#omgahgase writes

[omgahgase]

charthur headcanons bc i miss them and i need to scream into the void

the first time they ever kissed, arthur totally swerved and kissed charles' scar instead bc, and charles still swoons about this years later, "i've been wantin' to do that for so long."

arthur actually learns how to braid charles' hair and it was such an intimate moment between them bc hair is so important to charles and his native heritage. so even just allowing arthur to TOUCH his hair is such a big step in their relationship. it means he trusts arthur, he wants to share everything with him, even the parts that he's just now starting to claim as his own.

charles loves to cook. and arthur hunts (even if he claims that "you're a better hunter than me, darlin'. lemme cook you something real nice.") but charles absolutely REFUSES to let that man anywhere near a fire and food bc he always burns it. charles loves him, but not enough to stomach arthur's burnt pork.

arthur draws him. constantly. when charles is sleeping, when he's crafting, when he's with the horses. arthur sees him, realizes that charles' beauty is magnificent and his little squirrel brain can only latch onto the soft slope of his nose and the plump of his lips so long until his fingers are flying across paper and his journal is full of charles' features.

the gang had bets on when they'd get together and who'd make the first move. karen won the pot (she knew arthur would crumble eventually), with lenny and javier winning a small pool. meanwhile john had no idea his brother wasn't dating charles already bc "you've been obsessed with him since he first walked into camp."

arthur does not agree, nor does he deny it

[omgahgase]

i've always seen them as the type to see themselves as equals. they never hold back bc, to luke, if he held back for din, then din would see that as weakness. as if luke thinks less of him and decided to take it easy. but luke has never once sparred with him without going all out. he doesn't want to hurt din but he doesn't want to hurt his pride just as much.

din, on the other hand, thrives in battle. this is a new opponent. a new battle strategy and way to study a sentient he's never encountered before. a new challenge he wants to conquer. he sees luke and wants to go all out. he knows luke can take it, not bc he's proven himself by blowing up the death star and leaving the same room as the emperor and darth freakin' vader himself as the only one alive. he knows luke is strong and a worthy opponent bc luke sees the same challenge in din. to each other, they're different but also one in the same bc they take one look at each other and immediately think, "oh, this'll be fun!"

and when they actually spar? they go for the kill each time bc they know the other will stop it. luke could have his saber centimeters away from din's unprotected, beskar-less neck, but din is stronger. he's holding luke back just by the strength in his arms alone and they both absolutely love it. the feel of an almost kill is surging through both of them and they're both grinning like maniacs. either of them could die, and they both know it, but they're having fun bc they know it.

idk man, i guess what i'm trying to say in this long winded spiel is that both luke and din have never seen each other as weaker than the other and they respect each other too much to not fight for their lives each time

what are your fave headcanons for dinluke sparring??

I think they would kind of overdo it and it would end up seemingly like a real fight with real stakes until one of them either gets hurt or pulls back. and whichever it is both of them would still be like damn...that was pretty hot and I want more oop

[omgahgase]

going off the headcanon list i posted before, i wrote a lil something about arthur kissing charles' scar instead during their first kiss

“Charles,” Arthur says, eyes raking across Charles like he’s scared he’ll disappear if Arthur gets too close. Loves a little too hard because Arthur is a lot of things, but deserving of someone as good as Charles ain’t one of them. He’s terrified, and rightfully so.

But it still ain’t feel wrong.

None of it does. Not the way Arthur fits himself so perfectly into Charles’ space, noses brushing against each other, eyelids sliding close so they can get a feel for this newfound intimacy, lips a phantom of a feeling atop their heated skin, foreheads pressed and hands clutched in clothing. It doesn’t feel wrong for Arthur to catch a glimpse of Charles’ scar as he rubs their cheeks together, scratches his scruff againsts Charles’ as if he’s trying to strike a match, intense and burning the more he does it.

It doesn’t feel wrong as Arthur traces his lips over the streaking pattern of flesh, long time healed but never treated with such desire. Arthur skates his mouth down to the underside of Charles’ jaw, right where it begins, and places a searing kiss to the start of it, makes Charles tilt his head up in a gasp.

The hand screwed tight on Arthur’s back nearly rips a hole in his shirt. “Arthur—please.”

Arthur hums, takes his time in mapping out Charles scar. He uses his lips and kisses up the line until he reaches the end, licks at the uneven ridges of haphazardly mended flesh, tasting the sweat of the day and the chill of the nightair that lays over Charles like a sheet, makes him shiver in Arthur’s arms.

to be finished later this week, please stay tuned!

[omgahgase]

we never got to see tess call joel "texas" in the show and i think that's such a small detail lost, so just imagine if, one day, joel's texas twang sounds extra strong, maybe he's talking with tommy and they both let their accents come through with ease when they're having a good time.

joel says something that's just so southern and ellie responds with "look at you, texas. spoken like a true cowboy."

and something in joel shakes a little. only tess ever called him that, and ellie doesn't understand the weight behind such a dumb little nickname, but joel—joel grins a small, shaky upturn of his lips, and tells her to shut up. ellie chuckles and tommy chances a quick glance at him, knows that joel is probably taken back to a time after the fall of the world, when he met a brave, spunky woman who made joel feel not so alone anymore when another lonely person eased into his life.

joel sees a lot of tess in ellie, and even if they knew each other for less than a day, he knew tess cared for the kid, even a little. he sees her in the way ellie punches him after a bad joke, in the way she devours anything he makes for dinner because he's a damn good cook and because they're both animals when not fed or watered. joel can hear her laughter in ellie's voice when something exceptionally exciting happens in jackson, when ellie races joel and her and shimmer leave him in the dust beyond the town's walls. joel can especially see tess in ellie's eyes, when she looks at him like he's the only person in the world who truly matters to her. because, to joel, tess was that person—besides tommy, of course.

but now it's ellie. it's all ellie.

tess may be gone, and joel may have made peace with that notion, but joel has never truly forgotten all the small things that made up their relationship. and with ellie around, saying it every five minutes because she thinks it's such a clever little quip, joel knows tess is still there. in that dumb little nickname.

