#millefeuilles | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

shootybangbang · 10 months

Text

In which the remnants fall away

[Ao3 link]

[Pairing]: Arthur Morgan/Reader

[Rating]: Explicit

[Tags]: dominant arthur morgan, submissive reader, modern au, breeding kink

———

Arthur says, “You recall our conversation earlier.”

It’s been an eon and an evolution since he’s spoken to you like that— the tenor of his voice mild, but girding it a darkness cold and insistent as an undertow. It cuts through each reassurance and comfort he has ever offered you, any and all certainty, and for the first time in months your old fear of him comes spidering up your throat. You have to swallow to force it down.

“No,” you answer. Attempting defiance but achieving the opposite: the statement comes out legless and weak, and in that juxtaposition it is apparent even to you the fragility of your resistance. Thrice now he’s drawn you to the edge of orgasm and left you teetering just short of its peak, and thrice now he’s forced you to suffer its cruel recession. A fourth time will shatter you. He knows this— which is why he contents himself now with idling his hands on your parted knees from where he’s knelt between them and goading you. Drawing out the last moments before his inevitable victory.

He runs his palm halfway up your thigh slow, like a tailor admiring the weave of fine cloth. You let out a quiet hiss of disappointment when he does not venture further, and his ensuing low laugh has none of his usual warmth. You’re reminded of jackals, and the last reveling circle they stalk around crippled prey before flashing their teeth and lunging forward.

The room is rich with lazy noon light, full and heavy with the meridian of the day. A pale shimmer of lapsed morning, fractured with gold. Bright enough that when you feel the soft pass of his tongue over your clit and your eyes snap open, tension escalating through your spine in a winnowing flutter, you can glimpse it through the flimsy blindfold like a wash of illumination caught in a gauzy black fog.

He slings your left leg over his shoulder, and his stubble scrapes at your skin as he mouths at you, tracing his tongue up your slit and plying your clit with wet strokes engineered to drive you to ruination. As he tastes you, he seems to lose himself, forgetting the aloofness the role he’s playing demands— at one point he pauses briefly to press a kiss to your navel as he works two fingers inside, murmuring christ, that’s pretty, and when the muscle of your thigh draws tremblingly taut and you begin twisting your bound wrists against the bedpost in a useless paroxysm of pleasure, you’ve begun to hope that perhaps he’s given in completely— which is, of course, the very moment that he stops.

“Still nothin’?” he asks.

You would kick him right this second if you had an ounce of coordination left in you. With your last stubborn vestige, you furiously shake your head.

“Well,” he says. “Can’t really fault you for not rememberin’ if I’m distraction’ you like this.” Each word he speaks is a sigh that whispers the absence of his touch as it ghosts past your skin. “So I guess I’ll clear off awhile. Give you some time to concentrate.”

A low throb builds in your cunt, and it intensifies to an ache when you receive nothing to soothe it. You writhe, whining “Arthur, please,” in a pathetic register that has made him break character in the past, but he has no such pity for you now. The pressure on the mattress shifts as he slides your thigh off his shoulder, and the loss of contact grips at your heart. Unspun, unspooling. You grit your teeth. “Wait.”

He stops moving. God, the smugness on his face that you can’t see, radiating like the sun. Reproachfully, you say: “You asked me whose I was.”

The mattress dips again as he settles back between your spread legs. “And what’d you say.”

“I said—” you stutter when his thumb finds the hollow that curves towards your center. “I… I said…”

“Go on.”

“Said I wasn’t anyone’s.”

You let out a startled whimper when he swipes over your slit to gather up your slick. He presses his wet thumb to your lips and you immediately part them to lick him clean, dignity be damned. “But you know better than that now, don’t you?” he asks.

“Maybe,” you concede, begrudging every syllable.

“You can do better than that.” He hefts your thighs against his sides and pulls you close enough that the head of his cock rests at your slit as a warm, blunt withholding. “Tell me. Who d’you belong to?”

