#morgan writes

[ssamorganhotchner]

The Flogger

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!Reader

WC: 399 (not me actually writing something under 800 words???)

Warnings: minors dni, talks of kink, floggers, paddles, shy!aaron, d/s undertones, that’s about it.

Summary: you take your husband on a trip to the store 🙊

Authors Note: just a little drabble i found in my docs today ◡̈ it is not proofread

i think this was posted before but i never linked it so i lost it 🙃🥲

This isn't your first time at an adult store with your husband, but it is the first time he has taken the initiative to explore some of his own interests. He's a private man when it comes to his love life, so not surprisingly, the thought of someone he knows possibly seeing him here with you makes his whole body warm as he slowly walks towards the back of the store.

Aaron's always been curious about kink, but was never able to thoroughly explore it, at least, not to his own satisfaction. He dabbled a little in college when he and Haley took a break from their relationship, but as far as he was concerned, he still didn't know a whole lot about it. So it's not surprising when he turns to you, a confused look on his face as he holds up a piece of leather.

"Uh, what about, what about something like this?"

The material in his hand is black and leather, thin at the handle and wider at the end, with an engraving of brat spelt backwards in big red letters.

A paddle, you think to yourself.

Smirking, you reach and pull it from Aaron's grasp. “Sweetheart, that's a regular paddle; we are looking for a flogger. You know, with leather tails at the end." You lean in closer, and when your hot breath hits Aaron's ear, he shivers. "Besides, sir," you put emphasis on his title, placing the paddle behind him and tracing it down his jeans, "...if you're spanking me, it's only going to be with your hand."

Aaron chokes, covering it up with a cough, and when you look back up at him, his ears are bright pink. The redness has crept up his dark blue tee shirt and onto his neck, the color making the large vein on his throat stand out, and you bite your lip, willing yourself not to get needy in public.

He's cute like this - shy and apprehensive, and just by looking at him, it would hardly be believable to anyone else that you call him daddy in bed; that tying you to the bedposts with his ties and making you beg is his favorite pastime.

Hanging it back up, you tsk and smirk, and when you walk toward the area of the rope and floggers, Aaron's brain finally catches up to him, trailing not too far behind.

[morgantheblue]

Eventide-A Rogue Trader Short Story

This was originally the first chapter of this fic posted to my A03 last year. I eventually lost motivation to keep working on it, but since then I've been mulling it over and would like to have a go at re-writing it. I am however, quite proud of the first chapter. So I figured I'd put it up on here. Let me know what you think. Divider made by @squishyowl

In the opening years of the Era Indomitus, many of the great Rogue Trader dynasties located throughout Imperial space underwent a dramatic upheaval in their fortunes for better and for worse. One such example was the dramatic events that befell the Von Valancius dynasty of the Koronus expanse (As detailed in a prior volume of this work.) Another was that of the De Amarius dynasty, which saw the rising of an Abhuman to the Dynastic throne in or around the year 103.M42. This was, naturally, a source of great controversy, as had been the case with the De Amarius line for generations, yet it was only the start of the troubles that would befall the Dynasty in the following years...

-From "A Concise History of the Rogue Trader Dynasties of the Imperium." Volume XXVI (Revised Edition)

Eventide

It was a frigid winter evening on the world of Eriad IV when the Lord Captain Alezander De Amarius died in his bed at the age of seventy-three; Attended to only by his daughter and heir. The burned pink light of the setting sun cast long shadows over the richly furnished bedchamber. A fire burned and crackled in a great marble fireplace at one end of the room, far away from the bed. Trophies collected over the centuries stood on hand carved plinths of dark stone, ancient weapons hung on wall racks and above the doors. Portraits of several generations of the De Amarius line stood vigil on the walls staring down at the two figures who alone occupied the room. Everyone else had been sent away, even the servitors. Mina held her father's cold hand in her own and squeezed it gently. She felt hot tears sting her eyes as she looked at him, laying there propped up against the headboard like a doll. 

"No...no tears girl..." He said weakly, his voice little more than a whisper. "My last sight of you won't be marred as such..." He wheezed. "I command you as Rogue Trader Alezander De Amarius, my last command!" He laughed, even more weakly and let out a series of dry coughs, yet despite that Mina felt herself smile.

"Yes, Lord Captain." She said, forcing a small smile.

"There's a good girl." He sighed as she dried her eyes and took his hand again.

His grip was weak, his once powerful arms were little more than twigs.

"I'm not ready, Father...And I'm not..I.." She felt one of her feline ears twitch and her cheeks flush red with embarrassment. "I am Impure..."

Twisted Flesh. Twisted Soul. The words stabbed at her brain like shards of glass, even if few would dare say them to her face.

"You are my daughter." Alezander said with as much force as he could muster. "You are my heir. I was not ready when I took the helm of this demesne, I don't know if any Rogue Trader is, but you will lead our house. I have decreed it."

His word was still law, she thought, though it always had been for her. She sighed and forced herself to nod. Now was not the time for doubt, now was the time to savor what precious few moments they had left. She tried to think of something to say, of a story to tell or a memory to share. Though the images came to her mind, the words died in her throat. There was so much she wanted to say, so much she regretted not saying when she had the chance, so much that would forever go unsaid now. She felt his gaze floating over her time and time again. She wondered if the disease had robbed his sight from him in those final, cruel hours, but his words put those notions to bed,

"You look so much like your mother...I'll tell her how much you've grown, when the Emperor takes me to her side once more..." She could have sworn she saw relief in his tired green eyes.

Mina had to choke back more tears, her ears flattened against her dark hair, her tail curled up around herself. She swallowed back a sob and buried it with a sigh, feeling it burn in her chest as she spoke,

"Tell her I miss her...I'll miss you both."

"We'll be watching you, Mina...We'll be watching you prove every bastard who laughed at you wrong. You aren't Impure, my dear girl...You are the blood of De Amarius and as of tomorrow, you will be a Rogue Trader. A bearer of the torch in these dark days." He said with a ghost of his old strength.

Mina felt as though the weight upon her shoulders had lessened somewhat. Who was she to doubt herself, when a legend like her father professed his faith in such a way? She smiled again and felt her ears rise up once more, though her tail remained around her waist. 

"Look at this, my girl..." He said and gestured vaguely to himself with his free hand. "I have tangled with rebels and heretics, fought more battles with that bastard Blacktoof than I can count...I've danced with Harlequins and burned the forces of the Archenemy with macro-cannons and what finishes me off? Cancer. A sickness from the ancient days." He laughed weakly.

"Look at this way, Father, you've denied the enemies of mankind the satisfaction. You beat them all, you won!"