[omgahgase]

nsfw charthur fic - wolf shifter!arthur

i was reading through some old wips for other fandoms and i decided to take a small thing from twt and turn it into a charthur thing bc i'm mentally ill over them. i was also driven to post this by some users who helped me realize that i can post what i want bc what i create is for me. so, thank you. you have beaten away my apprehension with a stick, and now i am DOING THE DANG THING! i'll most likely post this to ao3 after i find an appropriate title that isn't 'charles taking monster cock'

nsfw charthur fic under the cut. content warnings include: monster fucking, knotting, size difference, a dash of mpreg (but not really), and some sweet fluff to top it all off

Fur sprouts along the length of Arthur’s spine, from his nape down to the small of his back, along his arms and his legs and around his jaw. It spreads like moss on a tree, gathering into handfuls and giving Charles something to hold onto, soft like the down from the underside of a duck, sandy brown like the dirt in Flat Iron Lake. Charles grips the hair between his fingers and fits his face into the hot, stuffy section of Arthur's furry neck as he moans a desperate, fervent sound.

Arthur's cock grows three times its size, the thick girth of his length stretching Charles to a startling point, but his strangled cry isn't out of pain more so than surprise. Charles muffles a desperate mewl of a sound into Arthur's neck, humps up into his belly to ease the ache in his ass, smearing wet and sticky across Arthur's hairy lower belly.

Arthur’s fangs start to take shape too, elongating into razor-sharp incisors that could rip Charles’ throat out, but instead, he bares them and grunts, curls his upper lip into a snarl when Charles adjusts and Arthur sinks in deeper. As he shifts, his eyes change from sky blue to a dull grey then, finally, when Charles removes his face from Arthur's shoulder, a striking, stark white, nearly engulfed by his pupils.

He grows, too. Arthur's frame broadens until he towers over Charles, thick and strong, his back hunched like a predator moments away from devouring its prey. His hands and feet lengthen, extending black, blade-like claws from his nails, and, momentarily, something sharp shoots beneath Charles’ chest. When Arthur shifts, his claws leave the most damage. Their last sleeping pad was shredded to unsalvageable repair, but, thankfully, they're not in their tent tonight, so Charles' worry is short-lived.

He knew Arthur needed a night to unwind, to change away from the overbearing hands of camp, and away from Dutch and his endless list of errands he rattles off to Arthur whenever he gets the chance. The gang knows how Arthur gets when he's not allowed to run free after a stressful few days of hunting and taking odd jobs to earn a few measly dollars, of scamming people into pennies and robbing lonesome stagecoaches in the dark of night. Seeing it fit, Charles took it upon himself to do something for him this time to make up for all the things he does for camp. For all the good Arthur does for Charles.

That’s how they found themselves here, a few miles away from camp, in their own secluded piece of wild where Arthur pounced on him mere moments after they dismounted their horses. He pushed Charles onto his back over a soft bed of grass, divested both of them of their clothes, and licked into Charles with an intensity that he’d be able to feel for days. It took only seconds for Arthur to slip inside his lover and let the animal out of the cage, to hand himself over to that other part of him that he tries so desperately to tamper down.

It took time for Arthur to tell him, and it took even longer for Arthur to show him, but now that they're far past the gentle touches and first times, neither of them really cares where this sort of thing takes them.

"Cowboy," Charles calls out around a scream. He tightens his grip on Arthur's shoulders and squeezes thick thighs around his furry middle as a tidal wave of pleasure pulls him beneath the surface until his lungs burn. Arthur picks up pace, then, fucks into him with intent as Charles scrambles for any sort of coherence that goes beyond his cries of, "Yes, that's it, baby! Oh, Arthur!"

It’s not until Charles feels the fat swell of Arthur's knot kissing his entrance does he finally say 'fuck it' and starts babbling, slurring mush mouth words and pleas of Arthur's name.

Arthur whines deep in his chest as he rises to his hunches, his glowing eyes rooted to the large bulge protruding from Charles' stomach, the mound moving as he grinds his hips against the soaking wet valley of Charles' thighs. Charles’ cock bounces between them, untouched and weeping. Pearly white beads at his dark tip, shining in the moonlight seeping through the trees above. Arthur watches, growling, as he takes Charles in his hand and pumps, the entirety of his palm engulfing Charles until only his head peeks over Arthur’s fist. Charles is by no means small, but just the sight of his cock disappearing beneath Arthur’s large hand is enough to make him throw his head back, his back jackknifing off the ground. He squeezes around Arthur’s length and moans a broken sound into the cool air that has Arthur placing a soothing hand on his waist.

"Charles—darlin'. You’re doin' amazin',” he praises, wonderstruck. “You look so pretty like this."

Arthur speaks from within, raspy and throaty, the voice of the ancients. It's echoey and old as if thousands of people are speaking at the same time, all collectively using their voices to create a rumble so intense Charles can feel it in his throat, in his cock, and where he and Arthur are joined.

And when Arthur comes, his knot fits into Charles so easily. He stuffs Charles until he's pumped full and Arthur knows Charles is tight around him, firm and secure.

"You're gonna carry my pups," Arthur rumbles, his fangs dangerously close to Charles' neck. "Gonna get you pregnant, Charles. My Charles. My, big, strong, beautiful Charles.” 

Arthur punctuates his words with a sharp snap of his hips, his clawed hand spreading wide over the expanse of Charles' stomach, over the bulging skin like he's trying to will his words true.

It’s impossible, and both of them know that, but Charles still lets Arthur take him, mumbling dirty promises into his ear like an oath he plans to keep. Charles feels warmth shoot into him, tepid and slick, and he takes it all, winding his arms tight around Arthur's wide shoulders and threading trembling hands through dark fur. He tries in vain to pull him in tighter when they're both already pressed so close together as if he wants to fuse them together entirely.

All it takes is for a fanged tooth to press down on Charles' neck, grazing his tendon for him to come, too, spurting white and sticky up his swollen stomach, his heaving chest. Arthur swoops down to lap at the come spread over Charles' flushed skin, collecting it in his mouth and kissing Charles with fervor.

He doesn't let up until Charles swallows.

And when Arthur's done and he's slowly shifting back, his sanity now under control, he kisses Charles slowly, with a ferocity that's near breathtaking—like he's trying to drink Charles' entire essence, consuming his heart and soul that Charles has already so graciously given to him.

Arthur's knot is still snuggly nestled inside his lover, now smaller than before but continuing its job it was made to do. Charles whimpers a weak, spent mumble of a sound, over-sensitive and tender all over as he moves, getting used to the feeling of the thick sloshing in his lower half. It should be disgusting, the state of himself, but Charles cherishes these shared moments because it’s with Arthur. It’s been years and he still wonders, out of all the people Arthur could’ve chosen, women and men included throwing themselves at him in every town, a creature of the night or not, how he still chose Charles.

And no matter how many times Arthur tells him that—that he's Arthur’s person—Charles will still gawk in disbelief because he'll never understand how he managed to tame someone like him, a man more wild than the wild itself.

