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gothvenus505 · 13 days ago

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This is hands down the best Arthur Morgan fic I have literally ever read so far, absolutely perfect

After Dark

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

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

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

Gif by: @sunwingsunset

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As always, sending my love - M. <3

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader smut #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan smut #grumpy #fluff #arthur morgan rdr2 #rdr #arthur morgan x female reader

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gothvenus505 · 13 days ago

Text

This brought joy to my heart seriously, Lord knows Arthur deserves all the fluff

"A Little... Refinin'." / Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader Fluff

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader Summary: You shave Arthur's face for him. It's all cutesy and y'all're sweet one one another and GAH. Tags: Fluff, literally the purest fluff. Starts off with Arthur being very full of self-loathing. Word count: 2,958 Author's Note: Thank you to the sweet anon who requested this, I truly hope you love it. I got SO carried away with the idea that it just... Needed to be a fic instead of headcanons.... Love uuuu. Ao3 Link

A heavy sigh. Tired, worn skin, parts dry and sunburnt and peeling. Wrinkles nestle deeply into his skin at the corners of his eyes and across his forehead. Nasty scars deboss his features, as though he is a sculpture, uncared for and unfinished. Full of dips and marks both inside and out, never to meet the kiln, never to be improved. An impossibly repugnant sight.

He feels the disgusted expression morph his features into something even more grotesque before he sees it reflected back at him in the small mirror. It feels like an insult every time. His lips part dumbly, from behind which unevenly set teeth peek. His brow furrows, shadowing the one thing he may dare to like about himself; the blue of his eyes which are currently squinting. Staring too long at himself brings forth thoughts and memories as worrisome and uncomfortable as his face.

The shaving station is a necessary utility, but to him, a feigned performance of self-value. A place for him to hack at his hair and beard, quickly and methodically. To finish up with a shrug and a “good enough”, not a place for priggishness.

“You ugly bastard.”

Arthur’s voice barely escapes as much more than a low grumble, a subtle but continuous and harmful mantra that coats his insides like tar. He begins an attempt to crush the familiar feeling with some deep, grounding breaths. His palms take some of his hefty weight, the wood of the barrel beneath them pressing pinkish shapes into his skin. Much like most forms of pain, he doesn’t mind it.

The rustle of your skirts and the padding of your pottering feet marry together with the chirping birds and whispering spring air as you round his tent and give him a once over. You smile and nod in greeting. He returns the gesture, albeit a tad stiffly, struggling to climb out of his thoughts, though your voice helps coax him.

“You look like you need a shave, Arthur.” You walk past him and through to the back of his tent, an air of domestic authority about you as you snatch some of his washcloths and socks from the little hanger and stuff them into the basket at your hip. He does a double take, his head turning as his gaze follows you.

“What?”

On occasion, you’d make little comments like this; telling him you like the new shirt he bought in Valentine, or his recent decision to grow his hair out. It left him quietly bewildered each time, unsure whether the arrhythmic dance of his heart was due to fondness or awkwardness. Whatever it was, he has spent each moment in your presence suppressing it. You pass by again, placing the basket on the floor outside of his tent with a thump. “I said you look like you need a shave–” you say with a smile, “-You’re gettin’ all scruffy.” Your nose scrunches as you gesture to your own chin, scratching it as though you have stubble. His self-loathing lightens further, your playfulness stirring into the bitter tar like honey, sweetening him up as it always does.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Gettin’?” He asks, making you laugh.

“Mister Morgan, you ain’t scruffy. Far from it. You jus’ need a little… Refinin’.” You say with a grin, waltzing closer to him. He feels the column of his spine lock up slightly at your closing proximity and he swallows down a nervous sound. “Refinin’, huh?” He echoes, his eyes flitting down to your flowing skirts as you stop in front of him. He forces his eyes closed before he can think of how nicely your shirt fits. “Yessir.” You say simply, picking up the razor from the barrel, turning it and watching it glint in the sunlight. Arthur’s features tighten slightly, and his eyes flutter open as he feels you lean forward and one by one remove each item off of the barrel, playing them on his cot. “What’re you doin’?” You return to the barrel and pat the top, “Sit, I’ll give ya a shave.”

Arthur blinks, and his head is shaking before he even finishes processing your words.

“Naw, you ain’t gotta do that–” You roll your eyes, swatting at his chest and his skin beneath the fabric tingles in waves again and again. “Oh, hush up and sit’ch your ass down.”

With a concessive sigh, Arthur plants himself atop the barrel, lips pressed into a firm line. When you take a step closer, standing between his thighs, his expression blanks. And when you gently take hold of his chin between your forefinger and thumb to examine his face, his mind follows suit, whiting out into nothing.

You hum, giving him a good look before speaking casually. “Wha’chu want, then?” Your words take a moment to register as Arthur’s muddled head scrambles to take in anything going on outside of the fabric of your skirts brushing his thighs and the tip of your thumb grazing his lower lip. His voice lags, his gaze drifting about as you move his head left to right, “A clean shave, I guess.” Your nose scrunches as you look him in the eye, “You sure? I could have some real fun ‘n’ give you a little moustache.” You whisper the last words, leaning in a little closer. Arthur has to nod and chuckle to counteract every single signal in his body threatening to fizzle out entirely. “Sure, sure. A ‘little moustache’ it is.”

You give a triumphant grin and straighten up with a soft sigh as you grab the necessary items from his cot. You hum gently as you lather his shaving brush with lye soap and Arthur quietly watches. The domesticity of the situation makes him shift atop the barrel, his lips pursing. After a moment, you step closer again. “Sit up some more.” You say softly and he obeys, straightening up with a big breath. You place the fingertips of one hand against his cheek and bring the shaving brush up with the other.

Taking your time, you guide the lathered brush about, coating his bearded jaw with the cool soap. You concentrate on evenly coating Arthur’s face while he watches you. You place the brush down and pick up the straight razor, bringing it to his jaw and carefully starting to scrape away at his facial hair with rhythmic scratching sounds, holding the skin taut with your thumb.

“Thought you were going into town today?” He asks in a soft, low tone, watching your pupils grow larger as you lean close, into the shade of his tent. “Mhm,” you nod, your nose scrunching a tad in annoyance, “Grimshaw had other plans. Or should I say, demands.”

Arthur huffs a chuckle through his nose as he sneaks in fond glances at your face, thinking you’re too busy scraping at the ridges of his jaw. Then he notices the subtle flutter of your lashes, the slight raise of your brow, the way your concentration becomes forced. His fingers fidget against his pants in quiet panic. His voice comes out almost comically casual, “Well, I could take you in later on. If you’d like.” You pull away to rinse the razor with a slosh and look him in the eye, your expression sincere, “You sure? I wouldn’t wanna disturb your day.”