“You.”

“Say my name.”

He doesn’t move, and when you wriggle your hips to try and take him in, he shifts backwards. The denial nearly makes you weep. You bite your lip. “Arthur Morgan,” you say, voice breaking like glass. “I’m— I… I’m Arthur Morgan’s.”

The man himself moves just a fraction of an inch, enough to brush against your clit, and in that infinitesimal distance is a length of deprivation beyond measuring. He asks, “And what are you for?”

Thank christ for the fucking blindfold, because in its absence he’d likely want you to look him in the eye while you say your next line, and that is a rung of shame you are not yet ready to attempt.

“Anything you want,” you admit.

“Damn straight,” he grunts, and finally, mercifully aligns himself and pushes inside, that raw initiation that always burns, no matter how cautiously he tries to take you. The hand that clutches a knife may be tender, but it does not dull the blade: a lover’s touch may be careful, but it is intimate still. And intimacy cuts always to the heart of solitude, splits it open and carves in its broken hermitage the name of another. Incurs a hurt that you have learned to savor well, and that ignites you now like solace.

“You thought you were better than this, didn’t you.” His thrusts are gentle to the point of torture, and with your vision gone you feel every bit of him with new intensity. The curved ridge of his cockhead, the thick shaft, the fulfilling press of him at your center, gone too soon each time he withdraws. You frantically try to urge him faster, bucking against him arrhythmically until he has to hold you down to fuck you properly. “Haughty little thing like you.”

All you can do is lie beneath him and take what he deigns to give, this pleasure that won’t wash to where you want it, and it is somehow even more frustrating than its total absence.

“Always so goddamn stubborn,” he growls, slowing until you can hear yourself beg, please please Arthur please. “Always talkin’ back. Callin’ me ‘country boy’. And look at you now.”

You’re half mad from the way he condescends to you now. Before, it had always been him who deferred to you. A remnant left from his time with the gang, you guessed, as a dog might slip its collar but the imprint of the leash remains around its neck. Constantly looking to please, so desperate for confirmation that he should be wanted that his own release was but an afterthought to him. It’s taken a long time to coax the man into self-indulgence, but good god has the effort been worth it.

His deft hand unravels the knot binding your wrists to the bedposts much the same way he’s currently unraveling you. Confused, you let your submission drop for a moment. “Something wrong?” you ask, reaching up to undo the blindfold. “Did you want to—”

Arthur swats your hand away from your face before you can properly unmask. Without saying a word, he gets you on your back with a sharp downwards tug and pins both your wrists against the mattress, meets you with a bruising kiss that manages somehow to be savage and sweet and altogether devouring, and could you stand to be eaten? To have the whole of you subsumed in the totality of his dominion, your capitulation enforced by not a length of rope but by his own two hands, this physical authority that stems completely from himself? Could you love it, and is it rising in you even now, the first tremulous strains of surrender?

He fucks you now with such heavy possession that you understand at last the reason he’s been so willing to let you take charge in the past. The force of his wanting, a magnitude so extreme that he needs to trap it against his own body. The dizzying satisfaction of being the focus of that impulse, the acquiescent helplessness of being utterly at his mercy, and all that he inflicts upon you now a pure and direct expression of himself, absent the interference of your own need. Undiluted.

“Still, I’m surprised,” he rasps. “Didn’t think you’d be this easy to break.”

A flash of irritation surfaces like an errant spark. “I am not. You’re being—”

“What, you gonna try and deny it?” He grazes his teeth over the side of your neck like a phantom promise of pain, and you can’t help but shudder, lolling your head to expose your pulse point, your throat, your crumbling volition. “You wanna prove to me that you’re still in control?”

You feel his hips drag backwards, that awful pull that leaves you so empty you could weep. You shake your head, gripped with a panic that you cannot name, and clench your thighs hard around his sides like a desperate rider. “Don’t,” you gasp. Hands balled into fists, trembling at the prospect of separation. “Please. I’m— I’m sorry.”