Arthur moves atop him, his face now back to normal, no more fur, no more fangs. His eyes are still glowing bright blue, a sign that his knot isn't going down any time soon, so they might as well get comfortable. Charles combs his hands through Arthur's hair, and scratches at the spot behind his ear that sends tingles over his scalp. Arthur bucks his hips on reflex, making Charles cry out, and then he immediately stills, eyes wide.

"Sorry," he mumbles, voice thick.

"Don't be," Charles assures. "You know I can handle it ."

Arthur shakes his head, unconvinced. "I'm hurtin’ you."

"I never tell you to stop," Charles counters, using the remaining strength in his tired body to give Arthur a look.

Arthur ignores him and props himself up on strong arms, eyes roaming over the red lines along Charles' thighs and hips, the raised draw of skin clearly visible in the moonlight. Where the scratches turn angry and crimson, small dollops of warm blood seep out into the brisk breeze, gliding along the length of Charles' wounds. His bite marks aren’t the worst of it, but Arthur still treats them as such, eyes lingering on the teeth-sharp shapes of Arthur’s bite and fangs. 

Arthur's expression turns solemn when he takes a gentle hand and trails a finger across the purpling splotches decorating Charles' body, the marks that will bloom into full bruises by morning.

Charles, not liking the flash of guilt taking root in his lover's eyes, grabs Arthur's face in his warm palms and pulls him down for a kiss.

"I'm fine," Charles says, his tone soft, like how it always is when he gets like this. "You could never hurt me."

“You’re always sayin’ that, but look at ya. You looked like you were mauled.” 

“Because I was,” Charles agrees, easily, because why deny the truth? Charles isn’t a liar, and he’s not going to start acting like one to make Arthur feel better. Arthur needs to know that Charles can handle anything he throws at him, bites, scratches, wounds, and all. 

Charles said he loved him, all parts of him. The good, the bad. The wolf. When Arthur shifted in front of him for the first time, Charles wasn’t scared, nor was he surprised to know that every version of Arthur was beautiful, fur and fangs included. Charles understands that he would do just about anything for Arthur, and that includes braving a few hours of being fucked stupid by a creature in the stories his mom used to tell him to get Charles to behave. Charles never complains, because he never finds an issue with it. Because there isn’t an issue. 

Charles brushes their noses together, swoops in for a second kiss, and bites back a smile when he feels Arthur’s breath stutter. “I’d let you eat me whole if you asked.” 

“I’d never ask that, ever,” Arthur says, serious and weighty as if he thinks Charles is ready to offer himself on a silver platter. 

(He is, but Charles thinks Arthur already knows that.) 

“But if you do, then the answer is yes. It’s always yes.” 

“You’re so strange,” Arthur snorts. “Who’d willingly give themselves to a wolf?” 

Charles thinks about it, then, “Abigail.”  

Arthur chuckles and ducks his head into the cozy spot between Charles’ neck and shoulder. He kisses at the bite marks littering his skin as he says, “That don’t count. She’s crazy.” 

“If she’s crazy enough to be with John, then I’m crazy enough to be with you.” 

Arthur laughs this time, hearty and full and so him that Charles finds himself laughing too, smiling into the soft spot behind Arthur’s ear. He kisses at the birthmark just below his hairline, relishes in the shiver shooting down Arthur’s spine. 

“Try again, darlin’. You ain’t any more crazy than you are foolish.” 

Charles makes a show of thinking over his answer, making Arthur roll his eyes and prop himself atop folded hands over Charles’ chest, looking at him like a curious puppy. 

“Someone who cares about you,” Charles finally says, earnestly, like he’s confessing all over again, but this time with actual words instead of just twisting a fist in Arthur’s handkerchief and planting one on him after a shoot-out. 

Arthur smiles, fitting the shape of his mouth over the indents of his fangs on Charles’ body with gentle lips. “So your way of carin’ for me is lettin’ me eat you?” 

“No,” Charles says, shaking his head and trailing kiss-bitten lips along the rough scruff of Arthrur’s jaw, “it’s giving myself over to you if you asked. But,” he shrugs, “I’ve already done that.” 

“I didn’t ask,” Arthur says it like it’s a wonder and not a true fact. 

“You didn’t need to. I wanted to. I’d give you anything if it means you’ll stay with me.” 

“Now that, Mr. Smith, is a foolish thing to say,” Arthur huffs. “I’d be with you regardless. You don’t gotta give me anythin’. It’s my choice, bein’ with you. There ain’t ever gonna be another person out there for me. And even if there was, they ain’t you.” 

Charles, feeling as if something inside his chest exploded into a supernova, bites back an overwhelming sob and surges forward to kiss him again. They both hum, moving their hands over waists and achy muscles to cup each other’s faces like they think the other might disappear if they didn’t hold on. 

But they won’t. Neither of them will because this is the type of thing that leads them here: loving each other in ways neither really understands but they both accept. They love and they question but most of all, they know that they both want to stay together. For as long the lives they live will allow it. 

“There isn’t anyone out there like you either,” Charles marvels when they separate, watching as Arthur’s bright blue eyes change from striking to something softer, something more delicate than what a man like him would think he’s capable of. “I’d choose you every time. In every life I’ll ever live.” 

Arthur sighs and fits himself cozy between Charles’ thighs and atop his chest. “You think that’s possible?” 

“Yes,” Charles answers because he’s not a liar like that. “Would you still choose me?” 

“Don’t be actin’ dumb now, Charles,” Arthur jokes. “You’re too smart for that.” 

Charles grins into the sharp line of Arthur’s jaw, feeling his lover’s smile stretch wide over his face. 

“If you wanna make me stop, you could always just marry me.” 

Arthur laughs. He laughs and shakes and snorts an ugly, goofy sound into Charles’ chest, his hair a rat’s nest tangle and cheeks flushed to the yards, and Charles thinks he’s never looked more handsome than he does right now. 

“I will not take that as a proposal, not when I’m still inside ya and we’re buck naked in the woods.” 

“But someday?” Charles asks, hopeful in a way he has no control over when they live the lives they have. It’s a silly, foolish little dream that he thinks about more than he wants to admit, and has only voiced a handful of times over the years they’ve been together. It’s frivolous and laughable and he shouldn’t be asking Arthur something so serious so casually. 

But, when Arthur kisses him, when he holds him close and embraces him tight, when he says a breathy little ‘yes’ in between every swipe of his tongue, Charles starts to think it’s not just a silly, foolish dream. 

“Yes,” Arthur says as he kisses him hard and makes love to him soft. 

