lead you away.
when the song changed again, to something much slower and sweet, his hands took their place — one in yours and the other on your waist. warmth seeped into you.
arthur smelled like campfire smoke and whiskey layered with something soft and sweet that was unmistakably him. you’d catch the scent of it when he brushed past you in camp and it would make you dizzy with longing. now, half-drunk, you felt your blood purr.
arthur looked down at you through half-mast eyes. you looked heart-breaking, your skin glowing with liquor and your eyes shining. as the two of you swayed he began to hum a familiar tune.
“why are you looking at me like that?” you asked him quietly. the softness of his gaze was making your heart pound and your mouth dry.
“no reason.” arthur replied quietly. the threat of his love was dangerously close to the tip of his tongue.
“how mysterious you are, mr. morgan.” you teased.
arthur chuckled. “that and foolishness is all i’ve got.”
you rolled your eyes in that playful way of yours. the idea of him being foolish was like the grass growing crimson. “what could possibly make you a fool, arthur?”
there it was. the way you said his name made arthur weak in the knees and his heart pound in his chest. affection overwhelmed him as he looked down into your stubborn gaze and a sudden bravery surged him forward to place a chaste kiss to the top of your head.
“many things. but mostly you.”
to arthur, a ring was a curse.
the first ring he bought, the one for mary, had sealed the first fracture of his heart. it was the first of many promises that made him sick with heartache and yearning for a simple life he could never live. a ring was a damnation.
so when he realized he wanted to marry you, he felt a strange sort of panic. the insatiable urge to see you in a pretty white dress with a bundle of wildflowers in your hand wrestled with the fear of never seeing you again. the idea of having only letters to remember you by made his old heart ache with a vengeance.
how foolish mary made him seem. how pathetic.
the morning arthur left for Saint Denis from the quiet of Clemen’s Point you stopped him with a smile. “where you going to in such a fuss, cowboy?” you asked, hair messy from sleep and eyes soft with fatigue. you clutched a tin mug of coffee and stood on the outside of your shared tent, finally risen after arthur woke you with his dressing.
“that’s for me to know, honey.” arthur replied with a smile. he reached out to brush his thumb against your cheek. “ill be back this evening.”
he rode off with the sight of you asleep on his chest in his mind and the fear of god in his heart.
he wandered the streets of san denis in search of a perfect ring. bands of gaudy jewels and metals winked at him from all directions of the many shops and stalls he visited, all too much and not enough all at once.
once he found the perfect one his hands almost shook with apprehension. it seemed to burn a hole in his chest pocket as he rode back to camp through water and woods. years raced past in his head, a flood of memory and fear.
he prayed he wasn’t about to curse the last bloom of the summer.
arthur morgan nsfw alphabet with fem reader
(shameless filth and thirst. minors dni)
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
He’s lazy about it but he absolutely needs SKIN TO SKIN. he’ll pull you on top of him so that you lay against his chest, breasts pressed against him and face nestled in the crook of his neck. he needs to show you that sex is more than the pleasure. that it’s for the connection and love.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
arthur is very hard on himself, so the idea of picking a favorite part of himself was a ridiculous idea. however, if he had to choose, it was probably his hands as they had done him enough good in his life. through art and destruction they’ve never caused him any trouble.
on his partner, it’s the subtle things. the slope of their back, the dimples above their ass, their stomach. he is particularly enamored with your stomach, despite your embarrassment.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
creampie king sorry not sorry. yeah it’s 1899 and the likelihood of you getting pregnant is incredibly high but he is not much of a man to do anything too crude with his cum as it embarrasses him.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
he can get off to the just the smell of you. there has been times when he’s off on his long journeys and he only has a handkerchief of yours that smells like the sweetness of your skin and soap and that is enough to get him off when he’s pleasuring himself. it’s embarrassing and makes him feel like a teenage boy so he would never tell you.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
you’re going to look at this gorgeous man and think someone else hasn’t tried to take a ride? arthur has had his share of sleeping with sporting women and casual partners alike, particularly in his twenties when he was as hot as wildfire. obviously he has slowed down, finding that emotional intimacy is his preference, but the skill didn’t disappear. he knows how to work you in just the right ways.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
yall are going to hate me for this but he loves missionary. he wants to be able to kiss you, whether your lips or your face, and see the way your eyes widen as he brings you to the edge. there is something so erotic about just watching your face as he slowly takes you apart.