“Yeah? You gonna be a good girl for me now?”

You nod whiplash hard.

“I wanna hear you say it.”

Fuck, you are past even the edge of hesitation. “I’ll be good. I’ll be such a good girl for you, so please…”

“Please what.”

It’s as though you have been strung on a lead and walked to the sheer drop of a cliff face. One foot planted on sloping earth, the other held in thin air. You take that last, irrevocable step.

“Please fuck me,” you whisper.

“That’s more like it,” Arthur says warmly. He ruffles your hair the commonplace way he does whenever you’ve achieved some minor victory and rewards you with a long, brutally satisfied thrust that pierces as if he is delving to the heart of you, that raw and secret territory not meant for anyone but you to know. A quick, eager pace, full of intention now and in urgent search of his own pleasure.

You let out a frantic noise of assent that seems to escape of its own accord. Never— you’ve never let anyone manipulate you like this before, reduce you to such obsequious affirmation. And the consummate gratification you feel when he praises you, so pathetic and weak and utterly owned. The same paralyzing exhilaration as freefall.

“Could do anything I want to you right now and you’d let me, wouldn’t you?” He says it so solicitously that apprehension and relief crumple into each other, coalesce into something entirely new. “I could hurt you. Use you.”

He pauses like he might regret what he’ll say next. Then says it anyway. “Breed you.”

“Jesus god,” you whimper. It’s like some primal thread in you has been jerked tight, for the sharp and sudden arousal that lances through you now, and you know he can feel it, because he briefly drops his persona as he swears and stills and makes that choking sound he always lets out when he’s trying to keep himself from finishing too soon. The heavy throb of his cock is like a reverberation from a struck bell, and you the vessel that carries its resonance.

“You’d like that, huh,” he pants out, fucking into you faster. Spoken lovingly as a threat. “You want me to keep you tied to my bed all dumb and docile, get you full of my come every night. Takin’ every single load right here—” He rolls his hips to make a point, presses his palm flat against your lower belly. “Right where it belongs.”

“Yes!” What the hell are you saying. You’d never confess to this if you were lucid, but all that fills you now is the mindless need to offer up every bit of yourself to this man, embarrassing truths included. “I do, I want it, I—”

Arthur releases one of your wrists to rip the blindfold off your face, and you blink rapidly against the disorienting dazzle of revealed light that haloes him now like an ironic vision from god. Your cheeks are wet with tears; you hadn’t even realized you’d been crying. But he gives you not even an instant to recenter yourself as he wraps his hand around your jaw and forces you to look at him, nearly snarling for all the violent and powerful need in him now, staring you down like he intends to hurt you. He wants to see unimpeded what his words have done to you, the saturated submissive devotion that possesses you now. All of you at his command. In this state, you’d stop breathing if he’d ask you to do so.

As if to solidify that notion, the hand at your jaw slips down to your throat, bracelets it just firm enough to trace your pulse, and you meet his eyes fearless in delirium, the whole of your body and soul utterly obeisant to whatever designs he may have.

“You’re gonna goddamn take me,” he snarls, as harsh now as he was at the very beginning of things, as discordantly tender as he has been in all the days since. “All of me.”

He shifts his hips to fuck you at that angle that never fails to drive you over the edge, and keeps his eyes on you when you start to come, watching the reflexive arch of your back, the tendon straining at the side of your neck, taut and tense and drawn out to a phase of pleasure that contracts and expands as if suffused with its own streak of life. And when he can hold out no longer, he squeezes his eyes shut and slams himself so deep that you can feel every throb of him as he empties, the warm spasm of his seed as he groans louder now than he ever allows himself to— god, the neighbors can hear him for sure this time— and fucks a few last, weakening thrusts before he collapses atop you.