“Naw, you ain’t disturbin’ nothin’. I’m goin’ in anyway.” You return to shaving, cleaning up the right side of his jaw.

“Well, if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Press your lips together,” you say quietly, and he follows your instruction. You use the pad of your thumb to pull the skin of his chin tight and carefully shave around the scarring there. Arthur can’t help but feel quite exposed in this moment, having someone acknowledge him so closely; no shadow, hat nor unfriendly grimace to protect him. You watch his eyes dart about and up. You hear his feet shuffle in the dirt either side of you. This reaction has you opting to not comment on his scars, though a slight pinch in your brow betrays your thoughts.

A lull forms between you again. You’re not quite sure what to say, and neither is Arthur. The two of you silently take one another in, having only been this close once when he untangled a branch from your hair. Sure, he’d done it out of courtesy as you’d had a bucket of water cradled in your arms, but despite his denial, it was also an urge of the heart. Thoughts of how satiny and warm your hair was in the spring sun weave through his nerves as you start to speak again.

“What’re you goin’ in to town for?” A low, long and dumb hum vibrates his palette as he catches up to the moment, “M’gonna check in with the sheriff, see if he’s got any more bounties.” You nod slowly in response, focused on his chin.

“I read about that man you caught for him last week. That death tonic slingin’ bastard. You did good catchin’ him.” As you speak, Arthur’s expression morphs with bemusement. He blinks, his lips pursing and he talks over you as you try to tell him to press his lips together again, “Wha’chu mean read?”

“It was in the New Hanover Gazette,” You pause to look him in the eye, realising what his next question will be, “you weren’t mentioned. Was just a piece on the idiot you captured.” He visibly relaxes with a nod. You nudge his chin with your knuckle, guiding him to press his lips together again, which he does. You clean up his chin, your fingers nimble and wet against his now smooth skin. “He was a bastard. A peculiar one, too.”

“Sure seemed it if his poster’s anythin’ to go by.” You move on to shaving the left side of his jaw. You pull away to cleanse the razor in water again before leaning back in. Gently, you place your free hand at the side of his neck, using your thumb to pull the skin taut, and you feel his throat undulate as he stifles a hitch in his breath. Months of lacking tender touch makes it feel as though you’d pressed a hot iron to his skin. Arthur feels a buzzing need to speak, to distract himself, so he speaks; his toes wiggling inside of his boots unbeknownst to you.

“What’s your business in town, then?” He glances up at you in time for your gaze to meet his, and you offer a warm smile to which he responds in kind. His toes curl in his boots. You tip his chin up to shave the middle section of his neck, hearing a silent sigh of thanks escape him for the relief in eye contact.

“I fancied myself a trip to the 50 cent show. I’ve heard it’s good.” You murmur with a tilt of your head as you focus. Arthur gives a silent “Oh?” and a raise of his brow,

“It’s interestin’, that’s for sure.”

“You’ve seen it?” You ask, moving to rinse the razor again, glancing at him as he rolls his shoulders a little.

“Mhm. I won’t spoil it for ya.”

“S’mighty kind of you, Mister Morgan.” You quip and he chuckles, watching as your playful snooty expression changes into something akin to mischief. “Now,” you grin, eyes glinting, “It’s moustache time.” You state with a shimmy of your shoulders.

Shock and felicity meld together at his seat and flood up through to his chest, shucking any previous coherence from him as you swoop in close. The sides of your skirts brush at his inner thighs and he swears he can vaguely feel the shape of your hips. His hands move to grasp his outer thighs, steadying himself, resisting the urge to pull back. When you press your thumb to his top lip and pull a little to shave the top edge of his moustache, the touch draws a shaky huff from him. You’re quick to look him straight in the eyes, your body frozen,

“Am I hurtin’ you?” You ask quietly.

The closeness. Your breath, laced with coffee. The musk of whatever homemade soap you use. The spring morning glowing behind you, setting the edges of your hair alight. Your pupils, enlarged from facing into the shade. His mind is already flooding with ways he would draw this moment, your ethereal beauty. And his body is simmering with thoughts of how you feel, whether the rest of you is as soft as your hair. He clears his throat, a tight, choked sound,

“No.”

You scan his face for a moment before continuing your ministrations. The longer you stay so close, the harder neglecting the quickening of your heart becomes. You find yourself taking slower, deeper breaths as you work, purposefully savouring the coalescing scents of Arthur’s shaving soap and skin. You keep the pad of your thumb against his lips, guiding his skin to move beneath it as you shape his moustache.

He notices the way your gaze flits about his face each time you pause to check the shape of the forming moustache - how you linger a little when his eyes meet yours. Each scrape of the razor, each shift of Arthur’s thighs, each sweet touch of your fingers to his skin is like a flint to steel, striking, igniting a fulsome blaze between the two of you. Yet only a moment later, your thumb leaves his lips, lagging in its descent, brushing, leaving a flaming yen behind which he swallows down. It sinks through him and swells warmly within his groin.

“You’re all done.” You say with a smile, washing the razor and wiping it down. You move away to place it on his cot with the rest of the things you’d moved earlier. Arthur takes a deep breath, loosening up his neck and brain with a shake of his head,

“Thank you, Miss.”

He rises from the barrel, not able to check himself in the mirror quite yet to review your work - too busy quelling his full body fluster. He flattens his thumb against a small bit of shaving foam collected on his shirt, scooping it from the fabric and flicking it onto the floor.

“S’my pleasure, Mister Morgan.” You reply, your expression as earnest as your tone as you turn to face him.

Arthur lets out a strained sound when your hand moves to cup his face and the pad of your thumb rubs over the edge of his mouth. He can feel a glob of cool shaving soap mush under your thumb as you rub it away. He hopes that there is more somewhere, perhaps on his jaw, behind his ear, but you pull away again, wiping your hand on your apron. “You do look mighty handsome, especially all gussied up like that.” You murmur, grinning, and Arthur swears he’s heard you wrong.

Another lull begins to creep up between you before he shoos it away with a gentle catch of something trying to leave his throat. Whatever it is breaks down into a shocked, stuttering chuckle, his eyes closing, his head shaking.