but also he will push and pin your legs down and throw them over his shoulders, so don’t worry.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
he is not immune to chuckling and finding humor in sex. whether one of you accidentally hit your head or you hear a particularly funny bit of conversation in camp, the soft sound of his laughter will come out in a huff. but you don’t mind, the sound will have you hurtling towards the edge anyway.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
it’s 1899 and he is an outlaw. he has a bush, but not overwhelming. not groomed but trim and clean.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
my SHAYLLAAA! he is so sweet and romantic during sex. he can’t help himself. between whispering sweet words in your ears and the tenderness in which he takes you (even when he’s a bit more rough) speaks volumes of how he feels. he is a romantic, despite the fact he is convinced he is nothing more than a ragged old fool.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
does it FREQUENTLY. usually once or twice every other day if he isn’t with you, but even so he feels it improper to be so demanding with intimacy so he will still do it occasionally. love my lustful outlaw with everything in my soul btw.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
breeding kink, as mentioned before, but definitely praise kink. he loves hearing how much you love him, how much it feels good, how much you’ve missed him. it makes him almost sick with affection and lust and all the more determined to bring you to orgasm over and over and over and over.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
he definitely prefers it when the two of you are out in the country together, where he can take you in blissful silence beneath the tapestry of stars. if he’s feeling adventurous he takes you to one of the waterfalls in the grizzlies, and fucks you behind the roaring curtain of water — almost crazy with the way your skin looks when misted by the droplets.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
he is a big fan of the little things. when you rub his shoulders, fingers working the thick knots and warming his skin. the way your waist curves in when you wear the gown that you know is his favorite. the way you are eager to take care of him, whether it’s getting him a plate of food before yours or whether you comb his hair and help him shave.
obviously seeing you naked, or seeing sweat glisten on your chest.
but whenever you get smart with him, or anyone else with that matter, he finds it makes his blood run hot and wild in his veins. there’s nothing he likes more than a “difficult” woman.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
no potty play, hitting/slapping you, or three ways/etc. absolutely not.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
he prefers giving because he is shy about receiving, though obviously he loves both. he is a MUNCH. the feeling of your thighs on either side of his head, the taste of you and the way you whine, it feels good to make you feel good.
however when you go down on him… he is a mess. cursing, holding your hair, hips stuttering. Jesus Christ.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
he can definitely be both! he loves both, and doesn’t have a preference, but you never know what to expect when it comes to his pace.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
he doesn’t mind quickies! sometimes, particularly before he goes on a particularly long adventure, he takes some time to leave you something to remember him by. whether in a tent, up against a tree, or in a meadow thick with flowers, he has no problem pleasing you.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
when he’s tipsy, he’s far more willing to gamble with risk. there was even an instance where he took you behind the saloon at valentine, hidden in the shadows, hand over your mouth and your bloomers at your ankles. however, he is still not incredibly risky. he loves experimenting just because he loves finding new ways to make you tick.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
LOOOORDDD he can last. When he’s not overly tired from a long day, he could go about three rounds in a row, and then maybe give you another a few hours later. But even during one round, he has an amazing ability to draw out your pleasure for as long as he can. He has an internal goal to make you finish at least twice each time.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
No toys, I fear. 1899.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
Pressing a kiss to the most sensitive spot on your neck when saying goodbye, muttering filth into your ears when dancing together, kissing you long and deep until you are out of breath… Arthur loves teasing you. The satisfaction he gets out of making you squirm is almost as good as sex itself, particularly when he catches you practically drooling over him.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
He tries not to be loud :((( but he cannot help it. It’s a lot of muffled grunts, gasping, and keening groans under his breath. Words of praise and filth slip from his silver tongue with his sounds of pleasure and when he is finally sent to his climax it always comes with a deep, hoarse groan.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
Arthur, sweet, respectful Arthur needed you to make the first move. When he first started courting you, he made it clear that sex wasn’t at the forefront of his interest, so he did not make the first move sexually as to allow you to make decisions when you were ready. When you finally did, though, it was as if something snapped. The two of you spent hours tangled in each other as he slowly found out how your body came apart beneath his fingers.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
Strong, broad, scar-flecked and hairy. Thick muscle latticed over his entire body from years of hard living. Have you seen how easily he could throw a grown man over his shoulder?
The hair, dark and slightly curly at his dick, was trim and clean, though plentiful. From his sex to the muscle of his thighs dark hair sprung.