"Aye...aye I did, didn't I?" He smiled and for a moment there was genuine joy in his eyes once more. For a few beautiful moments, he wasn’t a dying old man, he was Lord Captain Alezander De Amarius. But this quickly passed, and his words came softly,

 "Mina...I've lived a good life. I've made our demesne stronger than when I found it. Our people are safer than they were under my mother, our coffers are full, our trophy cases the envy of every noble house in the sector...I've done my duty, but that duty's nearly done."

Only in death, does duty end.

"Father, please save your strength."

"What for? We both know it won't be long. I'm tired, my girl." He adjusted his position a little. "But, all I've done I did for the Emperor and his Imperium. Except for you. You my girl? You're my greatest treasure...I just hope the Emperor forgives this one indulgence of mine." His voice was that of a ghost, yet it warmed her heart all the same. 

"I love you, father."

"And I love you Mina...Sing for me? One last time?" He said as his breath became a wheeze.

For a few long moments, she thought of what to sing. There had been so many songs over the years. Bawdy ballads and shanties during long trips through the warp. Regimental and planetary anthems from a myriad of visits and voyages. Funeral dirges for friends long gone. Then, another memory came up to greet her. The half-forgotten face of her mother. Her kind eyes, her warm smile, her soothing voice. Then, the words flowed from her like water. An old hymn, some claimed it came from the earliest days of the Imperium. It had been a tradition of House De Amarius for centuries at the very least, passed down from parent to child down the countless years their dynasty had stood.

As she began to sing, Alezander closed his eyes and the wheeze of his breath lessened.

"Abide with me, fast falls the eventide.

The darkness deepens, Emperor Abide.

When other helpers fail and comforts flee

Help of the helpless, o, abide with me..."

Alezander's chest rose and fell more regularly as the song continued, when Mina was sure his eyes wouldn't open again, she allowed the tears she had been biting back to stain her pale cheeks.

"Swift to its close, ebbs out life's little day.

All joys grow dim and glories pass away.

Change and decay, in all around I see

O thou who changest not, abide with me..."

"I fear no foe, with thee at hand to bless.

Ills have no weight and tears no bitterness.

Where is death's sting? Where grave, thy victory?

I triumph still if thou abide with me..."

The last word left her lips with a shudder as she felt his hand fully slip from her own. His body lay there, in the burnt light of the evening. His face in the beautiful light and a small smile upon his lips. Mina didn't feel the need to check or a pulse. Tears fell freely from her eyes and her body was wracked with sobs. The Lord Captain Alezander De Amarius: Orkbreaker, Void-Strider, Protector of the Weak, Hammer of the Cruel and her beloved father, was gone. She didn't know how long she sat by his side and cried, but by the time she finally found the strength to stand, her throat burned, her chest ached, the sky outside was shrouded in darkness and the fire in the hearth was little more than coals.

She felt his grip weaken in her hand and fought back every urge to clutch him tightly. But there was nothing more that could be done and there hadn't been for months. Yet her song was bringing him peace, she would not rip him away from that for a few moments more with his hand in hers.

"Hold thou, thy throne, before my closing eyes.

Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies.

His morning breaks, the warp's vain shadows flee

In life, in death, Emperor abide with me..."

She leaned over to place a kiss upon his cold brow.

"Goodnight, father...Say hello to mother for me."

Then she stood to her full height, wiped her eyes, turned and walked toward the great doors at the end of the bedchamber. Her boots rang on the polished floor, echoing off the walls. Upon reaching the great doors, she took a shaky breath and closed her hand around the handle. For five seconds that passed like an eternity she held the door before finally opening it and stepping out into the brightly lit corridor beyond.

The crowd that had watched her enter Alezander's room hours before had barely shrunk. She knew less than half of the faces there, the strangers were carrion-birds already circling over her father's corpse, distant cousins and further relations who no doubt quietly seethed that a creature like her stood to inherit the very ground they stood upon. But those figures she knew, she had known most of her life. Her father's retinue, palace staff, guards and his closest servants. At the head of the group stood his Seneschal. A woman entering the later years of her middle age, with red hair turning to white and a face beginning to be lined with wrinkles. Alleria Devirs, the closest thing Mina had to a second mother. No words needed to be exchanged between them, a nod from Mina was enough. 

Alleria turned to the assembled crowd and broke through the silence that hung over the crowd like a damp cloak. Her powerful voice rang through the hall as though she were a priest conducting a service at the start of a crusade.

“A great tragedy has befallen the demesne and the Imperium. Lord Captain Alezander De Amarius has passed from this world. He walks now in the light of the Emperor. May his soul burn as bright in death as it did in life.”

Many in the crowd bowed their heads, many others made the sign of the Aquilla or whispered prayers for his departed soul. Mina watched as Alleria made a subtle gesture with one of her hands and moved to stand at his…no…her Senseschal’s side.

“But do not despair, loyal servants of House De Amarius. For the Lord Captain’s chosen heir now stands before you. The Lady Mina De Amarius. Trueborn daughter of the late captain and holder of the Warrant of Trade.”

The words were an ancient formality, but even Mina could not deny the weight of them. Many in the crowd who had looked upon her with disgust mere moments before fell to one knee before her. For half a second, she could feel a strong hand upon her shoulder and two warm gazes from somewhere beyond mortal perception.

Alleria took one step forward and gestured archly to Mina. She spoke even louder, her voice echoed in the hall.

"The Lord Captain is dead. All hail the Lord Captain!" 

[plurapony]

i miss my girlfriend we are so lesbian like trixie and starlight

[merginyourface]

Womp womp here's another

Day 2: JOI- Mountain/Cirrus

Listen Carefully

Cirrus knows how to make Mountain behave like a good boy.

Content- 2k, explicit, Mountain on his knees, Cirrus in heeled boots (no boot tho kink sorry)

[morgan-writes-fics]

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Rating: Mature

Tags: AU - Modern Setting, Slow Burn, Human AU, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Rivalry, Alcohol, Gay Male Character

No Archive Warnings Apply (at this time)

Summary: Alastor is a Late Night Radio Show Host and Angel is his faithful listener

[attapullman]

letting a fic marinate and come together is *chef's kiss*

[temporary-dysphoria]

it be slow, but it do be coming.

Lupin follows Fujiko to work and meets Zenigata. While he's there he meets a very cute 'eyebrow wiggle' baker.

[feral-ballad]

Craig Morgan Teicher, from To Keep Love Blurry; “The Prince of Rivers”

[arthursfuckinghat]

They really made a character like Arthur Morgan and not only gave him crippling self esteem issues, but they gave him confidence so low that he doesn't share his passions with anyone ever.

Like what do you mean Arthur loves to write but thinks he writes like a fool?

What do you mean Arthur loves to draw and is really talented but he doesn't see it that way?

What do you mean Arthur loves the smaller things in life but doesn't feel like he's deserving of good things?