“Don’t go startin’ that with me, Miss.” He mumbles, giving you a fond and sheepish expression, one hand swatting at you lazily. “I’ll start whatever I like, thank you very much.” You snark, walking back to the basket you’d left at the entrance of his tent, bending over and hiking it up onto your hip. Arthur’s eyes snag on your rear, his hand coming up to push his hair back and then rub down his face, his palm grazing over his newly styled moustache as he sighs, “I’m sure you will.” You turn to him and simper, swaying a little from side to side,

“Would you come to the 50 cent show with me before you meet with the sheriff?” You tilt your head.

Arthur’s breath escapes him yet again, his focus darting away, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror resting sideways on his cot. You’ve done a very good job, as good as you can do on a stretched and exhausted canvas such as him. “Sure-” He nods, looking back to you, shifting his weight from one hip to the other, “Sure. I’ll join you, if that’s what you’d like.”

“I’d love it, Arthur.” You say, your smile only growing, a sweet sigh leaving you, “I’ll just finish this up-” You gesture with the basket, “And then I’ll get ready. I’ll meet you at the horses?”

“Okay then.” He nods again, a tad nervously now.

“See you soon, Arthur.” You say softly and ramble off to finish your chores across camp. Arthur reorganises his shaving supplies atop the barrel in an awkward and flustered manner. He curses quietly as he knocks and catches the small bottle of aftershave from the barrel before popping the stopper from the neck and pouring some onto his palm. He pats it about his face, and after glancing at you from across the way, pours a little extra into his palm and applies it.

He takes a moment to look at himself in the mirror again, seeing how neatly you’ve shaved his face. His gaze drifts about the parts of his face you’d touched so carefully; his jaw, his chin, his scars, his lips. For the first time in a while, self-loathing and shame aren’t the first things to rip through his head and pool heavily in his lungs. Instead, his thoughts stall long before that looming gate and distractedly wander towards you. How sweet you are towards him. How you called him handsome. How you asked him to the 50 cent show. How he really wants to go with you. How he might just buy you dinner.

Thank you for reading, dear hearts. I love sharing our love of rdr2 together <333 Tags for friends: @kayyqua

#rdr2 #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader

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gothvenus505 · 13 days ago

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oh my god…. MY SHAYLA

#red dead redemption arthur #rdr2 #red dead redemption #arthur morgan

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gothvenus505 · 14 days ago

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Now THIS is the kind of Tommy content I've been craving, thank you for this piece of literal art muahahah (⁠♡⁠ω⁠♡⁠ ⁠)⁠

special day for his special girl ~ tommy miller x f! reader

A/N: happy birthday to my twisted sister @heavens-whore !! I love plotting and coming up with ideas with you as well as talking about sex and the city and men (the good kind, the dilfs) I hope you enjoy this!! everyone, go check out her blog and works!! 🎊🥳🫶🏻 sorry for the delay and the length

mentions: so much fluff!!!! tommy making it the most special day for you, loving on you, soft possesive tommy, praise kink activated in tommy??, doting, spoiling you rotten in the best way he knows. smut. oral receiving (fem reader!), fingering, piv, tommy talking during sex, princess treatment. if im missing any mentions let me know.

minors dni with my blog or my works.

do not copy, translate or claim any of my work as your own.

The buttery smell of pancakes and the unmistakable sound of Tommy cursing snap you right out of your dreams.

You blink against the sunlight pouring through the half-open curtains, your cheek still warm and squished against Tommy’s pillow, which still smells like him—faint soap, cedar, and something undeniably his. You stretch in the wide bed, limbs still heavy with sleep, and sit up slowly. You steal a shirt of his that's lying around and tug it down over your bare thighs.

You tiptoe out of the room, sleep-soft and quiet, already smiling like you know what’s waiting for you.

Tommy is facing the stove bare-chested, only wearing checkered boxers that hang low on his hips. He grips the spatula in one hand as he stares intensely at the pancake waiting to be flipped, his brows furrowed in pure concentration.

You lean on the doorway, watching him, biting your lip trying not to laugh.

“Need help there, chef?” you ask, voice scratchy from sleep.

Tommy startles, eyes flicking over to you but then softening completely when he sees you standing there in his shirt, hair a mess, legs bare, face still half-dreaming.

“You weren’t supposed to see this, I was going to bring them to bed”

You move like you might actually do it—already starting to turn on your heel—but his hand slides to your hip, stopping you before you can take a single step.

“Now where you’re goin’, birthday girl?” he murmurs, voice low and warm in your ear. “Come here.”

You let him pull you in, smiling up at him like you’ve already gotten every gift in the world just from the way he’s looking at you.

His lips meet yours in a soft, unhurried kiss, the kind that steals the air right out of your lungs without even trying. His hand cradles your cheek, thumb brushing gently along your skin like you’re something delicate—like you matter more than anything else in the room. When he pulls back, just barely, his voice is tender.

“Happy birthday, my sweet girl.”

The words melt right into you, warm and grounding. His eyes search yours for a moment, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Sleep well?” he asks, still cupping your face like he’s not ready to let go.

You nod, smiling softly, hands resting on his bare chest. God, it’s broad, solid, and warm under your fingertips—and it’s hard not to think about it. The way his skin feels under your touch, the strength in him, how safe and stupidly good he smells. You’re supposed to be focused on the birthday part, but your brain keeps short-circuiting every time he shifts slightly, and those muscles move under your palms like sin itself.

Tommy catches the flicker in your eyes and smirks, just a little.

“Oh,” he drawls, dipping his head closer, “you’re thinkin’ somethin’, sweetheart?”

“I’m thinking,” you say, trying to sound casual as your thumbs glide along his chest, “that maybe I should be the one sayin’ happy birthday to myself.”

He lets out a low chuckle, warm and amused, nuzzling into the side of your face. “Well, you do look good in my shirt. But if I let you get distracted now, we’ll never get to breakfast.”

You roll your eyes, wrapping your arms around his neck. “What a shame.”

“Terrible way to spend a birthday,” he teases, nuzzling your nose. “Loved up and fed pancakes.”

You laugh into his chest, breath hitching when his arms wrap tighter around you. His body is warm, the scent of him all maple and skin, and you can feel his heartbeat slow and steady beneath your cheek. He holds you there like time doesn’t exist, like it’s the most important part of his whole day, like nothing else is calling his name this morning except you. Not even the pancake threatening to burn on the pan.

"Tommy," you murmur into his chest, voice muffled by laughter, "your pancake"

He groans dramatically and finally lets go of you, hands lingering on your waist for a beat longer than necessary.

“Go take a seat, baby,” he says, kissing the top of your head with a warm press of lips, “I’ll be right there with you.”

You pout a little, dragging your fingers down his bare chest as you step away and make your way to the table.