“Yes,” Arthur says as he rolls them over in their bed of grass, gazes up at Charles like he’s a wonder. 

“Yes,” Arthur says as he leans up into Charles’ space that hasn’t been his own in quite some time now.

Arthur kisses and caresses and repeats the word against Charles’ lips like it’s a fact and not just an agreement. Like it’s an oath he plans to keep. 

[omgahgase]

okay so imagine monsterfucking again but Charles is a vampire and Arthur is a werewolf

i've thought about this more than once,,,MORE THAN ONCE!!! the difference between werewolves and the wolfshifters in my au is that werewolves only change under the full moon and they have absolutely no control over it, while shifters can change at will any time they want, so all i can imagine is vampire!charles needing to feed and arthur always always offers himself up for it, and bc he can shift at will, it's an even more of a hearty serving bc they don't have to wait for the full moon.

shifter!arthur has charles planted pretty on his lap, he's halfway through with his transformation when charles bites him and arthur bucks a near violent snap of his hips upwards, grinds against charles as he feels blood rush into his mouth. arthur whines bc it hurts for only a moment, long enough for him bury his face into charles shoulders, but soon enough he's back to fucking into charles with a newfound vigor. something akin to pride blooms in his chest at charles using him to feed. it means he can provide for him, care for him when he needs it, and arthur sees this as the wonder it is.

strong, beautiful charles needs him. arthur will do just about anything charles asks of him, but this is by far his most important contribution. charles can suck him dry and arthur would thank him.

he fucks with that in mind, the idea that this entire night is for charles, to replenish his strength. arthur doesn't let charles do anything but eat. he guides charles' hips in deep rolls, lifts him up and down on his cock and relishes in the way charles moans a dirty sound into his neck. blood coats his fur and drips down his back, and when charles lets up for air there's crimson smeared all over his mouth, dribbling along the long column of his throat.

when charles smiles at him in thanks, his fangs glint in the moonlight, his red eyes mesmerizing, and arthur feels woozy just looking at him, so breathtakingly beautiful and dangerous like the devil. his hair is an inky black waterfall over his shoulders and around his face as he throws his head back and rides arthur likes it's his job.

short words of praise is whispered into charles ear when arthur picks up the pace and fucks charles until all he can say is arthur's name. when he shifts, he's bigger, thicker, so it's easy to place large hands around his waist, his fingers barely touching, and slams charles down until arthur can see himself move beneath his belly.

it's filthy and overwhelming and by the time charles has had enough to eat, he's full of blood, come, and cock, and arthur preens under the droopy, satisfied grin of charles' red lips. a soft spoken "thank you" falls between them, and arthur kisses the words back into him, shows his own thanks

"thank you for trusting me," it says, and charles understands it perfectly

[omgahgase]

ok but do y'all ever think about how arthur must've felt when charles asked him to brush his hair for the first time?

like, in charles' culture, hair is a part of their more than just their body, it's a connection to their people, to their tribe and the relationships deeply rooted in love and care for each other. by asking arthur to brush his hair, gently putting the wild boar bristle brush in his hand, and turning around in their shared tent, facing his back to arthur—his hair and vulnerability, his sense of self—it must've been overwhelming to both of them.

for arthur, it meant taking care of a part of charles that charles has never let anyone touch. the last person to brush and braid his hair was his mother, then no one else after that. until arthur. his movements are careful, soft in the way a spring breeze flows through a field of flowers in the mountains, loving in the way they love each other. slowly, then with everything they've got. if arthur has to stop his hand from shaking time to time because he's so happy, so grateful to have shared this moment with his lover, then charles never notices. and if he does, then he never speaks on it.

for charles, it's such a large step in their relationship. he's giving arthur a part of himself that he's always kept close, never allowing anyone to step too close, never letting anyone touch something that charles treasures with his whole being. it's like he's handing over his heart, and arthur is nothing but eager to care for it.

idk man i just think about this a lot and it makes me feel things

[omgahgase]

oh what's that? the voices in my head are telling me to share another snippet of the charthur thing that's consumed my every waking moment since i started it? are we sure? oh, okay. i guess so.

nsfw (nothing too serious atm, just lots of touching) charthur thing under the cut!!

He fumbles first, fingers going faster than his brain as he slides his suspenders off and unbuttons until his shirt is loose enough to tug over his head. Charles is already bare when Arthur throws his top somewhere to the side, chest plump and heaving with the effort to keep his fidgeting hands under control. Arthur’s heart stops before it speeds as he looks upon him like he’s a fresh drink of water and Arthur’s dying of thirst, stares so unabashedly because he’s allowed, because Charles trusts him. Arthur chokes on a wordless sound when Charles looks up under long eyelashes, the unsaid ‘Can I?’ drifting around their tent until Charles reaches forward, circles his wrists with warm fingers, pulling him forward to splay Arthur’s hands wide over his stomach, flattening them beneath the pressure of his own palm.

“It’s okay,” he says, voice so lovely and eyes so pretty and smile so heartachingly sweet that Arthur, again, wonders how someone so good ended up tangling with him.

It sounds like a start to something that’ll hurt, but Arthur knows Charles, knows how he cares and knows that if it does end with shattered hearts and tear-streaked cheeks, it would’ve been worth it all the same. He’d do it all over again if it was possible, love Charles for a year, make love to him for a day, then mourn a love for the rest of his life. If their time together has a limit because men like Arthur don’t deserve men like Charles, then Arthur will treasure every moment spent together in a space he made theirs because that’s all Arthur ever wants to do. He wants to love Charles for the rest of his life, well into the next, and if he gets hurt in the wondrous journey of loving something untouchable for a man like him, then that’s his choice to make.

‘Oh, Charles. It would be my pleasure to have my heart broken by you.’

“Arthur,” Charles says, reeling him back by a simple call of his name. As if Arthur would ever stray far enough for him not to come back so easily. “You with me, cowboy?”

Arthur nods, swallows the dryness in his throat. “Yeah. I’m here.”

Charles hums, presses Arthur’s hands over the swell of his belly. “Then touch me, Arthur. It’s okay.”

[omgahgase]

now listen, listen here. i just know deep down in my bone marrows that the twins have had more than one conversation about their boyfriends choice of ships.

leia has told han time and time again that he can't keep replacing and moving and relying on pure luck for the falcon to even start let alone fly. he either needs to get professional help that she's all but willing to provide for, or he needs to get a new ship.