What do you mean there was a whole different side to Arthur that the people he cared about rarely got to see?

What do you mean he lived and died with parts of his life tucked away tight in the pages of the journal that only one other person has ever been able to read?

What a tragedy.

[bebx]

Tragic brothers.

Dexter: Dexter Morgan and Brian Moser. Genesis by Valzhyna Mort † Abel’s Body to Cain by Joseph Fasano

[all-that-glitters-is-goldfish]

Red

Summary: You try to surprise Luke for Valentine’s Day and it becomes a hot mess. (Just a lil drabble as I try to get back into writing!!) 

Pairing: Luke Alvez/Female Reader

Word Count: 759

“FBI, drop your weapon!” 

The bottle of wine crashed to the floor, a puddle of red liquid seeping underneath the white shag carpet. 

You definitely did not expect to have a gun pointed at the back of your head, a dark figure threatening to drive a bullet right into your skull. 

“I-” Throwing your hands up, you blink against the bright light as you slowly turn around ready to show that you were in fact unarmed despite the large shards of glass spread across the floor that could easily be used to slice the jugular of who had the gun that was now aimed between your eyes, but probably not as fast as they could pull the trigger.

“This is a misunderstanding.” You attempt, looking at the blood pooling up at the tip of your finger. You barely registered slicing it as you dropped the bottle, too startled by the booming echo of the man ready to end your life in a second.

“This is my boyfriend’s house.” You desperately explain, attempting to peer into the darkness and put a face to the intruder. 

Suddenly, the flashlight burning your eyes drops to the man’s side and you’re grateful that you weren’t blinded. 

“Y/N?” The agent lowers his gun and you finally see his face. 

“Luke?” 

“Oh baby I’m-” He holsters his weapon, crossing the room in one step to see if you were hurt. “I am so sorry. I thought you were out of town- I didn’t know who it was.” 

His hands are warm, one on each cheek as he examines you. You gulp once, twice, as you stare into his worried eyes. “I was, but I managed to catch an earlier flight, and I wanted to surprise you for Valentine’s…” 

The room was a mess. The red stain spread across the carpet, appearing disturbingly familiar to Luke and the countless number of crime scenes he had shown up to. “I should have known that surprising an FBI agent in the dark with no warning was a bad idea.” You laughed, but it was forced, and he noticed, not surprisingly, given his work with the behavioral analysis unit. 

His eyes dart back and forth as he studies you, gripping your hand tightly where he notices the small cut. His eyes don’t leave yours as he reaches to grab a kleenex from the table behind him, quickly pressing it hard against your thumb. 

“I’m so sorry, Luke.” What a mess. This is where trying to be romantic got you. Why did you take that advice from JJ? She and Will had been together for years, of course they’d try to surprise each other to spice things up! You do not do this to someone you’ve been seeing for less than a year, especially when they walk around armed with a weapon!

“Hey.” Luke snaps you out of your daze. “You have nothing to apologize for. I pulled a gun on you! I’m the one who’s sorry!” 

You shrugged your shoulders. “You thought I was a burglar.” 

His hand moves from your face to your shoulder as he sighs. “You alright?”

You nod. “I think the wine had it rougher.” 

Luke smiles, pulling you in close for a kiss. His lips are chapped, dry, but you still see the fireworks when you close your eyes like you had the first time he pressed his lips into yours. 

He pulls away, though you can tell he didn’t want to, but his face looked like he had better plans. 

“What is it?” You smirk. 

“I think we should clean up.” 

“Oh.” Frowning, you try to move past his tall figure to grab some paper towels from the kitchen. He caught you off guard as he playfully pushed you back. 

“That’s not what I meant.” 

“Huh?”

He pushes you towards the sofa, your back arching against the arm as he pins you down leaning in closely, feeling his breath on your neck. “I’m going to start a bath. And you’re going to grab the bottle of wine I was saving for when you got back from your trip.” 

Your heart flutters against your chest, butterflies swarming in your stomach. “Luke…” 

“Does that sound good to you?” 

Your grin practically stretches ear to ear, completely forgetting the mess. “I love you.” You blurt out, your eyes widening when you realized that was the first time you had said that out loud. 

He kisses you again and the butterflies settle when he pauses to whisper the phrase back. “I love you too, baby.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day.” 

[ssamorganhotchner]

writing at Starbucks before work 🩷☕️

[morgantheblue]

City of Light: Domina. A Vampire the Masquerade Short Story.

Rating: R/M/18+

Minors DNI

CW: Blood, Dehumanization, BDSM, Discussions of Death, Lasombra attitudes toward Ghouls. Shadow-Play. Choking Dubcon. World of Darkness

This is the first part of a project I'm calling "City of Light." A Series of VtM short stories set in and around Paris in the year 2025. Some, like this first one, will be Horror. Some will be smutty. Some will be both. Some won't be either. I will endeavour to tag everything I can. But these stories will not be for everyone.

I will be posting these to Ao3 as well.

This first story features a Lasombra punishing one of her ghouls. It features heavy themes of dehumanisation, BDSM and also a scene involving rotten food. If any of that is too much for you, please move on.

City of Light: Domina

In which, a Lasombra punishes her Ghoul.

She looks down at the mud tracked in through the door. A tiny brown smear on the white marble, less than an inch from the mat. It is almost imperceptible. Almost. She sees it and her hands curl against her side. She turns her head, slowly. Her eyes track along the entry hall. The flicking tongues of flame that dance in their glass prisons cast strange shadows over everything, but she sees it, on hands and knees, scrubbing the floor with a black handle brush. She sees it’s naked arms shake with the effort of the task. She sees it shivering against the cold of her haven. She sees it keep its head bowed low. Obedient. Servile. Her eyes track back to the speck of mud. Imperfect.

It has no name; It lost the right to one years before. It has no face, its head is hidden behind a latex mask. It is locked with a heavy padlock at the back of its head. It has no voice unless she permits it. It toils in silence. It has only one mark of identification. An intricate number tattooed down the length of its naked back. It is number Three.

Her name is Flavia. But to Three, she is the Domina. And the Domina is displeased.

She relaxes her hands and takes a deep breath. She closes her eyes and feels the beast rouse, feels the gnawing unending hunger grow yet deeper. She feels the beast’s eyes in her mind. Feels its teeth at her ear. In her mind she almost sees it. A creature of shadow and blood snarling and snapping and, for now, forced back. The Beast retreats to the shadowy miasma at the edge of her soul.

She opens her eyes as her shadow convulses. It jitters. It fits. It bursts. She stands as still as stone as her erupting shadow curls into tendrils of inky black. She watches as the tendrils creep along the floor, she smiles as they climb lizard-like up the walls. She licks her lips as they slither forward. One after another the flames die. One after another the lights go out. Her eyes close again. When they reopen they are abyssal in depth and colour. She sees clearly. The darkness holds nothing from her.