And obviously, his dick. He is well-endowed and cut and is actually a shower, much to your enjoyment.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
Girl… good luck. You’ll walk past him, sweat-glistened and panting, and he’ll be wanting to take you then and there. You’ll press tight against him in the mornings and find his hot mouth biting at your thighs. He cannot get enough of you.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
Arthur doesn’t like to, but he falls asleep pretty quickly, but only after he ensures you’re taken care of and wrapped in his arms.
a kiss for each of your finger tips.
then a kiss on your palm, his whiskers scratchy against it as he brought it to cradle his face.
saying goodbye to arthur was never easy. tears welled up the moment he approached his mount. the silhouette of him walking from you was almost too much to bare, and dripped down your face in silent runs.
“sweet girl.” he’d say scoldingly when he turned around to see you, though his turquoise eyes swam with softness. “crying for me.”
he’d press his mouth against the tears in gentle kisses. then, mounted with his dark hat shadowing the panes of his face, he’d begin the ritual worship of your hands. he was leaning down towards you now, eyes closed as he savored the feeling of your hand against his cheek.
“i love you, darlin’. you know that.” he’d say this with his eyes still closed, as if he was feeling your love in his very bones.
you did, and you loved him. desperately. hungrily. with every cell in your body and without a moment’s doubt. you loved the outlaw like he was god. all of these thoughts raced through your head but you could only reply with, “come back to me in one piece. ill hunt you down after a fortnight.”
his eyes would open then, sparkling with humor. “you promise?”
you’d kiss him through his scratching laugh.
the days would pass painfully slow. laundry was scrubbed, a shirt of his nearly pressed and starched for him and hung in the closet. bread was baked and ate alongside a solitary bowl of stew. the small cabin you had for yourself become a prison. the days you spent with friends in town were the only reprieve.
but when he came back to you… oh lord, when he came back to you.
you’d spot him on the horizon. he galloped towards you with an eagerness that made you laugh. the book you clutched as comfort was thrown onto the floor as you barreled out the front door and down the steps.
and there he was, dirty and sweat-stained, smelling like gunpowder and coffee.
and there he was, taking you in his arms and bringing you close, breathing your name like a healing prayer.
Arthur x F!reader 5K words | smut | 18+ mdni Tender/comfort/hot/sweet Setting: Your small room in a Saint Denis boarding house, late afternoon Contains: Doting cowboy, menstrual sex, penis in vagina sex, fingering, period-typical living arrangements, cerises 🍒 A response to a lost ask 💞
girl… the intimacy. it is so perfect. it’s so beautiful. i am tearing up in the clurb right now
listening to this song and thinking about arthur passing away.
thinking about finding him on the mountain top and feeling like your heart had been torn from your chest.
thinking about crumbling next to him and laying your head on his chest that would never rise again or shake from the calloused laugh that you loved hearing.
thinking about how charles will likely have to pull you off of him and hold you as you scream like you’d just been shot and how the both of you would ride to where you’d lay his once-strong body into the earth.
thinking about how years from then you’d watch your son squeal with joy and look at you with Arthur’s turquoise eyes and you’d feel your heart spasm in your chest.
as the years go by you find yourself settled in at john’s homestead. you do not love again. a vow once whispered in the dark remains true in your very blood and you dream of him nearly every night. there is no other and there’ll never be, despite abigail’s gentle prodding.
your son is grown and reminds you so much of arthur it makes you ill.
how horribly painful it is to be find a love such as this. how incredibly fortunate it was. you know he is with you in every breath and movement of your body, every horse and every tree.
the taste of whiskey and smoke makes your heart sing with hope.
when your body slows and cracks with age, when your hearing vanishes and your eyesight blurs, you know then that it was a gift to feel this grief for so many years.
it was a gift to love arthur morgan.
and when the sound of his callous laughter fills your ears once again, you know you’d do it all over just for the first look at him.
-
an: i am angsty and unwell about a fictional man and i want you all to feel what im feeling by the way
*nsfw
arthur warms you up with his hands.
not his mouth, though the sinful shape of it makes your stomach squirm, but his hands.
it starts with small circles on your lower back. ya’ll are standing around the fire listening to yet another one of uncle’s songs and the hand that he had been resting comfortably on your waist travels to the tempting slope of your back. he massages small circles on the spots he knows bother you after a long day and works out the tight knots of muscle.
when you sigh into him at the sensation his mouth quirks into a slight smile and presses a chaste kiss to the top of your head.
dinner is followed by drinks, of course. you drink from his bottle of beer without bothering to get your own as he’d built the habit of sharing everything he had with you. one beer became another, and then became whisky, and then your body became warm and perfumed with sweat. arthur pulled your hair off your neck and keeps it on the back of it. his thumb traces shaped on the sensitive flesh of your neck and makes you tremble.