He chuckles, already turning back to the stove, spatula in hand. His focus shifts, brow furrowing slightly as he rescues the now deeply golden pancake and slides it onto the tower of pancakes.

You slip into your chair with bare legs tucked under you, still wearing his shirt and nothing else, the hem brushing your thighs. The table’s already half-set—your favorite mug, a little vase with a small bouquet he chose from the garden, and the distinct smell of coffee waiting to be served.

From where you sit, you watch him work, the way his back flexes as he leans forward, and how his shoulders move with each motion. Tommy hums to himself under his breath, a tune you don’t recognize, and you can’t help the smile that pulls at your lips. He didn’t just make you pancakes. He made you feel chosen.

And you hadn’t even opened the real gifts yet.

Tommy makes his way to the table, careful hands holding the plate like it’s an offering to a god. The pancakes are stacked high, warm and golden, your favorite fruits all arranged delicately on top. And nestled right in the center of it all is a single, crooked little candle. You can tell he found it last-minute, probably dug it out of a drawer somewhere, and it only makes your heart ache more.

He sets the plate down in front of you, clears his throat dramatically, and starts singing.

Not the whole song, just a soft, mumbled, very Tommy version of “Happy Birthday,” like he’s trying to be goofy but can’t help the warmth in his voice. He’s a little off-key. He winks at you halfway through. You laugh through the entire thing.

He finishes with a proud little bow, and you’re already looking at him like he’s strung up the stars just for you.

The way your eyes meet his is soft, full of that quiet kind of awe that steals the breath from his lungs. You’re smiling, but there’s something deeper under it. You lean forward and blow out the candle, a tiny wisp of smoke curling into the air.

Tommy leans in without a word and kisses you. Soft, lingering, like he doesn’t care that the pancakes are getting cold.

When he pulls back, his thumb brushes your cheek. “Made any wishes?”

You look at him, still dazed with how good this all feels. And then you smile and shake your head. “I don’t need to wish for anything,” you murmur, voice quiet and full, “I’ve got you.”

His lips part like he’s gonna say something. But he doesn’t.

Tommy just kisses you again, deeper this time. He doesn’t need to say it out loud for you to know— You’re his wish, too.

You take the fork from your left and dig into the pancake stack, still warm, fluffy, and soaked just right in syrup. The fruit on top is perfectly sweet, and there's a hint of caramel that melts on your tongue like some kind of birthday miracle.

“Oh my god,” you groan, rolling your head back dramatically as the first bite hits. “This is incredible.”

Tommy’s at the counter pouring the coffee, and he turns just in time to catch the full theatrical display—your eyes fluttered shut, your fork already going in for another bite, and the pleased little hum you let out like he’s just cooked you a five-star brunch.

He grins, proud as ever. “That good, huh?”

He grabs a fork from one of the drawers and takes a seat next to you. “Lemme get in on this,” he mutters, spearing a big forkful off your plate without asking. Typical.

“Hey!” you swat at his hand as he tries to steal another bite, “That’s my birthday tower!”

Tommy laughs, full-bellied and unapologetic, already chewing on it like he didn’t just violate your sacred pancake territory. He then leans back with an exaggerated groan of pure satisfaction, like a man who just discovered fire.

“I’m so fucking good at this,” he declares around the food, eyes rolling back just slightly for dramatic effect. “Goddamn. Someone give me a Food Network show.”

He nods solemnly, already going in for another bite. “Insanely talented. At breakfast. At lovin’ you. At everything I touch.”

“Humble too, I see.”

Tommy just winks, leans over, and steals a piece of fruit from your fork before you can react.

"Hey!" you gasp at the audacity.

“You’re welcome,” he says smugly.

You shake your head, heart stupidly full, thinking that if the day ended right here—just pancakes, kisses, and him stealing your food—it’d already be the best birthday you’ve ever had.

And yet, you still haven’t opened your real gift.

Tommy left the kitchen with a little smirk and disappeared down the hallway to bring your actual birthday gift leaving you with the tower of pancakes.

You sip your coffee slowly, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Tommy,” you call out, “you’re not bringing out, like… a puppy or something, right? Because I swear to god—”

“No puppies,” he calls back, voice echoing from the bedroom. “But you might scream anyway.”

You almost choked with your coffee as you took another sip. “That’s not comforting!”

A few moments later, he comes back with a box behind his back. It’s big. Wrapped in paper that’s a little crooked and taped like a man who definitely tried to do it in a hurry, and definitely did it with love.

He stops in front of you, eyes shining like a kid about to unveil his science fair volcano.

“Okay,” he says, bouncing just slightly on the balls of his feet. “This one… this one’s real special.”

You raise an eyebrow, grinning. “Better than pancakes?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Different category of good.”

He sets the box in your lap.

You tear it open slowly at first, like savoring the moment—but the second you get a glimpse of leather and stitching, your fingers fly. You peel back the paper and pull back the lid, and then—

You gasp.

Not the polite kind. The full, sharp, hands-to-your-mouth kind. Your heart skips. Your whole body lights up.

Inside the box is a pair of cowboy boots.

But not just any boots.

They’re beautiful—brown leather, soft and sturdy, embroidered with delicate little flowers in your favorite colors curling up the sides. Subtle. Sweet. Thoughtful. And at the back of each heel, stitched just above the sole in rich thread:

T.M.

Your fingers hover over the letters like they might vanish if you touch them too fast.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, eyes wide. “Oh my god. I love them. I LOVE them!”

You pick them up and scream—and hug them to your chest like he just handed you a newborn baby.

Tommy lets out a laugh so pure and giddy it could’ve knocked you over. “There it is! I knew you’d do the little scream!”

You’re already halfway to your feet, boots clutched to your chest, spinning in place. “Tommy— they’re perfect. They’re—look at the stitching! Look at the—you put your initials on them?!”

He walks over, hands sliding around your waist, pulling you close.

“Well, figured now when you walk into a room, everyone’ll know who you belong to.”

You bury your face in his neck, laughing breathlessly. “I can’t believe you did this.”

He presses a kiss to your cheek. “I’d get you ten more pairs just to see you smile like that.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes shining. “I’m wearing these everywhere.”

“You better.” He steps back. “Go on. Try ‘em on.”

And when you stand up in your boots—bare-legged, still in his shirt, grinning like a fool—Tommy lets out a low whistle, shaking his head like he’s helpless against you.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Prettiest cowgirl I've ever seen.”

You blush, cheeks warm as you try—and fail—not to smile too hard. You give him a handful of playful little poses. A hand on your hip, knee popped, chin tilted up like you’re about to step onto a runway. Another one with your feet up on a stool, showing off the boot.