(that last bit is just a threat, a scare tactic, if you will. she knows how much the falcon means to han. leia would never forcefully make him part with his first love.)

now, luke and din? they're different. and that's only bc luke is as sentimental as din and will do everything in his power to fix that bag of bolts. scrounge shady sellers for spare parts? luke is on it. help peli with repairs even if luke is up all night to do it? he has a canteen of caf ready to keep him awake. luke will do, buy, fix, whatever the razor crest needs bc it's din's home, no matter if it's not his first or his current one. it's the first ship he bought after a successful bounty, it's where he raised grogu, where he took luke to see the stars when he was just a kid on tatooine, a bright eyed farm boy hungry for the reckless and the unknown.

luke is dearly attached to that ship just as much as din and grogu are, and he's going to make sure it flies for another day.

[omgahgase]

these are the type of photos luke would post once him and din start dating, make it public but still private.

and since his friends and family don't know who din is, luke uses this time to fuck with them, to paint din as this mysterious, sexy somebody who always has luke's comments filled with confused "???HELLO??? WHO'S THAT?" and a bombardment of questions as to how Gay Disaster Luke Skywalker scored him, so that no one would suspect this guy to be the dorky, shy dad to luke's favorite student

[omgahgase]

modern setting where every once in awhile, luke drags leia into doing a tiktok video with him and every time, leia refuses to post it, saying it's embarrassing and that "they better stay in your drafts or else i will get violent."

luke obeys because, hello? leia doesn't threaten, she promises, and luke, blessed with his mother's brains (thank god), isn't dumb enough to go against her, no matter how many views their blindfolded dance challenge might get. luke thinks they may hit a million or two for their in perfect sync dougie, but with leia's words hanging over his head, luke begrudgingly sends the video to his drafts.

this time, however, is different because luke also dragged han into it and now both his sister and her boyfriend are standing in front of the phone camera. luke tells them it's a new trend, that they only have to follow along with the lyrics and do nothing else, simple as that.

only, apparently han didn't get it quick enough because when luke's phone blasts "fellas grab your lady if your lady fine" han stayed still, awkward and unsure of what to do, and resulting in leia getting him good in the arm because "why didn't you grab me?"

"did the song tell me to???"

"yes!"

din, on the other hand, understood perfectly. maybe a little perfectly because he sprang up from where he was watching from the couch, thinking it's a rehearsal before the real thing, and football tackled luke to the floor, flying in front of the camera and nearly taking it with them.

funnily enough, that's the only video leia ever allowed luke to post and, unfunnily enough, the last one luke will ever post of din because his comment section looked like something straight from a war zone with too many "🥵🥵🥵" and "ME NEXT DADDY" proclamations to be considered just jokes.

[omgahgase]

all for you, all for me

this fic, lovingly titled "writing to get the gears back in place pls lord help me" was a Small Thing that turned into a Big Thing, and now it's ready to be unleased into the vast void of tumblr's charthur truthers. i'll post on ao3 with a proper summery and tags next, but for now, take this and give me head pats bc i think i deserve it.

nsfw charthur fic under the cut:

Charles brains himself on the coach's roof real good, and Arthur has the gall to tell him to shut up.  

“You’re a heartless bastard, do you know that?” He asks, growling into Arthur’s hair as he rolls his hips forward, humps into the sticky warmth of Arthur’s abdomen and smears wet across the lower part of his belly. 

Arthur chuckles underneath him, nipping at the meat of Charles’ chest to make a point. He has Charles crying out into the humidity of the night air, mouth occupied with suckling a dark nipple into his mouth but still seeming to say, ‘And what? You’re the fool for stayin’ with me.’ 

And as Charles spreads his knees wider over Arthur’s thick thighs, sinking into the pair of fingers stretching him open like a two-dollar whore, he thinks, ‘I really am a fool.’ He’s a fool for pawing at Arthur’s face and dragging him upwards, kissing him like a man deprived and moaning a hungry, desperate cry of a sound. He’s a fool for carding shaky fingers through Arthur’s greasy hair that he hasn’t washed in days all the while Arthur licks into the hot branding of Charles’ mouth, whispers sweet words between violent swipes of his tongue that Charles can’t hear over the loud roar of blood pumping hot in his ears. And he’s a fool for loving such a heartless, mean, bastard of a man. 

Arthur’s free hand wraps hot and slick around Charles’ cock, pumps him through the vehement shake of his body when the two clever fingers inside his twitching hole turn into three. “I missed you, darlin’. Thought about you every day I was gone.” 

“Yeah,” Charles bites back, maybe with a little more heat than he intended. “Gone for almost a whole month, Arthur. No goodbye. No letter. You just got up and left me.”  

“I didn’t leave you,” Arthur defends. Charles feels the hard lines of Arthur’s frown deepen across his lips, the way they pull down and wrinkle. “Dutch sent me out on a job. I didn’t know it’d take a month.”

Charles huffs, and kisses along Arthur’s scruff until the burn of his facial hair itches along the curve of Charles’ mouth, a secondary sting to the truth Charles was too stubborn to acknowledge. It’s embarrassing, even though Charles doesn’t and will likely never admit it out loud, that Arthur’s words—a mantra in his own mind, the ‘I didn’t leave you,’ it says, in reply to every, ‘He left,’ like a correction—soothes over the piping hot lava pit of doubt that engulfed Charles the very first morning he realized Arthur was gone. The day after they had their first real argument that left both of them rattled, the harsh words still floating around in the shallow banks of Charles’ mind that were easily fished up by even the smallest of reminders. 

Arthur said he hates how Charles bottles up his emotions and refuses to talk, pushing everyone and everything and Arthur away until Charles is alone and angry because that’s how he gets when he can’t man up. When he can’t think of anyone but himself. Charles, taking Arthur’s insults to heart because it’s difficult to break out of self-isolation when you’ve been by yourself for longer than you’ve been alive, said he can’t stand how Arthur comes back to camp beaten and bloody, bruised all over from a small ‘errand’ Dutch told him to do—that Arthur’s loyalty would get him killed one day if he’s not careful, and that Charles will not be there to bury another loved one if he can help it. Arthur, with eyes darker than the deepest oceans, asked if it would be better if he never came back at all and Charles was quick to answer yes. 

Their little shouting match ended with Charles stomping down to the river below Horseshoe Overlook and Arthur taking Rouge out for a long ride. Neither saw the other before nightfall and by the time Charles awoke the next day and brewed some shitty coffee as a peace offering, Arthur was gone. No one in camp knew where he went, Dutch’s lips sealed tighter than a national bank’s safe, and Charles spent the worse half of their month-long separation wondering when Arthur would come back. And when he did, would he come back to Charles? After all he said? 