She sees Three still scrubbing the floor. She wonders if it knows it has displeased the Domina. That its continued work is a feeble attempt to avoid what is to come. Or perhaps it is simply well trained. That it knows it has not been given the privilege of rest. She wonders how long it will scrub and clean and toil for her. She licks her lips and decides to test the theory another night.

The shadow tendrils retreat to her. Her eviscerated shade knits itself back together. She walks toward Three. Her footsteps ring on the marble, sharp and clear against the scraping of the brush. She stands two paces behind the naked Ghoul. She speaks.

“Stop.”

Its hands cease their work in an instant.

“Kneel”

It rises to its knees. It places its hands palm down on pale thighs. The brush between their parted legs.

She steps closer. She leans down over it. She whispers ice into its ear.

“Do you know why I snuffed out the lights, Three?”

“No, Domina” It said, in a voice louder and yet infinetly smaller than hers.

“In the dark I can hide your failure” She hisses. “You don’t even know you had failed me, do you?”

“No, Domina” It shakes as it speaks.

“Ignorance is no excuse, but don’t worry, you will learn.”

Before Three can reply, her arm wraps around its throat. Her elbow squeezes, she feels it go rigid. She hears it choke. She shushes, she coos. She fixes her black eyes on the bulging vein in its neck. It throbs against the skin.

She reaches down and picks up the brush. She turns it over in her hand, presses it against the smooth skin of Three’s stomach. The bristles are made of coarse hair, for scouring stains from the expensive marble. In Her hands they carve deep scratches that bubble with crimson rivulets. The scent hits her nose, she feels the beast lick its lips. Three shakes in her grasp.

“Stay still, or I’ll break your pretty neck.” She speaks with a voice as smooth as silk.

She squeezes with her elbow, it stops shaking. It locks up. She can smell its sweat, she can smell its blood as she drags the brush up toward its chest, slowly. Slowly. It lets out a strangled whimper, she runs her tongue over her teeth and feels the sharpness of her fangs. Her eyes fix on the bulging vein.

“I could feed, I could sink my fangs into you, drink deep of your blood. It would be so easy, so easy to drain you. Let those little thoughts slip away, let whatever remains of you fade into sweet oblivion…But even that would be too good for you. You failed me, tonight and before. That moment of perfect ecstasy will forever be beyond your reach, Three…”

“Please…Mercy…Mercy Domina…” It chokes out. Spittle runs down its mask, drips down onto the marble, pooling with the blood from its scratches.

“Mercy? I am Lasombra. I am the Abyss. Mercy is not a word I know…”

“Please” It gurgles pathetically.

She can hear it struggle for each breath. Struggle to stay still. Struggle not to cry out as the brush makes a carven mess of its torso. She presses deeper, blood weeps down its stomach, stains its skin. A canvas for the Domina. She lets the brush fall from her hands, it clatters to the floor.

What relief it brings is short lived, her fingers dig deep into the scratches. Sharp nails rake the Ghoul.

It can’t help itself. It Screams.

The Domina laughs.

She feels its warm blood coat her hand. She rips it back, crimson arcs into the dark, splatters on the ground with small, wet sounds. She releases her grip on it’s throat, but seizes its arm, drags it back.

It gasps, it whimpers, it squeezes its eyes shut. But there is no release. No freedom.

Not over. Not yet.

Her bloody hand traces a line down its bleeding torso, down to the crux of its legs. Dips between stained thighs. Stops.

She begins to laugh.

She raises her bloody hand to Three’s nose.

She lets them smell its blood.

She lets them smell its arousal.

“Was it the brush? The choking? The fear?”

Its words die in its throat. It just whimpers. She places a hand on its back, shoves it away from her and smirks as it cries out. She watches it whimper in the darkness. She stands over it and licks its shame from her hand.

The Beast purrs.

“Clean yourself up, then find me in the kitchen. You have twenty minutes. Do not disappoint me again.”

She walks away, tasting the blood on her lips. Stopping only once. Only when she hears two words, like the bleating of a sheep, in the darkness behind her.

“Yes, Domina…”

*********

The Domina places the apple amid the cornucopia of fruit in the bowl. It stands like the magnificent centerpiece of a gallery. It is surrounded by the bounty of her estate. They are the culmination of a decade of work. Tended to by loving, yet fearful hands. Her orchards and groves would make a Toreador blush given their beauty.

Apples and strawberries of beautiful ruby red, shining and ripe. Oranges that remind her of breakfasts in a life lived by another woman. Grapes that could make the finest vintages. Plums and peaches that make even her dead mouth water.

It almost makes her sad, knowing what she is about to do to them. Almost.

She stands, naked, in front of the counter. Her back to the door. She wants Three to see her as it enters. Wants it so see what she so often denies it. An eternal reminder. What it could have had, had it not fallen so short.

She hears the bell attached to the white door ring and allows herself a smirk. She hears two footsteps, a small gasp. A stop. She doesn’t turn to look.

“You may look, Three.”

“Thank you, Domina.”

She says nothing, picks up the bowl and turns. Three stands in the door, it is still naked save for its mask. Its body has been cleaned, its wounds no longer bleed, but the marks are clear. They will not fade for some time yet. Good. Let it wear them as a badge of shame. Let it remember the price of failure.

It doesn’t matter how small the failure is. How tiny the speck of dirt on their record. She has been tested just the same and she has excelled. She has gained all that she denies to her servants. There can be no second chances among the Magisters. Three and its companions will pay for their failure until she finally tires of them. It is lucky she finds scars beastly. It is lucky she does not decorate its face with more than a mask.

“Hands and knees.” She says and gestures with her head.

It obeys.

She snaps her fingers, points to a spot in front of her and watches it crawl. A half smile forms on her red-wine lips. It crawls toward her thinking what, she wonders? That all is forgiven? That she will treat it to the fruits of the estate? To the taste of her body? To pleasure? To bliss?

Foolish.

She holds the bowl out in front of her, fingers curled over the edges, brushing against the fruit. Moonlight spills through the windows, her shadow fractures into four. She smiles a smile so sweet it can rot teeth. She looks down, Three stares up. Its eyes visible through the mask. They are wet with fear, exhaustion, need. The teeth of its mouth zipper press into its trembling lips.

“Are you hungry?”

It nods.

“Your words, use them.” Ice edges her voice.

“Yes, Domina.”

She closes her eyes and once more the beast stirs, but this time she feels its gaze and nothing more. Her divided shadow splits yet further. It curls around her in thick ropes of darkness. She lets a sigh escape her lips and a shiver run up her spine. They crawl up her legs, they tickle. They tease. She feels a heat, she feels sparks across her deadened nerves. She lets the shadows play. She lets herself moan. She knows the torment it must bring, to watch and be denied.