Tommy lets out a soft whistle again, eyes trailing over you with so much heat and affection it makes your stomach flutter.

“Well, damn,” he murmurs, low and awestruck. “I really outdid myself, didn't I?”

He opens his arms without a word, the silent invitation clear as day.

You don’t hesitate. You walk straight into him.

His arms wrap around you instantly, snug and familiar, hands smoothing over your back and down your sides like he just needs to touch you, to have you there. He buries his face in the crook of your neck and mumbles, half-mocking, half-serious.

“Gonna have to fight people off with a stick if you leave the house lookin' like this.”

You laugh, fingers curling into his hair. “You did this to me.”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling into your skin. “And now you’re never takin’ these boots off.”

You shake your head, smiling like your cheeks might split. “Never.”

His grip on you tightens just slightly, like the idea of you, in these boots and his shirt, pressed to him like this, might just undo him completely. And then he leans in—slow and deliberate—and presses a kiss right to the sweet spot beneath your jaw.

You let out a soft hum, eyes fluttering shut as the warmth of his mouth sends a ripple of heat down your spine.

“Tommy…” you murmur, one hand sliding up his chest, fingers brushing the curve of his neck.

He hums against your skin, not moving, just resting his mouth there for another second like he’s memorizing the shape of you. “Mm?”

“You keep kissin’ me like that and I’m gonna forget we have pancakes to finish.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his lips curved into a smug little grin. “Baby, if I’m lucky, I’ll have you forget everything else today but me.”

You’re still wrapped in his arms, his lips against the sensitive spot on your neck, when his voice dips lower, warm, rough, that familiar, dangerous softness that makes your knees a little weak.

“We’ve got a lot planned today, unfortunately…” he murmurs, fingers skating along the hem of his shirt that barely covers you, “but if you ask me twice… we’re droppin’ all of it.”

You blink up at him, breath catching.

“I’ll keep you right here,” he goes on, gaze molten, “in this kitchen, in those boots with my name stitched in ‘em… keepin’ you all to myself.”

Your stomach flips. Your whole body burns. And the worst part? He knows exactly what he’s doing.

He leans in like he might kiss you again—but stops just short, lips hovering.

“Go on,” he murmurs, the smallest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Say it twice.”

You inhale like you might—and then you step back, smirking right back. “You are evil.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he grabs your plate and refills your coffee. “Just givin’ you options, birthday girl.”

“Okay,” you say, clapping your hands once and trying to ignore how shaky it feels, “what’s on the agenda, cowboy?”

Tommy raises an eyebrow, clearly amused at your attempt to shift gears. “We back to business now?”

“If I don’t move us along, we’re never making it outta this house,” you mutter, grabbing your coffee and sipping like you haven’t just been one word away from canceling your entire birthday schedule for a reroute to poundtown central.

He chuckles low, licking syrup off his thumb again just to mess with you. “Well, ma’am,” he says, slipping into that teasing drawl, “We're already behind schedule so you might want to take a quick shower 'cause we got a whole day of spoilin’ you planned"

You cross your arms, trying not to smile. “Spoiling, huh?”

“Yup.” He walks past you with a pat to your hip, completely unbothered. “Wear somethin’ cute. You’re gonna wanna take pictures.”

The weather is the perfect kind of sunny—not sweltering, just warm enough to kiss your skin, with a breeze that plays in your hair as you step out into it. The kind of morning that feels like it was made for you.

Tommy’s already waiting by the truck, sunglasses pushed up on his head, that easy grin tugging at his lips. He opens your door for you like a gentleman, but his hand doesn’t leave the small of your back until you’re seated, buckled, and blushing.

He drives with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles into your skin.

He takes you to a little downtown strip—brick sidewalks, ivy-covered lampposts, locals setting out chairs for brunch service. There’s a bookstore on the corner with a crooked sign and a bell on the door, and the moment you walk in, you feel it: this is the kind of birthday that feels like home.

Your arms are locked as you wander past shelves of cracked spines and well-loved covers. Tommy trails his fingers down the rows like he’s pretending to browse, but really, he’s just watching you—how your face lights up when you find an old copy of a favorite, how you flip it open to smell the pages without even realizing.

“Get it,” he says before you can put it back. “Birthday rule.”

“What birthday rule?”

“The one I just made up. If you touch it and smile, it’s yours.”

That candle that smells like vanilla woods that makes you close your eyes and hum? He buys it. The little necklace with the tiny star pendant you keep circling back to? Already bagged and paid for before you even say a word.

“Tommy, I don’t need all this.”

“You don’t,” he agrees, slinging an arm around your shoulder, “but you deserve all of this"

From there on it's all kinds of shops, a boutique with sundresses that he insists on helping you pick out, whistling low when you hold one up to your frame. He carries every bag, every single little wrapped trinket, and refuses to let you even think about checking a price tag.

“Tommy,” you say, laughing, “you’re gonna go broke.”

He shrugs. “Worth it.”

By the time you stop for lunch—open patio, iced drinks, your favorite sandwich—you’ve walked miles but barely noticed. Your legs ache a little, your face is sun-warmed and flushed, but you feel full. Not just from the food. From him. From this.

And when he leans over the table, brushing a crumb from your lip and saying, “You havin’ a good day, baby?”—you don’t even have to think.

While you wait for the waitress to come back with dessert and the check, you sink a little deeper into your chair, stretching your legs out under the table with a quiet sigh. The late afternoon sun is warm on your skin, lazy and golden, wrapping around you like a blanket. The day’s been long in the best way—your arms full of little shopping bags, your heart even fuller.

You tilt your face toward the sky, basking in the light, then slowly turn your head to the side, peering at Tommy over the rim of your sunglasses.

He’s half-reclined in his seat, arms crossed, watching people pass by on the sidewalk—but you know that relaxed posture. It’s an illusion. He’s still watching you.

You take him in—scruffy jaw, sun-touched skin, those damn forearms resting just right—and you smile. Then softly, like it’s been sitting on your chest for hours, you say, “You don’t need to keep buying me things, Tommy. Really.”

He blinks once, like you’ve pulled him out of a pleasant dream.

“Hm?” His head tilts toward you.

Your voice is soft, honest, and you place your hand gently over his on the table—warm skin against warm skin, the buzz of the café fading around you.

“I don’t want you to spend all your money on me,” you add, giving his hand a little squeeze. “You give me so much already.”

His thumb stills under yours.