the both of you dance together as everyone begins dropping off to bed, feet clumsy and heavy with drink. he laughs as you dig your fingernails into the strength of his biceps to save yourself from falling to the side. “clumsy girl,” he teases. “don’t take me down with you.”
but you knew that he would go down with you anyway. he always would. his hands traveled to flare over your ribs as you swayed together, and again there was that affectionate trace of his thumbs. just there beneath the swell of your chest. you felt your heart begin to race and ache with an intensity that made you breathless.
when you stumble into your tent (his was always too open) he began his work on your clothes. your corset was undone with thick, clever fingers, followed by the unbuttoning of your gown and the gentle pull of the material off of your body.
you lay before him nearly naked, chest heaving and face burning with embarrassment as he studied you, sat on his legs. those hands again — they slide to either side of your waist. each moment of touch feels hot, sensual tongues of fire lick on your skin and you writhe against him.
“stop teasing arthur.” you snip at him.
a low chuckle and the pads of his thumbs press into the fat of your stomach. he continued to hold you like this while reverently admiring your stomach, your chest. he seemed to be blind to your embarrassment as he stooped down to drag his tongue down your sternum.
the moment the hot muscle touched your skin you let out a shuddering gasp.
“that’s my girl.” he muttered against your skin as you raised your hips. his hands hooked the waist of your bloomers and tugged them down your legs, leaving kisses in its wake.
“arthur, please.” you whimpered as you spread your legs. the cool air upon the hot slick of your sex made you whine.
“i suppose since you asked me so nicely.” he replied. his voice had dropped even lower, his pupils blown wide. when his fingers finally sunk knuckle deep into your heat he smiled crookedly at your arousal.
he had you in the palm of his hand.
crying and thinking about arthur singing rn.
how he sings on long rides through the mountains, deep baritone almost unbearably soft beneath his breath and leaving words to the trees. his voice wavered in certain verses and fell to hoarseness in others but remained as beautiful and as natural as the eternal pine.
when he sings with the gang around the crackle of a fire his voice almost hides behind their collective chorus, but instead of disappearing, the sound of it peaked through like rays of sunlight. his voice was born of mountain winds, wood ash and crackling fire.
he’s almost shy about singing. he’s hesitant to do it sober, face warming red. when he’s drunk, head spinning and smile cracking across his face, he sings like speaking — tinged with laughter and mischief.
charles looveesss saying “my wife.”
“my wife wears her hair like that.” he would say in conversations, mind filled with braids and updos and messy locks fluffed with morning.
“my wife wants me back. i’ll be seeing you.” he would say to his friends when the sun grew heavy and ripe with evening. he would climb upon his saddle with thoughts of your sweet face in the back of his mind.
“it’s my wife’s birthday.” he would say after buying a particularly charming locket from a stand in saint denis. he would slip a photo of himself inside, stoic and feather tied into his hair. the small smile that threatened the usually stern shape of his mouth was as unique to you as the sound of your laugh. there was little to nothing that could bring that out of him.
“get your filthy hands off of my wife.” he would snarl in the candlelight of a saloon when a particularly repulsive and bold man got too friendly. a large hand, finger tips calloused from their constant kiss on a bowstring, would pull him back with bear-like strength. that same hand would become unnervingly gentle when it came to your waist minutes later.
“oh how you dread being my wife.” he would mumble against your smiling lips in the darkness of your shared tent. you both were wound together like twine, sweat soaked and perfumed from the love that you shared for the third time that night. “how horrible i treat you.” he mumbled with a humor saved for you. you’d laugh gently against his mouth and run your hands over his strong shoulders and back.
charles loves saying ‘my wife’ after so many years of doubts and fear. he loves calling you by the name he had begged you to take.
arthur loved the summertime for all the usual reasons. plentiful herbs for plucking, easy game that became slow and fat from the plentiful food, sitting among sweetgrass with his face turned towards the sun.
but after meeting you, he had found even more reasons to count down the days until summer bled over the land. and to his boyish shame, not all of them were wholesome.
the arrival of the cherries marked the very start of the golden days. he’d buy them from some farm-stand on his way back to you — deep red and ripe with sweetness — and surprise you with them. your gasp of delight pulsed his blood with pride. you’d eat them together and talk about whatever came to mind (it was easy between you guys) on the edge of camp. he’d be staring at your lips too often to think of any clever response. they were stained with juice and bruised as if kissed. when you gave in to his teasing, your tongue tasted like wine.