She opens her eyes, they are black as the shadows embracing her. Her grin widens, widens, her mouth hangs open and her slick tongue plays over her bottom lip. The shadows slither and crawl down her arms. They dance over her fingers, they swarm over the bowl.

They touch the fruit.

She laughs.

Red fades to brown, orange rots to green. Skins shrivel, dry and crack open. Mold blooms The sickly sweet miasma of decay hangs in the air. She knows the scent and knows it well.

She places the bowl down, the beautiful display a rotten half-soup now. As her shadows pleasure her, she watches the hope die in Three’s eyes. She pushes the bowl toward them with her left foot.

“Eat” She orders.

It obeys.

It dips its head into the fetid soup. It slurps filth and chews rot. It chokes on mold and gags on decay. Its hands squeeze closed. She can smell when its nails break the skin. She places her foot on the back of its head, presses its head down into the bowl. Its cry is drowned out by the muck.

“You are a failure. You were a failure the day you said you’d never betray me. You’d never be strong enough to survive. You are a Ghoul. Your only job is to serve and survive on the refuse of your betters.”

She lets out another long moan as a shadow finds a deliciously sensitive spot.

“I’m sure you lie to yourself, you say this is for your own good. That you will be happy like this. Free from choice. Free from hunger. A fiction. You exist because I find you amusing, Three. But one day? One day I shall tire of you, and you will feed my orchards.”

She presses down further. It squeals like a stuck pig. She leans down. She can smell its fear, above the stench of decay and rot.

“You aren’t a pet, you aren’t a workhorse. You’re a toy. My Rose? She is something to be treasured. You? You are to be used then discarded. And if you fail me again? You’ll find out just how quickly toys can be broken.”

She lifts her foot from its head and steps back. She watches.

It keeps eating.

She smiles.

The shadows dance.

When the meal is done, it raises its head from the bowl, but it does not look at her.

“Thank you, Domina.”

“What for, Three?”

“For the meal and for the lesson. I won’t fail you again Domina.” Its voice is weak, nauseous.

“Yes you will. But you are welcome.”

Before she can speak again, the bell rings once more. She turns her gaze to the kitchen door. Another Ghoul stands there. She has no idea which one it is. It is also naked. Also masked. It clutches a sheet of paper in its hands. It shakes with fear.

“Domina, please forgive the intrusion…” It stops. Only now seeing the shadows pleasing its Domina.

“Continue.” She hisses.

“Your Rose, she sends a message, something terrible is happening in the city. Infernalism, Domina.”

She sighs. She snaps her fingers. She feels the shadows retreat. So it seems the City of Light had more on its plate than Thin Bloods and Hunters. She glares at the trembling Three, then at the Ghoul in the door.

“Have Five prepare my outfit, have Twelve bring the car. Lock this one in the Cage, then clean up the mess. And when I return? If I find a speck of filth anywhere in this house, you’ll all be punished.”

She steps past Three. She strides through the door.

Behind her, two voices echo the same words.

“Yes, Domina.”

[plurapony]

oh when she holds me there's this wave of feeling incredibly safe and I know that for as long as I'm in her arms I'm in heaven.

the lesbian experience of being with the girl I love most

[merginyourface]

Controlled Burn

WC: 1512 

Aether watches over Dew as he undergoes the transformation into a fire ghoul. 

Warnings! The themes in this are pretty heavy? I’m sure a lot of yall have read worse but I’ve never written worse and I don’t want to seriously upset anyone! Themes of death, decay, grief, etc. so forth. If that’s stuff that might make you upset pls avoid!!!!

“It fucking hurts, Aeth.” Dew says on a large exhale after drawing in his first full breath in what felt like hours.

“I know,” Aether says in the softest voice he can manage, running a free hand down his back, up to his shoulders, and over again. His own voice is tight, the ever-present burning in the back of his throat showing how close he is to losing it. But he can’t. Not while Dewdrop is here.

He crouches down in front of the seated ghoul and wipes the tears from his face. He was losing control, Aether could tell as the water slipped down his cheek, cascading over his jaw until it fell solid on the floor, splashing out. The quintessence ghoul watches the droplet on the floor, as if maybe if he could collect it, he could give Dew back what he was losing.  

“Fuck.” Dew’s voice cracks. It seemed like might have been supposed to be a scream, but it comes out as no more than a broken whine. He fists his hands into his light hair, grabbing at his horns as if he might pull them out.

Aether tries to pull his hands away from the mess he’s making of his hair, but Dew just pulls away from his touch and locks his hands harder in, curling in on himself as if he might collapse into nothing. He wanted nothing more than to collapse into nothing. To have never been, that’s how bad it’s hurting.

And maybe he’d vocalize this. Certainly, he would. If not for the nausea that burns so violently through him every time he opens his mouth, nausea so intense it makes his legs cramp.

Aether can see the way he tenses at the thought, “You need to breathe, droplet.” He uses the nickname out of habit and it pulls a cynical one-huff laugh from Dew. Aether picks up all he needs to know about what Dew thinks about the nickname now just from the laugh. He’ll have to be careful not to use it again.

This was the most responsive he’d been since the beginning of this. Damn them for making him do this. Damn Dew for agreeing. Aether knew, too, that this at best was the eye of the hurricane. He didn’t know how Dew was going to make it through this if it really was going to get worse again. He didn’t know how he was going to get through this having to watch.

“Dewdrop, you need to lay back down.” Aether tried to guide him back down, but he weakly pushed his hands away.

“I fucking can’t” He grits out, before picking up the small trashcan next to him and hacking violently. He coughs and chokes until something comes up. Aether’s stomach turns. It looks like slime but smells like pond scum. Dew takes a shakey breath, struggling to hold his head upright as his eyelashes flutter.

Quickly after, his eyes roll back into his skull and he starts to slump forward. Aether catches his dead weight and slings him back so he doesn’t crash forward. The pail falls forgotten to the side.

“Dew?” Aether tries, shaking the smaller ghoul’s shoulders ever so slightly. Aether calls his name, again and again. Because even as they went into hour 15 of this mess, he’d never passed out like this before. The longer Dew isn’t responsive, the harder and harder Aether’s heart seems to beat.

Heartbeat. He thinks, throwing his head down onto Dew’s chest. But he can’t keep still, he cant focus enough in the panic to hear anything. Does he hear anything? Is there nothing to hear? Did he give up? Is he—?

Bile rises in his throat. “No. No, no, no, no. You’ve gotta—you can’t—” He’s already lost so much. So many people. He can’t lose Dewdrop.