For a second, he just looks at you—those steady brown eyes searching your face, reading the sincerity there like it’s written in bold. His expression softens, that crooked smirk of his fading into something quieter, more serious.

“I know I don’t have to,” he says finally, voice low. “That’s not why I do it.”

He flips his hand over so he can lace his fingers with yours, rubbing his thumb along the inside of your wrist.

“You never ask for a damn thing, baby. Never have. And I know you’d still be sittin’ here smiling at me even if all I gave you was a cup of gas station coffee and a damn paper hat.” He chuckles at that, eyes crinkling. “But I like doin’ this for you. Gettin’ you things. Seein’ your face light up when I get it right.”

You look down at your joined hands, thumb tracing his knuckles.

“I just don’t want you to feel like you have to earn my love,” you whisper.

He lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles, gentle and sure.

“I’m not tryna buy your love—I already got it. But cause of that, it makes me want to give you everything.”

Your heart squeezes in your chest and he offers a small smile, tilting his head. “But if you ever say stop, I stop. You know that.”

You nod, a little overwhelmed, a little breathless.

And for a second, the day pauses. Just him, you, sun-warmed hands

Later, when you finally get back home, Tommy carries the heavier boxes inside like they weigh nothing and then disappears straight into the bathroom meanwhile you put away all the boxes and bags, filling your shared wardrobe with all the clothes you got, smoothing fabric, arranging shoes, smiling softly at the memory of each store, each comment he made, each look he gave you that made you feel like the only person on the planet.

Once you're done you walk into the bathroom to see him sitting at the edge of the tub watching it fill up.

The bathroom door is cracked open, soft light spilling through.

You push it gently and peek in.

He’s sitting on the edge of the tub, elbows on his knees, watching the water fill with the same focus he gives everything he cares about. The tub is already half full, bubbles foaming on the surface, steam rising in slow curls. Candles flicker on the counter—your favorites, the soft vanilla one, the clean linen scent he always says reminds him of you.

He looks up when he hears you and smiles like he’s been waiting.

“All done?” he asks, voice low, lazy.

You nod, leaning against the doorframe. “You’ve really planned this whole day out, huh?”

“‘Course I did.” He pats the spot next to him. “Come sit.”

You do, tucking your legs under you on the cool tile. The two of you sit in comfortable silence, listening to the water trickle in, bubbles popping gently at the edges.

“You spoil me, you know,” you murmur, resting your head on his shoulder.

Tommy kisses the crown of your head and wraps an arm around you, holding you there.

“Good,” he whispers. “That was the plan.”

“Get in with me?” you ask, voice soft, almost shy even after everything—the gifts, the kisses, the way he’s looked at you all day like you hung the damn moon.

Tommy lifts his eyes to meet yours, and there’s no hesitation—just a warm smile, gentle and sure.

“Yeah, baby. ‘Course I will.”

He stands, fingers gripping the hem of his shirt, and pulls it off with one fluid motion. You can’t help the way your eyes trace the lines of him. His broad chest, tan skin, his muscles. He unbuttons his jeans next, sliding them off along with everything else, slow and easy.

He steps into the water first, settling into the tub with a contented sigh. Then he holds out a hand to you, palm open, eyes soft.

“C’mere, birthday girl.”

You let him help you in, one careful step at a time, the water hot and perfect, your skin already tingling from the warmth—and maybe from the way he watches you like you’re something sacred.

Once you’re in, he guides you between his legs, your back pressing to his chest, his arms wrapping around your middle like he has to keep you close.

You sink into him with a quiet sigh, your head resting against his shoulder, water sloshing gently around you both.

“Best part of the day,” he murmurs against your temple.

His fingers start tracing idle patterns on your stomach, your arms, soft touches like he’s painting you with affection.

You smile, eyes closed, letting yourself be completely held. “You said that after pancakes.”

“Okay, best new part.”

You giggle, body melting against his, and he kisses your cheek, your jaw, the side of your neck, your shoulder.

He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t try to make it anything more than this quiet intimacy. Just two bodies in warm water, limbs tangled, hearts full.

You’re quiet for a while, letting your body relax completely against his, lulled by the soft lap of water and the slow rhythm of his breathing.

Then you feel it—his fingers gently gathering your wet hair, brushing it back over your shoulder. He reaches for the shampoo with one hand, the other still holding you close.

“Lemme me wash you baby”

You hum in approval, eyes closed, and tilt your head back slightly to give him better access.

He lathers the shampoo into your hair with a tenderness that makes your heart ache, strong fingers massaging your scalp, slow and unhurried. His thumbs stroke just behind your ears, down the nape of your neck. You melt, a low sigh slipping past your lips as your shoulders sink lower into the water.

“You’re gonna put me to sleep,” you mumble.

“Nah,” he says, rinsing carefully, cupping water over your head with one hand. “Still got plans for you.”

You giggle, blinking up at him lazily. “More plans, huh?”

“You’re damn right.” He sets the bottle down, hands sliding over your arms under the water, thumbs stroking slow circles over your skin. “But first I gotta get my girl squeaky clean.”

You shift, turning around in the water slowly—knee brushing his, water sloshing quietly—until you’re straddling his lap, arms resting on his shoulders.

His hands settle at your waist without hesitation, and his eyes darken just a little when you lean in close. You cradle his face in your hands and kiss him.

Soft at first, then it grows slightly hungrier.

Then he smiles against your mouth. “You tryin’ to distract me from washin’ your back?”

You pull away just enough to smirk. “Is it working?”

He chuckles, fingers tightening just a bit at your hips. “Keep kissin’ me like that, and I swear, I’m not lettin’ you outta this tub.”

“Maybe that’s the plan,” you whisper, lips brushing down his jaw.

He groans softly, tilting his head back like he’s surrendering already.

You kiss him again, slower this time—mouth pressing firm against his, hands sliding down his chest, and you feel it the second his grip tightens at your waist. His breath hitches, lips parting just barely as you deepen it, your body shifting just enough in his lap to make the water ripple around you both.

“Mm-mm,” he murmurs against your lips, voice thick and low, “you are tryin’ to distract me.”

“You’re not exactly resisting,” you breathe, trailing your fingers down his neck, along his chest, under the water. His skin is warm and slick beneath your touch, and he swallows hard when your nails drag ever so lightly over his ribs.

“Can you blame me?” he rasps, eyes half-lidded as he watches you. “You, in my lap, in my boots this mornin’… you’re lucky we even made it outta the damn house.”

You giggle, fingers now resting just above his hipbones. “You’re lucky I let you finish the pancakes.”