then, of course, the flowers. flowers tucked in your hair, flowers you pressed for him to keep in his journal, flowers that perfume your clothes after hours of laying in a meadow. there was a blessed time of year when you’d brush past him and carry with you the scent of lilac with a hint of creeping thyme. when you slept beside him the scent lulled him to sleep.
the beckoning reflection of lakes and rivers prompted days of swimming naked in the water. these were the days that arthur allowed himself surrender to the burning desire of manhood and take you over and over. those days were warm skin wet by water and tongue. those days were teasing laughter and the song of citrus fruit.
each summer that had passed with you had felt deeper than the last — more vivid and thick with color and song. it was if you were the fountain of youth embodied in spirit and love with the way you managed to drag him up from the wariness that comes with passing time.
each summer, you’d help him come back alive.
“i don’t want you to get sick.”
you stared at arthur, perplexed. the wash cloth in your hand dripped hot water down the flesh of your wrist. outside, the crackle of the fire and whispered conversation.
arthur had returned from doing god knows what late into the night, bleeding from cuts on his face and chest. you had risen the moment you felt his presence and went straight to preparing a dish of hot water to clean his wounds. you’d returned to see him sitting on his cot, head hung low and wheezing with rattling breath.
you had bent low to lift his face so that you could start cleaning his wounds, but he pushed you away. eyes creased with regret and sorrow, he had told you that as if it killed him.
water lined his eyes now as you stared at each other. the dim light of the lantern carved sharp angles into his face and made him breathtakingly handsome despite the redness of his eyes and the shadows beneath them.
“you can’t do this for me no more.” he said with a shake of his head. “you touch my blood you’re good as dead.”
tears began to ache and burn behind your nose and you tried to blink away the tears. “arthur…” you said quietly, and stepped forward. you watched as blood dripped painfully into his eye from a cut on his brow and clenched your jaw.
the hand holding the dish of hot water was beginning to tremble now and made your wrist ache uncomfortably. arthur shook his head. “don’t. i can do it myself. put it down.”
he grimaced, squeezing his eyes shut as if to fight the oncoming tears. you lowered the bowl beside him but still clung to the wet cloth in your hand. when arthur reached for it, you shook your head.
“quit being so stubborn.” arthur grumbled. “hand it over.”
instead of complying, you reached forward and brushed a strand of ashy hair away from his face. you watched the strength falter in a brief shudder before it was replaced by a sudden spark of disdain. his large hand snapped to your wrist and although his grip remained gentle, his pull of it was not.
“can’t you quit it!?” he barked.
“shut up!” you snapped. “if you don’t stop whining i will walk out of this tent.”
arthur glared up at you defiantly and for a moment you caught a light of who he truly was — angry, confused, scared. it made your heart tighten and pound in your chest.
“you think im afraid of you, arthur?” you hissed. “you think that i don’t know of what can happen? of what will happen?”
his jaw clenched and feathered. a shuttered grief passed over his face. you bent down and pressed a kiss to his forehead before he could argue and as soon as you did, you felt him sag.
“i have loved you through it all.” you muttered. “and i will love you through this, understand? whether i die before or after you i will love you. whether i die from this god-awful disease or a bullet in my head it is no fault of yours.”
a bitter chuckle from him. you scowled and grabbed him by his scarred chin to lift his face up — tears had slipped in stray, sparse trails down his face.
“do you love me, arthur?” you asked quietly.
distantly, you heard the sound of javier’s laughter.
“more than the wind and rain.” arthur replied, voice cracking.
you took the rag to his face and began wiping away the blood and grime from his face. slowly, the paths of his tears faded away. then, when he was finally clean, you put the cleaning things to the side and settled beside him and took his hand in yours. scars and callouses, freckles and hair.
“then let me love you for the time we have left.” you muttered. you kissed his knuckles, his wrist, his fingers. when his other hand came to your face and pulled you close to him, when your lips finally met and he kissed you as if he was starving a mutual understanding bloomed.
there was no coyote without a deer. there was no life without death. similarly, there was no him without you — nor you without him. as he dug his teeth into the flesh of your sweet spot, it was in an act of reverence and through each sweet rich touch you felt the threat of tears to overcome you.
when they escaped your hold, he kissed them away with his sick mouth. with his mouth plagued by sickness and love, and humor and sin, and everything that made him the man you loved.
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an: in my universe arthur and you(me) are in a constant state of mutual flourishing and they will always take the great journey together btw