You can’t speak, can’t think, can’t do anything more than lie limply beneath him as he slicks your hair from your sweat-drenched forehead and kisses you slow and gentle. Still caught in the slipstream of possession, you are vague and undefined as fog. All that anchors you is Arthur, and when he shifts to break away, you let out a small distressed sound and throw your arms around his shoulders in an attempt to stay his retreat.

“Easy, girl.” He presses his forehead to yours, waits until you can draw in a smooth lungful of air and exhale with no hint of waver in your breath. “S’ok. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

But he is sympathetic to your unhappy whimper when he slides himself out of you, the wincing emptiness in the wake of his parting and liquid drip of him down your inner thigh. “I know,” he murmurs, and brushes his mouth against the top of your head as he embraces you through the ebb that dissipates within you now like a shimmering blue fade. The hard jut of his shoulder blade beneath your wandering palm, the rhythm of his breaths, the bright spread of light that pours from the window and across the bed— it all reconstitutes you piece by piece back into dreamless lucidity.

When you feel something close to baseline, you ask, “So you want to breed me, do you?”

He groans so deeply that you can feel its vibration through his entire chest. “My god, that was a mistake.”

“Every night, you said.”

“Don’t remind me.

“And you want to keep me tied to your bed.”

His sternum rises and falls under your cheek as he lets out an exasperated, but good humored sigh. “Yeah, you sound like you’re back to normal.”

You flop back onto your pillow and grin at him through the haze of your mussed hair. He moves back over you, leaning one forearm against the mattress as he tips your chin up with his hand. Both eyes closed, the hopeless romantic, as he dips down to kiss you again. The soft brilliance of his smile when he withdraws could rival that of the sun.

He asks what you want for lunch.

“Kebab,” you answer immediately.

“Then kebab it is.” Arthur sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed, then extends his hand to you. “C’mon. Up.”

As he gathers up the trail of discarded clothing that leads from the hallway to the bed, you stay splayed in the rumple of sheets and linens, rendered breathless by a span of memory that floats by like the shadow of a passing cloud. How not long ago, the prospect of a mundanity as casual as this was all but impossibility. Those days when you would both scramble to get dressed again, and every garment sheathed back over your body felt like a possibility snuffed. Forcefully optimistic conversation to circumvent the unspoken understanding that any time might be the last. The sight of his retreating back, and the dull plink of loss you would feel at the click of your door when he’d pull it shut behind him.

But he stands bare-chested now with his fly still unzipped as he dumps your clothes at the foot of the bed and hands you a rag wetted with warm water from the bathroom sink. He tells you to hurry up, that the line at the kebab stand will reach halfway down the block if you lie there any longer. And as you clean yourself up and get dressed, you smile to see his eye linger on the curve of your ass before he realizes you are watching and turns his head, suddenly self-conscious.

Offhandedly, you mention the new pastry shop down the road in hopes of piquing his interest, taking special care to describe the chocolate eclairs and millefeuilles in its display window.

“The hell is mill-foy.” Arthur pulls on his leather jacket and tosses you your hat. Checks his phone for the weather forecast, then unwinds your scarf from the coat rack and tosses that over as well.

“Bunch of wafers layered with cream and chocolate and strawberries, so it’s really crunchy and—”

“Sounds like a rich man’s Kit Kat bar.”

“You are such a philistine,” you grumble. By the time you’re both at the door he’s rolling his eyes at your explanation of crême brûlée, but you can tell he’s halfway convinced from the way he pauses a full second before asking you why exactly he’d want a bowl of burnt custard. “Because it’s delicious,” you argue, and he snorts, saying that he doubts it even as he searches Patisserie Chanson into his browser. He holds the door open as you step into the apartment stairwell, then shuts it behind you both.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan/reader #arthur morgan/oc #fic #my work #modern au #yes i did write this while thinking of nothing but millefeuilles and kebab how did you know #place holder title for this was literally in which you get kebab

39 notes · View notes