He laughs, head falling back against the edge of the tub for a second before you lean in and kiss the hollow of his throat. Slowly. Purposefully. You feel him exhale hard through his nose, hands gliding up your back, under your arms, holding you close against him.

And just when he starts to pull you back in for another kiss—

You pull away.

His brows lift, breath caught. “Oh? What’s this now?”

“Your turn,” you smirk, reaching for the body wash. “Birthday girl gets to return the favor.”

Tommy groans dramatically but doesn’t move, sitting back with a hand over his heart. “Now I know I’m dreamin’.”

You lather your hands and start running them over his chest, deliberately slow, watching the way his muscles tense, the way he watches you. His lashes are low, jaw tight, but he lets you guide the moment—quiet, trusting, completely in your hands.

You wash his chest, his shoulders, even tilt his head to the side to kiss under his ear when he lets out a little hum of satisfaction.

“Relax,” you whisper.

“I am,” he says, smiling lazily. “Don’t stop.”

You rinse him off gently, kissing his temple before leaning back with a sigh, the both of you warm and drowsy in the water now, steam curling around your skin.

Tommy could stay in this tub with you for the rest of his life but unfortunately he had one last trick up his sleeve. He cursed himself in his mind for the dinner reservation.

“What time is it?”

You glance over at the fogged-up clock on the wall and squint to read properly.

“8:23,” you say.

His brows lift. “Shit.”

You tilt your head, resting your chin on his chest and glancing up at him from under damp lashes. Tommy exhales and runs a hand through his damp hair, water dripping down his neck.

He doesn’t answer right away—just stares at the clock like it personally offended him.

“Tommy,” you say, slower this time, “why ‘shit’?”

He blinks, like he’d almost forgotten where he was, eyes snapping back to yours. Then he sighs—long, theatrical—and lets his head fall back against the tub’s edge with a thump.

“Because,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face dramatically, “I made a reservation for nine. And I knew if I got in this tub with you, we were never gonna get out on time.”

You smile slow, teasing, tilting your head a little. “Then why’d you get in?”

He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes again, the corner of his mouth tugging up.

“Because you asked me to.”

His hand slides up your back, fingers curling in your damp hair. “And I’d get in a thousand more times if you asked like that again.”

Then, with another sigh—one that sounds like he’s trying very hard to convince himself—he murmurs,

“All right. We gotta wrap this up or we won’t make it on time”

You groan dramatically, still not moving. “I just melted into you.”

“Yeah, and I’ll put you right back here after dinner,” he says, already nudging you gently. “But if we don’t leave now, we’ll miss the one thing I’ve been lookin’ forward to all week.”

That catches your attention. You lift your head again, narrowing your eyes. “What is it?”

He just smirks. “Go get dressed, birthday girl. I’ll tell you when we get there.”

Tommy’s standing in the bedroom, already dressed—of course he is—rolling up the sleeves of his button-down, the fabric stretched perfectly over his arms. You’re perched on the bathroom stool with a towel wrapped around your shoulders, legs crossed, a half-full glass of wine in hand as you try to wrestle a brush through your wet hair.

It’s not going well.

You tug gently at a particularly stubborn knot near the nape of your neck and sigh dramatically. “God, why do I have so much hair?”

Tommy appears in the doorway, glancing over. “Want me to do it for you, doll?”

You turn, arching a skeptical brow at him. “Are you sure you can do it?”

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, smirking. “I’ve seen you do this a million times. I’m sure I can handle it.”

You hand him the brush slowly, like it’s a sacred object. “Alright, cowboy. Good luck.”

At first, it’s sweet. He stands behind you, brushing gently, trying his best to mimic what he’s seen you do. But five minutes in, he’s muttering under his breath, the blow dryer in one hand and the brush caught in a mess of damp curls in the other.

“Okay wait—how do you hold both at the same time? I don’t get it”

You giggle, sipping your wine as you give him yet another demo. “Brush from the bottom, then work up. And use the nozzle, not the actual body of the dryer—no, babe, like this.”

Tommy grumbles, but listens. Tries again. This time, a little more confident.

After a while, he starts getting the hang of it. You tilt your head back slightly, smiling into the mirror as the warm air flows through your hair, his hands focused and steady now.

“Good job, baby,” you say, voice a little soft, a little smug. “You’re doing amazing.”

You take another sip of wine just as his eyes flick up in the mirror—catching your expression, the praise soaking in.

And he blushes. Just the faintest red blooming across his cheeks.

You smirk into the glass. “Aww. That did something to you, huh? You like me calling you a good boy”

He clears his throat, but doesn’t deny it. “Keep talkin’ like that and we’re not makin’ that reservation.”

You bite your lip, grinning. “I thought nothing was gonna stop us from this one last thing?”

Once your hair is done—finally smooth, shiny, and out of your face thanks to Tommy’s determined and slightly chaotic effort, he reaches for your necklace and fastens it gently behind your neck, fingers brushing your skin, careful and tender like he’s handling glass.

You smile, lips curled around a quiet thank you, and then slip into one of the dresses he bought for you earlier that day — soft fabric, perfect fit, something you’d eyed in the shop window but never would’ve picked for yourself.

He helps you zip it up from behind, his hands warm as they run up your spine. You feel the cool slide of the zipper, then the pause as he shifts your hair over one shoulder.

His lips press to the back of your neck, soft and deliberate, and you feel your jaw clench instinctively, a slow pulse building somewhere low and dangerous.

He lingers there. Kisses you once more, just a little lower.

“Tommy,” you warn, voice breathy, “we’ve got less than ten minutes to get there.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, eyes narrowed.

“You better not start something you can’t finish.”

He chuckles low, and it rumbles right against your back. “Oh, baby,” he murmurs, eyes darkening as he meets your gaze, “I absolutely plan to finish it.”

You swallow, heat rising to your face, but you hold your ground—barely.

“Later,” you mutter, observing his reflection in the large mirror.

He steps back, smirking. “We will get back to this.”

Tommy wraps an arm around your waist as you walk through the doors, murmuring something about “your table” and how it’s “in the back, real private,” and you nod, expecting a quiet, intimate dinner for two.

But the second you step past the hostess stand and into the dining room—

“SURPRISE!”

You freeze. Blink.

There’s a long table tucked near the back wall, candlelit and overflowing with people—friends, cousins, familiar faces you didn’t think were even in town. Some you haven’t seen in months.

You let out a breathless little scream, one hand flying to your mouth, the other gripping Tommy’s forearm like a lifeline.

He chuckles softly beside you. “You like it?”

You turn to him, wide-eyed, stunned. “You did this?”

“I made a few calls.”