His thoughts were proven to be false, it turns out, because while Charles was out on night watch, Arthur, eager and a little wild-eyed, rode up on an equally unruly horse and dragged Charles to their newest stagecoach, freshly robbed from a rich prick by Sean, Javier, and John. That’s how they ended up here, with Charles’ button-up ripped open and hanging by the crease of his elbows, his pants haphazardly discarded somewhere in the cab, his braid loose and falling out from the way Arthur manhandled him into his lap. Arthur’s cock is free from the confinements of his fly and leaking a steady stream of pre over his dirty jeans, his fingers knuckle deep in his lover, both of them kissing apologies into each other’s flushed skins because neither have the coherence to say it out loud. 

A cool, pearly bead of sweat rolls down Charles’ spine, melting somewhere down the line of his shirt.

“Arthur,” he calls out in that tone of voice, the one he uses when he wants Arthur to know that he’s ready, when Arthur’s fingers aren’t enough and Charles needs him inside now. 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I gotcha.” Arthur kisses his jaw as he pulls out his fingers and blindly searches for his jar of salve, his other hand keeping Charles steady with a bruising grip on his side. 

Charles is impatient as Arthur readies himself, rolling his hips across the tight muscles of Arthur’s thighs, lifts up and down on his knees because he’s waiting and Arthur is nothing but an infuriating man because he’s taking his sweet time. 

“Arthur, c’mon.” 

“Easy. I’m here, Charles. I’m right here.” Arthur pats Charles’ hip, guides the wet crown of his cock to Charles’ puckered hole, and the feeling of Arthur’s head breaching that first ring of resistance has both of them gasping, hands clawing at sweat-slippery skin.

Charles sinks down down down, legs shaking with the strain of holding himself back from saying fuck it and slamming himself on Arthur’s cock. Taking it easy be damned. He went a full month with nothing but his hands to satisfy him, his own fingers holding no torch to the way Arthur’s cock stretches him wide, how Charles takes him in so deeply he can feel his cock in his throat. 

When he’s fully seated, the heat of Arthur warming Charles from the inside out, Charles throws his head back, rocks into the feel of him, and grins into the stifling, shuttered air of their cab. He slides up and grinds back down in that way he knows will rub the fat head of Arthur’s cock perfectly against his bundle of nerves, his own cock dribbling a thick pearl of come over Arthur’s stomach. He doesn’t bother to muffle his moan when Arthur bucks into him, his hands pulling Charles down hard on the downstroke. 

They’re alone, anyway. Far off from the camp in their little bubble. Just the way they like it. 

“You’re gorgeous, darlin’,” Arthur groans. “So pretty, ridin’ me like this. I missed it—missed you.” 

Charles chokes on a moan, the end clipping off into a dry sob when Arthur hits him spot on. “Missed you too, Arthur. Fuck—I missed you so much, you bastard.” 

Charles arches his back and hisses when Arthur’s blunt nails dig into the meat of his hips, leaving crescent-shaped marks on his skin. Arthur bites at his shoulder, digs his teeth into flesh hard enough for Charles to cry out, and buries his fingers at the downy soft hair of his neck, holds him there as he humps and rides, as he grinds down hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. Arthur gives and bites and scratches until Charles feels tender like a bruise, thrusting up into him with enough force to shake the cab off its wheels and make Charles clutch at the bulging strain of his shoulders, holding on like a lifeline. 

He’s being rough tonight, has been since he twisted a fist into Charles’ button-up and hauled him into the coach, threw him down on the velvet seats and stripped his bottom half bare, grabbed his cock in a vice-like grip and stroked him to his first orgasm. It’s like Arthur can’t stop himself from feeling the intensity of it all, savoring the closeness, the intimacy of Charles’ body, and the way they fit together perfectly, somehow, despite every difference. Like how they always do. 

Arthur is a bastard of a man for leaving without telling Charles, and Charles should still be angry with him, still wants to strike his knuckles against Arthur’s jaw the same way his words cracked something deep in Charles’ chest, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t because he’s a fool in love and he’s missed this bastard—his bastard. 

So Charles will let Arthur do what he wants and Charles will return Arthur’s affection in plenty. It’s how they work, it seems. Arthur loves loud, biting at flesh and clawing at taunt muscles, poking at wounds until he can patch them up with the same hands that made them. Charles’ affinity is more that of rolling rain clouds, plump and full with a storm ready to unleash across a lone prairie, washing up dried rivers and wetlands until a flood erupts and sweeps everything away. 

Neither of them knows how to love like those happy couples they see in towns, with gentle hands clasped together and soft-spoken words shared between sweet kisses. And Charles thinks that’s okay for neither of them holds that gentleness that makes up a ‘happy couple.’ They’re two hardened men crafted by the sins of a youth stolen too early, melded by the life of a gang, and fused together from the shared highs and lows of trying to survive a blood-soaked world that doesn’t have any room for men like them. They’re not good, nor bad, but merely suspended somewhere above the middle ground, dangling over the idea of normalcy, of the arguments that lead to silence. The longing that leads to loving. 

They’re not normal or always happy, but they’re together. And, when Charles thinks about it, when he’s reminded that Arthur will always come back because he’s stubborn like that, always aiming to beat away the apprehensive thoughts of Charles’ frustration with rough kisses and bruising grips, he likes it better this way. Their way. 

Charles skates hot hands over the dipping valleys of Arthur’s chest, and tweaks a rosy nipple before tracing the lines of his abdomen, softened by the layer of pudge over hard muscle. His nails drag through the forest of hair leading down to his navel, to the bush of his base where Charles swallows him whole with ease, the slick of their lovemaking matting down his wiry curls. Arthur moans a loud, untamed sound when Charles clenches around him, when he slides up a slow, long drag just to slam back down. 

“Do you know how hard it was to be away?” Arthur asks suddenly, his face full of flush and hands heavy with the fat of Charles’ bottom. He squeezes a cheek in each palm just to spread them apart, fucking harder into the wet heat of him. “How I spent almost every night fuckin’ my fist, pretendin’ it was you? I was in agony, Charles. It took everythin’ I had in me not to turn around and come home to you.”

Charles whines, and leans forward into Arthur’s space so he can bounce backward. The draw of Arthur’s cock is a glorious slide of friction, Charles can feel every vein throb against his walls, can count every twitch and jump with every grind. His thighs burn with the type of ache he’ll embrace in the morning when Arthur fucks the exhaustion out of him before the bustle of camp awakes with the sun. 

“I think this way is better,” he manages around a moan. “You know what they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder.” 