“Dew!” He calls, shaking limp shoulders.

“Dew.” He tries again, but it’s broken, borderline empty. And for a second, all the pain settles away. He stares blankly down at Dew, who’s gone completely pale. And he just…

He can’t believe it. Deep in his chest, he can feel the pain there. He wants to bring it to the surface. He wants to feel it. But, nothing. He feels like he doesn’t even recognize the sharp cheekbones. He doesn’t recognize the face below him without a sneer, a line of tension, a frown of annoyance. This can’t be Dew.

Delicately, as if he might fade into dust, Aether lifts Dew’s limp hand. He brings the soft, cool skin to his face and rests it against his cheek. This is wrong. It can’t be real. He lets go, expecting Dew to hold his hand to his face, but the arm just falls back beside him.

And in an instant, the pain slams back into him. Aether’s lip quivers as his lung coughs out a small, choked sound. Tears well up and spill down his face as his chest shakes and heaves over and over again. In the back of his mind, he’s aware that words are spilling out of his mouth in desperate gasps and pleas.

They had agreed to do this alone. Dew didn’t want anyone else besides Aether to see him when he shifted. But now, Aether felt like he was the only person left. Like the world was a desolate space. That if Dew was gone, beyond that door there would be nothing but shattered buildings and fallen trees. Brittle grass and raging fires.

All he knew, was that he didn’t know what to do. He felt like jumping up, running, screaming. He felt like breaking shit. Killing someone. Killing anyone who ever thought that putting this shit on Dew was a good idea.

But he didn’t move. Barely even a muscle, he wasn’t even sure if he was breathing anymore either.

He couldn’t hold himself upright anymore. Miserably, he collapsed forward, resting his head on Dew’s chest, trying not to think about the way it didn’t move. And would never move again.

He thinks he might lay there forever. Wait until they both turn to bones and the earth swallows them whole.

Eventually, the place where Aether touches Dew stops being cold. His own heat must be keeping him warm, and the thought is sour in his stomach.

That is what he thinks until the places they touch heats up even more, until a sweat breaks on Aether’s brow.

His head shoots up, analyzing Dew for any signs of… anything. He hasn’t moved yet but… has some of the color returned to his skin? Aether couldn’t be positive this wasn’t all some sick trick his mind was playing on him.

And he believes this, that it was nothing more than his imagination, until Dew’s eyebrow twitches. Quickly, Aether sits up and grabs hold of Dew’s hand again, calling his name.

And Aether was right, Dew’s skin was hot before, but burning up now. It continues to burn, to grow hotter and hotter until Aether can’t bear to touch him anymore.

Suddenly, Dew’s eyes shoot open and he tenses up on the bed. Aether is about to ask if he’s okay, as well as a million other questions but he never gets the chance. Dew takes a deep breath in and uses it to scream like nothing Aether has ever heard in his entire existence.

Aether does his best to try and soothe him, but even being in the space around him was growing more difficult as his temperature seemed to climb beyond anything he’d ever experienced. Ifrit had told him not to get involved in the process, to not try and fix the pain. He’d told Aether the Dew needed the pain or else he would never be able to tolerate his own flame.

But the way Dew’s skin was starting to dry, to crackle and split. It was making him sick.

Eventually, Dew’s skin went beyond drying and cracking as his screams and twitches continued. It darkened and darkened until it was entirely the color of ash. Dew began to thrash harder, breaking off chips of skin and leaving a new layer beneath it all.

He leaned as close as he could manage to Dew, using a façade of calm to try and comfort him. Wanting nothing more than to hold him and let him take the rest he needed while Aether cradled him. But it wasn’t possible.

The cloud of heat was so thick around him that it was like a force field keeping Aether out. But he continued to whisper everything he loved about Dew. Everything he cherished about their time together. Everything he looked forward to with him. Everything and anything he thought of.

That seemed to go on for hours until every piece of blackened skin had dissolved away and the heat finally died down.

Delicately, Aether laid a single finger on his arm, worried about hurting him. The skin was impossibly smooth and flawless. Dew shivered but didn’t wince.

And for the first time as a fire ghoul, Dew opened his eyes.

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

✧ Fantasies in the dark - I

✦ Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader ✦ Summary: In which Arthur catches a glimpse of your intimacy, the vision driving him into madness until he finally decides to give in to his urges. ✦ Warnings: SMUT 18+, MDNI! Masturbation, nudity, voyeurism (reader not aware he's staring), self-depreciation, and lots of shame from this poor man. Arthur's pov. ✦ Words: 2,7k Arthur's pic is mine, others are from Pinterest. And as always, as English isn't my first language, prepare for some possible misspellings. Read on AO3

Part I - Part II

Lately, Arthur had a problem. An incessant, disturbing, haunting problem.

He couldn’t sleep at night.

This could have been related to the gang’s precarious situation, being hunted down by the Pinkertons and surrounded by enemy gangs, O’Driscolls and Lemoyne raiders everywhere. Or even because of some older wounds, the loss of Eliza and Isaac amongst others, reminded almost every day by the complicated family portrait John painted with Abigail and Jack. Or the hurtful thought of the life he never had with Mary that was always following him since he had seen her again near Valentine. Life doomed from the start by his inherent violence and the mountain of corpses he was responsible for.

Arthur had plenty of reasons not to sleep at night. But this wasn’t because of any of that.

He couldn’t sleep because of you. 

Not that it was your fault. In fact, you didn’t even know about any of that and Lord have mercy, he was praying that you’ll never find out; because he would never be able to look at you in the eyes then.

A few weeks ago, the gang had settled at Clemen’s Point. A rather pretty spot just near the lake, and not so far from town. But it wasn’t exactly the place that was causing him trouble. It was the unexpected view he was having from his tent.

For some unknown, mystical reasons, Miss Grimshaw while deciding the camp’s ajancement had decided to place your tent right next to his. Not so big of a problem at first sight, right?

Except that you were a night owl combined with the suffocating warmth of the place. Making you get to bed naked.

Oh, Arthur knew you do, because every night, every single one, you let a candle lit to read, or write, or God knows what before sleeping. The light casts your shadow against the tent’s canvas. The shadow of your very much nude body.

The first night Arthur had noticed, he had come back exhausted from a job in the middle of the night and laid on his cot without even taking the time to remove his boots or hat. A very usual and typical slice of his life, which lately felt more and more like a terribly used one. As if all these slices were repeating again and again. An accumulation of jobs and missions and robberies and fights; deceiving, lying, stealing, killing. Over and over again, going round and round. At night, he was reduced to a slumbered mind in a spent body, that was definitely becoming old and rusty. Already half asleep, mud and twigs surrounding his tired limbs, his thoughts all tangled up like a ball of wool, he had turned his head to his left, reaching from instinct for his pack of cigarettes on the little table next to his bed. Another slice of bad habits from a bad life.