You laugh, then launch yourself into his arms, wrapping your arms around his neck. He catches you easily, warm and steady.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck. “Thank you, thank you. Thank you.”

He pulls back just enough to kiss your cheek. “Anything for you, baby.”

Dinner is perfect. Laughter echoing off the walls. Shared bites. Toasts raised. One of your friends starts a birthday chant. You roll your eyes and blush and still let them sing. Tommy’s hand is on your thigh for most of the meal—firm and grounding—and every time you look over at him, he’s already watching you, eyes soft, lips pulled into a little smile like he can’t believe he gets to love you out loud in front of everyone.

There are so many photos—you with each friend, the group together, you and Tommy cheek to cheek. Someone gets one of him kissing your temple while you laugh, wine glass tilted, eyes squinting from the grin. It ends up being your favorite of the night. It definitely ends up being your phone screen by the next day.

By the time you get home, you’re stuffed, glowing, and emotionally wrung out in the best way. You toss your clutch somewhere near the nightstand, flop back on the bed with a long, satisfied sigh, your arms flung over your head.

“God,” you mumble. “I am so full and so tired”

Tommy sits at the edge of the bed and gently begins unbuckling your heels.

You glance at him, hair a little messy now, cheeks still pink from the wine, and your voice softens.

“Do I tell you that I love you enough times?” you ask. “Because what you did today? It was out of this world, Tommy.”

He looks at you, holding your ankle gently in one hand, then leans forward, presses a kiss to the inside of your knee.

“You tell me all the time,” he murmurs. “But I still like hearin’ it.”

You grin, dreamy. “Well. I love you. A lot. I would cry right now but I’m too full of ravioli.”

He laughs, deep and low, slipping off the second heel. Then, without warning, he crawls up the bed over you, hands braced on either side of your hips, eyes darkening as he hovers just above you.

His voice drops low, soft with promise. “Now… where were we?”

“Well we were in the tub, kissing, hugging, loads of teasing” you say, lips curving into a smile.

He kisses you slow, like he’s savoring the first quiet breath after a day full of motion—then pulls back just enough to hover over you, one hand brushing the hair from your face as his thumb traces along your cheekbone.

“Now I’ve got you all to myself,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, just for you. “No more plans. No more runnin’ around.”

He leans in closer, presses a kiss to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone.

“Just you,” he whispers. “My special girl.”

Your chest flutters at the way he says it—like a secret, like a prayer. You slide your hands up his arms, slow and lazy, smiling up at him, completely warm, completely his.

All day he’s been showing you his love in gifts, in pancakes, in friends secretly gathered, in making sure you were seen. But now, it’s in the way his lips brush your skin like you’re something holy. Now it’s in the way his voice drops when he murmurs your name. Now it’s in the way he undresses you not like a man trying to get what he wants—but like one unwrapping a treasure that’s already his.

He takes his time, worships every inch. Fingers skimming, lips trailing, body moving slow against yours like he has nowhere else to be. The wine warmth of the day sinks deeper into your bones with every sigh and every kiss.

“Been thinkin’ about this all night,” he confesses as he kisses down your body. “You… in that dress. All done up and laughin’ with your friends, lookin’ at me like you knew I was gonna ruin you later.”

You giggle, breath catching as he slides back up, hovering over you, his nose brushing yours.

“You gonna ruin me, cowboy?” you whisper.

His smile curves, dark and sweet. “Damn right I am.”

He spreads your legs and glances up at you before he dives in.

Your whole body shudders when his tongue presses against your clit.

Your head falls back against the pillows, a moan slipping out, raw and helpless.

He glances up at you, eyes dark and so full of hunger, his hands tightening on your hips to hold you right where he wants you.

“God, you’re delicious,” he rasps, voice low and ragged. “Sweeter than my pancakes, baby.”

You whimper, thighs twitching around him, but he doesn’t stop, it's like he’s savoring every sound you make, every roll of your hips, every breathy plea.

He brings two fingers to your entrance and begins to thrust them ever so slowly while he's busy giving your clit sloppy kisses. You whimper, breath catching in your throat, and your fingers slip instinctively into his hair—his messy, damp, curled-up mane, you need to touch him, to ground yourself.

He groans low at the contact, like your touch alone is enough to spur him on. His hands grip tighter at your thighs, anchoring you to him, his mouth working with such focused hunger it makes your toes curl.

“Tommy,” you breathe—half a moan, half a plea.

His only answer is a deeper sound, something low and satisfied, possessive, like he’s right where he wants to be and he’s not going anywhere until you fall apart beneath him.

And when you do, trembling, shivering, gasping his name like it’s the only word you’ve ever known—he doesn’t stop right away. Just eases you down gently, drawing out every little aftershock, until you're limp against the pillows, boneless and dazed.

Once he's got you stretched out and ready for him, he positions himself and brings your legs to his shoulders. You feel it before it's even inside you. He enters slowly before thrusting completely, and your hips lift off the mattress. His grip on your hips tightens as his thrusts become repetitive, and he lowers himself until his face is inches away from yours. “So fuckin’ pretty,” he mutters against your skin, voice rough like gravel and honey.

“You feel like a dream, baby,” he groans as his rhythm fastens and his thrusts become deeper. “You’re mine, you know that?”

You nod, completely dazed and breathless as you dig your nails into his back. "I'm all you—yours Tommy."

“Say it,” he pants, lips trailing up your throat in between groans. “Tell me who’s makin’ you feel this good.”

"You Tommy" You moan, soft and broken, panting against his shoulder as your body trembles. His thrusts become deeper and rougher as you repeat his name, your voice becoming shakier every second that passes. He feels you tighten around him and gives a final thrust, coming undone at the same time as you. His forehead rests against your chest as he recovers his breath.

The sheets are warm, tangled around your legs, and the only light left in the room is the soft golden spill of the lamp on his nightstand. Your body’s still humming—lazy and sated, every inch of you touched and loved on until you melted right into the mattress.

Tommy’s lying on his side beside you, one hand tracing slow, absent-minded circles on your back, the other tucked beneath his head. His chest rises and falls steady and deep, and every now and then, he kisses the top of your head like he needs the contact to keep himself grounded.

“I love you,” he says against your hair. “So much.”

And you smile, slow and sleepy, murmuring back, “I know. You showed me all day.”

He smiles, thumb brushing your cheek again. “You deserve more than one kind of spoilin’, baby.”

You press your nose to his body, inhaling him like oxygen. “Remind me to return the favor on your birthday.”

He laughs—low, sinful. “Oh, sweetheart. You absolutely will.”

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