#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.

[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.

[imagineannemorgan]

Perhaps I should get back into updating fan fiction which I haven't done in a long time with lack of motivation. I am going to continue Evolution but I feel both this fic and Hot Zone need a rewrite.

[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 🩷☕️

[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

✦ 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

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.

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

[attapullman]

bottle of wine open and re-writing Choose-a-Fic, let's goooooooo!