That’s how his eyes had met with this quite erotic shape displayed on your tent.

Said eyes had grown so big that it had fully woken him up all of a sudden, as quickly as if someone had dumped a bucket of iced water on his shocked face. After half of a second of pure stabbing surprise and incomprehension with his hand hanged in the air, his breath stuck in his throat as if really being punched in the gut, he instantly turned his eyes back to the ceiling of his own tent. Cheeks burning red, heart pounding, as if someone had caught him in the act of doing a terribly shameful thing. Exactly as if he had really seen you naked.

He had feverishly grabbed the cigarette pack without looking at it, gaze refusing to turn again, these two blue diamonds locked on the ceiling of his tent, and had messily pulled one out of it, his shaky fingers fumbling, almost spilling everything on the ground.

He must have looked so damn ridiculous.

The smoke helped him to calm down, its soothing and comforting feeling spreading and burning through his lungs. He had fallen asleep, turned to the other side facing the wagon, trying not to think too much about the peek of your intimacy he had witnessed, telling himself it probably was going to be an isolated incident. 

But of course, of course the Lord had to torment him even in the rare moments of peace he could have enjoyed.

Turns out this was apparently a habit of yours. 

To be honest, he probably deserved to be tormented. But this was years from what he had in mind when it came to the Lord's punishment for his life of crimes.

And Arthur, even though a hardened man in many ways, able to lock lips during torture, kill men with bare hands, and stay emotionally strong in any kind of situation, was still only, after all, a man. A man with needs.

Filthy, disgusting needs.

He had tried to resist. Had tried not to let his eyes slip in your direction like that first night. Sometimes he would allow himself a quick glance, just to check if you were wearing any clothes for once, like a normal person. And maybe the night after would be different? Every evening spent at camp, his pupils would end up brushing the sinful silhouette in just a soft, slight sight, as if not to scare you, as if not to feel too bad about it.

But it was getting harder and harder not to stare. The easy lies about just checking on you or looking at anything else in the same area as your tent to have the chance of winning a glimpse of you would soon not be enough.

Just the mere fact that he knew you were completely bare, only a few meters away from him, singly the thin and superficial fabric of the tent between the both of you, was getting him hard and sweaty, and making his blood boil as a virgin teenage boy would. He could almost physically feel it, like a burning presence in his back when he was sleeping head against the wagon's wall.

The Human mind may be well designed for a lot of things; it forgets an event too hard to carry or can trick you into thinking you're not experiencing any physical pain in extreme situations. But Arthur had learned that it was extremely poorly made when it came to ignoring something. The more he was trying to not think about his unholy urges, the more he ended up being plagued with them. As sure as the seasons always turned in circles, you would come back to his effusive psyche.

And Oh, he was ashamed. Ashamed and revolted by himself. This was absolutely not in his habits, all the contrary. Yes, he was an old miserable bastard who had killed and plundered. But for God's sake, he had never acted obscene towards a lady before.

But the shame wasn't enough for him to stop. On the nights when the guilt was at its lowest —when the tediousness of his days was nibbling at his patience, he had let his eyes wander to your sinful figure, telling himself that maybe if he did, he could just go on with his night and finally rest. Just a quick taste, not too long.

But it only made things worse. It made him dream of you. 

Dream of you stripped, his imagination taking the lead of what the tent’s fabric was preventing him from seeing. Dream of you moaning, taking him so tightly, welcoming him in your warm body and into your arms. Dream of the feeling of your skin under his fingertips, of the sight of your naked body squirming with pleasure. He would now often wake up frustrated and angry, if he had succeeded in sleeping at all, his member hard and throbbing on its own, his heart beating powerfully in his chest as if it had been real. His pants and blanket had even been damped one or two times. 

What was he, a fifteen-year-old boy again? He was so angry and mortified by the physical obsession his body was having with you that he was constantly in a foul and fiery mood;  bitter with everyone, his tension leaking into every movement and every word he spoke. He started missing targets when shooting, getting even more reckless and hot-headed during jobs, jobs often ending up missed or taken care of negligently, yelling at people when they weren’t fast enough, or clever enough, or silent enough, breaking things, breaking rules. The lack of sleep was making his deadly efficiency fade away, replaced by sloppy and messy gestures, stopping enemies from falling dead at his feet like his lethal skills always did, castrating the only thing that was left of his masculinity.

And yet, he couldn’t stop watching you from afar during the time he was at camp, telling himself he knew, or at least had an idea, of what you looked like without these clothes on; feeling a twisted sensation of pride imagining he was the only one who did. On top of that, your sweet personality and beautiful face weren’t helping him at all with his addiction. Filthy old bastard, stop it- he had to mentally slap himself to prevent staring at you for too long, especially staring at your chest that this goddamn dress you had chosen to wear wasn’t covering at all; or your ass these goddamn pants were fitting way too well.

Tonight, Arthur is avoiding going to bed too early. He knows he would just lay in it waiting for you anyway. Instead, he goes for a walk along Flat Iron Lake’s shores, bringing his journal with him. Two entire pages are already dedicated to your shadow. He had no idea a picture exclusively made of black and white flats on a sheet could have such a powerful erotic effect. Or maybe he is a complete degenerate —which, he is sure, is more and more true.

He has to be honest with himself, he could just go to a hotel, or out of camp for a few days to sleep under the stars, and the matter would be settled.

But he doesn’t want to. Because deep down inside, his urges are winning, making him feel like the most foolish and weakest man alive. He enjoys watching you. He enjoys seeing those forbidden plumped curves cast on this canvas. He feels like you're not leaving him any mercy, pitiless, his days dictated by the wait for his taboo rendez-vous, his nights by your sensual apparitions in his dreams.

He is trapped, you have completely tamed him, and irony of it all, have absolutely no idea you are making him feel like this.

This woman is drivin' me insane.

After a few hours on the cold shore's sand, his fingers only capable of creating quick little sketches and scribbles, his feet lead him back to camp. What a surprise. He finds most of the gang's members already asleep, apart from the ones on guard duty and some late campfire enjoyers talking about life, about love, grief, the future, the past. He briefly nods at them without a word and walks to his private space. He already knows what’s waiting for him there, your tent looking like it’s still illuminated, his thoughts and body avid for it.

No, don’t be a fool, Morgan.

He sits down on his cot. Mumbles to himself orders and curses to try and stay reasonable. Takes off his hat, runs a hand through his hair, sticky with sweat and dirt from his busy day, as all the other ones, as always. Scratches his beard and his ears with a sniff, tells himself he needs to take a swim into that lake. That he’s as dirty on the inside as he’s on the outside. Pulls down his suspenders before stretching his shoulders, a pained groan escaping him. A cigarette joins his lips, a match lights it, and he breathes in slowly. He tries to calm down, focusing once again on this homey feeling it brings him. 