Arthur chuckles into Charles’ neck and places a kiss on the underside of his jaw, right where his pulse sings against his lips. “My heart hurts when I’m not with you, darlin’. Feels worse than a bullet. But at least a bullet hole closes up over time. My heart bled until I rode up this road and saw you standin’ under that tree.”

Charles’ breath hitches, his eyes prickle. He wraps his arms around Arthur’s neck, hides his face into the side of his scruff as he wriggles and rides, tries to take as much of Arthur as he can because he’s longed for this for weeks, to finally feel his man in a way only lovers do with greedy hands and welcoming lips. 

“Mine too,” Charles sobs. He kisses Arthur fiercely and loses himself in the red-hot acceptance of his mouth. “You bastard, you left and took my heart with you. What kind of man does that?” 

“Not one deservin’ of someone like you,” is Arthur’s breathless reply. Then, “You could’ve done the same thing. You could’ve told me to kick me to rocks and I would’ve. If you ever want me to leave you for good—”

“I don’t,” Charles growls, annoyed that Arthur would even suggest something as ludicrous as that. “You’re with me, Arthur Morgan. Wherever you go, I expect you to come back to me.” 

Arthur’s arms come up and tighten around Charles’ waist, pulling him firmly to his chest like how he did when he jumped off his horse and drew Charles against him with the desperation of a man starved. 

“I will,” he whispers against Charles’ lips. “Always back to you.” 

And Charles believes him, knows his words are true because Arthur is a lot of things but a liar isn’t one of them. It’s maddening to be wanted like this, to love fiercely and be loved in return. It makes Charles dizzy to have his adoration reflected back at him with such beloved intensity. It makes him weak, all the way up his spine and down his calves, makes him cry into Arthur’s neck with the ferocity of it all. 

“Charles. Sweetheart,” Arthur murmurs, using the hold he has on Charles to keep him still, cradling him into the embrace of a hug long awaited. Rough hands slide down the smooth of Charles’ back, over the dips and curves of his shoulders and arms, lips brushing along the submission of his mouth. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.” 

It doesn’t take long for Arthur to fuck up into him, slouching into the seats and dragging Charles down with him, feeling Charles’ eyes overspill and his heart tremble with a love only found in storybooks before taking control with all the self-assurance in the world. 

There are no other words for the overwhelming feeling that shoots up Charles’ spine and settles behind his teeth when Arthur fucks into him with intent, as Arthur offers himself on a silver platter because he may be loyal to Dutch and the gang, but he’ll always, always leave his faithfulness in Charles’ open palms, providing him with nothing less than everything he has. His cock sinks into the sucking heat of him with effortless fervor, the loud slap of skin echoing in the cab and accompanying the rickety protests of squeaky wheels as Arthur ruts up and grinds, makes Charles drool with the indescribable way it’s all so good.  

Arthur guides Charles’ hips downward at the same time he thrusts up, whimpering into Charles’ neck and fucking into his warmth with an exigency only achievable by the mush-mouth praise falling from Charles’ mouth. Charles doesn’t even know if his words are coherent let alone in English, the way Arthur hammers at his insides has him losing all sense of awareness, makes him cock-dumb and malleable. 

“That’s it, baby—fuck me like this—oh, Arthur—” Charles babbles, lost in the intense ferocity of Arthur’s touch. His cock bobs helplessly between them, drooling and hot, before Arthur draws Charles into his palm like there are magnets embedded under his skin, squeezes him on the upstroke and makes Charles moan a sound so whorish he feels shameful heat gather in his cheeks. “Fuck! So good, cowboy—don’t stop, just like that. All for me—give it to me, Arthur—please.” 

“Yeah, sweetheart,” Arthur purs, stroking him with a wildness Charles has only ever seen him wear during a shootout, when he’s cornered and there’s no way out but forward. “You gonna come for me, big man? C’mon, I know you can do it, baby. You’re so good for me, my Charles. My big, beautiful, Charles.” 

“Arthur,” Charles whines, lips skimming over the flushed skin of Arthur’s cheek. Large tears stream down his face at the sweet words, the ache in his lower back and ass, the pleasure that washes over him like a wave and pulls him under its blinding depths. 

He comes like a bolt from the blue, spurting over Arthur’s fist in long, white strands, over Arthur’s belly and his black button-up. Stars shoot across his vision as his orgasm rocks through him like a supernova, making Charles cry out into the dark only to be muffled by Arthur’s lips finding his, kissing him like it’s the only thing he ever wants to do. 

“That’s it, darlin’,” Arthur says against Charles’ spit-slick mouth, grinning into the mewl he draws out with his tongue. “Oh, you’re gorgeous like this. My Charles. All for me.” 

“You too,” Charles gasps, barely registering how Arthur tears his shirt from his arms and arms to claw down sweat-damp skin, digging nails into muscle as he chases his own release, fucks him harder because that’s what Charles wants. “Inside, Arthur. Need you to fill me up—need to feel you.” 

“Oh, Charles,” he chokes, eyes going wide and feverish. He kisses at the tears streaming down Charles’ face in fat, far-apart drops, licks at the salt on his jaw. “Anythin’, baby. Fuck, Charles, take it all. It’s all for you.” 

And Arthur, with the benevolence of a man whose loyalty led him to this type of thing, loving Charles hard and making love to him soft, gives it his all. All for Charles to take and take and take. He comes with Charles’ name falling from his lips, his hips bucking like a pissed-off bull in a pasture. And Charles holds him through it, murmurs his thanks as he feels Arthur paint his insides, spilling hot and full where Charles will be able to feel him for ages. 

When they’re done, when Charles milks the last spurt of come into his greedy hole and Arthur slumps into the coach's ruined seats, exhaustion finally seeping into their weary bones, they indulge. Arthur hooks his hands under the fleshy crooks of Charles’ knees and draws him up to fit tight against his chest before gliding his hands over the bare curve of his waist, pulling him closer as if he wants to mend them together. Charles drags his fingers through Arthur’s sweat-soaked hair, kisses at his scruff as he leans into the sticky mess of their coupling. His cock is rubbed raw against Arthur’s stomach, thighs shaking with the hurt spider crawling up his lower back, settling somewhere above his ass where he’ll complain about it later.

For now, noses are buried into necks, lips skim over bitten skin, and no words are exchanged save for the whispered ‘You okay?’ that Charles acknowledges with a heavy grunt, a flimsy fist thumped heavily across Arthur’s back. Arthur takes that as an ‘I’m alive’ and settles into the warmth of Charles’ body. 