But his brows furrows. His lips tighten. He knows he won’t be able to hold on much longer. He needs to sleep properly. Even being the all-mighty Titan he is, he still needs a good night of sleep from time to time to keep the engine of his body turning, and you have kept it from him for days.

He lies to himself promising this is only for his health.

That this is the only way for him to stay focused during the day; the only way to rest properly and be at his best again tomorrow.

That this will be the only time he’ll do that.

His only moment of weakness. 

The still-lit cigarette and his good conscience fall to the ground as he lies on his cot, settled on his left side, his right hand already roaming on his lower belly. 

His eyes drop on the scene he had fantasized about for what seems like years to him at this point.

Lord have mercy…

Your shadow looks so perfect. He takes his sweet time to notice every detail of it, enjoying to the maximum his sinful behavior, now that he had succumbed to it. How you’re laying on your back, reading your book with your legs crossed. The curvaceous shape of your body looks divine to his insatiable gaze. Your hair messily tangled around your head. The silhouette of your chin and throat making him hungrier than any feast he could have attended. Your belly, rising and falling with your chest and breasts, gives the shadow an organic appearance. Your delicate legs, from the base of your thighs to your calves, to your feet, your toes mindlessly curling as you get lost in your story. And of course, the blurry outline of what was between them…

Damn it.

His hand quickly reaches his belt, unbuckles it,  fiddles with his pants, opens them carelessly in an urgent grip. He spits in his palm, lashes out at himself when the desire of it being your wetness instead crosses his mind, and slips it between the buttons of his union suit. It finally wraps around his desperate shaft, gorged with blood, and he wonders if he already had been this hard before.

The moment he feels the pressure of his own fingers around it, he can’t help but sigh deeply through his nose, and has to physically block the groan he was about to let out.

Make no noise, moron.

He bites his lips to stop any other immoral sound from crossing through his mouth. Last thing he needs right now is to get caught. He slowly rubs one languorous time from up to down, then up again, his fingers brushing his swollen head right where he needs to. He instantly knows he won’t last. He had dreamed about this, about you, both during days and nights. His eyes are locked on your tantalizing silhouette, this deiform delicious flesh. Goddess of the night, Queen of his desires.

His hand rubs once again and his muscles tighten. He starts to stroke in a rhythmic pace, his moves are efficient, messy, careless. He masturbates the same way he takes care of himself —quickly, roughly, as if matching his disgust towards his own self. The exact opposite of what he would do to you if he could. This is pure physical relief.

Yes, God, yes…

Your name turns in his mind between blasphemous curses as he pleasures himself, stroking faster and faster, delightful warm sensations spreading through him. Finally. The burning is no longer in his back or mind; it's right there around his erection, flames licking all around it.

He wants to be able to join you there, so badly. He wants to discover the tone of your bare skin in those places you never show to anyone. He wants to whisper sweet things in your ear and you to sigh back, your voice high and softly shaking from pleasure. He wants the lewd intimacy, the shared tension and the electric, exciting touch of two foreign skins discovering each other for the first time. He wants to see your hardening nipples he can only have a glimpse of through the fabric. 

He wants to have you, to take you, consume you, all to himself. He wants you to think about him the same way he is now, wants you to come while thinking of him, only him, your mouth to moan, whimper, scream even, all thanks to him. 

He wants your hand instead of his, around his cock right now, pressing harder, moving faster.

Yes, yes, jus’ a bit more darlin’… -

A movement from you, a real one, makes his pace slow down and his heart stops, afraid you might have by some sort of divine knowledge understood what was happening. But you’re just shifting in your bed, positioning yourself on your belly with your book open against your pillow, and Arthur’s balls spasm; he now has the most perfect view of your ass, its gorgeous, decadent round and plumped contour making his member twitch in his fist.

Ahh, shit… So god damn perfect… 

Pearls of sweat leak from his forehead to his neck. His ears shut close to the outside world, his surroundings completely disappearing. Now, there’s only you and your perfect back beautifully arched ending with your perfect bottom and him, and no one else’s on Earth. His breath is jerky, his entire face completely crimson, his fingers pumping so hard and fast he’s basically fucking his hand —your hand, with those wet and unmistakable noises filling the air.

His breath speeds up as Arthur feels his deliverance coming, blood rushing in his veins. He sees himself behind you grabbing fistfuls of your cheeks, he sees his erection diving deep between them. And it's the last straw. His brows are crunched in an exquisite expression of pure sexual delight, jaws so tensed he’s about to break his teeth, your pleasure-filled voice screaming his name in his head, dragging every sensation out of him. His orgasm hit him with the strength and speed of a thunderstorm, lightning bolts of satisfaction striking every fiber of his body.

 Yes! Yesss  —Damnit! 

He comes hard with a low and throaty growl he forgot to —or couldn't repress, silently repeating your name again and again, his lower lip almost cut open from how hard he had bit himself, an enormous vein on his forehead where sweat covers his skin. His thick, hot cum spills messily in an indecently large amount, the aftermath of having held himself back for so long, leaking on his pants and fingers and staining his cot; a dash of white contrasting with the darkness of what he just did.

He’s praying to the Lord and the Devil, any mystical forces known to man, that nobody had heard his final relief sound, especially not you. It was louder than what he would like to admit.

Shit, so damn good…

Using his black bandana, he roughly cleans himself then tosses it somewhere on the floor, his cock finally softening as he shoves it back under his clothes, balls empty. And it feels good. So good a wave of shame and guilt crashes onto him once more. What a pig he was for jerking off while ogling you. What an old bastard he was to mingle you and his filth. But at the same time, he feels like his muscles are thanking him, his restless flesh satisfied, even though he almost hurt himself with how fast he had stroked, lost in his haze.

His bittersweet and contradictory feelings accompanied him as he took a last glance at your tent before drifting off to sleep, his breathing still a bit raspy as if he had run for hours. You had closed your book and taken the candle between your hands to blow on it, the little flame flickering before fading. And then, darkness.

The curtains falling on the stage at the end of this private decadent act.

Eyelids heavy, Arthur knows he will finally sleep tonight.

But he also knows this isn’t the end of his torments at all; the conflicting thoughts paint his mind just as the sun pierces through the dark ebony clouds of a thunderstorm, creating those abruptly dazing shapes and color, pitch black laced with blinding light.

Never in this life or the Other he will forget the form of your naked body, no matter how wicked he feels. Because when it comes to you and only you, Arthur Morgan is, indeed, a very weak man.

Part II

tagging : @a-court-of-valkyries and @zae-heeyyy