Neither of them knows how long they sit there, nor do either of them want to move, but Rouge rustles outside the stagecoach and pulls them out of their little bubble, makes them share a gentle brush of lips before parting. Charles relishes in the slow, careful drag of Arthur’s spent cock flopping out of his hole as he rolls to the side, the slick, squelchy feeling of come dripping between his cheeks and down his thighs and onto the stagecoaches seats. 

It’s like a slow motion picture in Charles’ eyes, how Arthur watches stark white streak over his brown skin, his gaze blazing hotter than a bonfire, then, in that moment, Charles is unprepared for the unrelenting grip on his hips. Arthur maneuvers Charles with placate hands and gracious fingers until he’s spread over the velvet seat, thighs open wide for Arthur to kneel in between them like a man bending to pray. Charles can barely protest his oversensitivity before Arthur’s mouth is on him, licking at the tender inside of his thighs before he sucks at the wet give of his hole. Weak hands push at Arthur’s head, shoving him down until the entirety of his mouth encloses over Charles and he drinks him like a man sipping water from the finest gardens of Eden, tongue lapping at Charles’ puffy insides. 

A second orgasm draws up tight through Charles’ belly in seconds and releases in meek, milk ropes. Arthur is quick to lick a rough swipe of his tongue over Charles’ balls and up his length, gathers it thick on his tongue, suckles Charles’ crown until his mouth is full and he’s climbing upwards, grabbing Charles’ jaw and tilting his head back. Something fierce strikes through Charles’ chest as he obeys the silent command to part his lips, rolling his tongue forward, and Arthur, moonstruck, spits their shared spunk into his mouth. 

It’s wet and lewd, dirty like a fling in the grim of a back alley, but Charles welcomes it all the same and rakes his hand through Arhtur’s hair to drag him down into a filthy kiss. 

“Didn’t have a rag in that bag of yours?” Charles asks when they break away, licking at the come shining in the corner of Arthur’s mouth. He doesn’t know who it belongs to, but it goes uncaring nonetheless. 

Arthur grunts, straightens up with a playful pat to Charles’ spread thighs. “Where’s the fun in that, Charles? I don’t hear you complain.”

Because Charles won’t, not when it has Arthur on his knees and worshiping Charles like a deity. 

Charles pokes dried streaks on Arthur’s front, the obvious stains that he’ll have to hide from Mrs. Grimshaw when she does the laundry. “Just an idea for next time.” 

Arthur hums his acknowledgment as he hands Charles his pants and shirt, watching the strain in Charles’ legs and shoulders as he dresses himself. He doesn’t make it easy, though, always sneaking kisses over any strip of exposed skin, biting anywhere he can mark before the evidence of their reunion is concealed from the curious eyes of camp. 

They clean up the best they can, Arthur using water from his canteen to wash away the crusty come on the seats and his abdomen, and Charles vowing to never tell a soul about what conspired within these four walls. If, for some crazed reason, someone enters the coach and notices the scratch marks on the roof, the rips in the backrest, and the uneven lay of the curtains, then Charles will feign innocence. Blame the damage on a family of raccoons searching for shelter in the night. 

“I’ll walk you back,” Arthur says when they climb down the two-step stairs, clothes rumpled and stained with their hair in all kinds of arrays. Purple bruises petals on his neck when the moonlight catches him just right, and Charles feels something akin to pride bloom hot behind his ribs, has his teeth aching to sink into tender flesh all over again. 

“I don’t need an escort,” Charles says, straightening his shirt that’s now missing three buttons. Hopefully, Karen won’t ask questions as to why Charles needs a repair done in the morning. “I can walk back by myself.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Arthur agrees simply. Because he does. “Can’t I just walk ya? Y’know, be a gentleman. The kind that's all chivalrous and shit for his lover. Like those big hot-shots in them fancy films.”

Charles laughs, endeared. He picks up Arthur’s hat that fell in their frantic tumble from the main road to the stagecoach and dusts off the sides before planting it haphazardly over Arthur’s eyes, grinning like a fool in love. Which he is. 

He also steals a kiss, just because he can. “You, Arthur Morgan, are the farthest thing from a gentleman.”

Arthur loops an arm around Charles’ waist, pulls in him until they’re chest to chest and Charles has to look up just a scant to catch his eyes because Arthur is a bastard of a man with two inches on him, and that pisses Charles off because what do you mean he’s taller? It doesn’t help that Arthur’s also older than him by seven years, but to have height as well as age over Charles? No, unacceptable. Charles screws up his face real tight, whips his head away from Arthur’s twinkling laugh. 

“Aw, don’t give me that look, Charles,” Arthur says, pressing his lips to the prickle of Charles’ jaw, over the lightning strikes of his scar. “If I ain’t no gentleman, then you’re a fool for keepin’ me around.” 

Charles sighs and drapes his arms over Arthur’s shoulders. “Yeah, I really am.”  

He kisses him, then, slotting their lips together in that way that sends Charles’ heart into a tizzy, whips up something ferocious in his blood that pops and sizzles with every pass of Arthur’s tongue against his teeth. 

“C’mon, cowboy,” Charles says, shaping himself so completely into Arthur’s space that he doesn’t know where he begins and Arthur ends. “Take me home.” 

Arthur nods, presses his lips to Charles’ forehead before he takes his hand and fits their fingers between each other, holds him steady, holds him fast. They trek back to camp with Charles’ shotgun slung over his shoulder and Rouge trotting beside them, all the while Arthur explains what he saw on his travels with boisterous hand movements and hearty laughter, tugging Charles this way and that, kissing him when he finds a chance. 

To anyone else, maybe they do look like a normal couple, like the ones Charles sees in Valentine, all kiss-drunk and happy. With matching rings around their fingers to show for it. Maybe, if they’re brave enough, they can walk into a bustling town with the same comfort they have when they enter Horseshoe Overlook with each other’s hearts held tightly between their palms, with the moon acting as their only witness to Arthur setting Rouge’s reins free before leading Charles to his bunk. 

They’re both too big to fit comfortably on the cot, but they make it work, somehow, draping a large blanket over both their shoulders and scooting back far enough to rest their backs against the wagon’s side, their boots kicked off and everything, from their elbows to their knees, touching. Arthur, as observant as ever, takes notice of his things on his bedside table, untouched and without a speck of dust. He asks if Charles took care of his tent while he was gone, and Charles pretends to not hear him, leaning his head on Arthur’s shoulder and tucking his legs real snug beside him. 

Arthur kisses his hairline and draws him in with a hand on his waist and affection in his voice. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me, Arthur,” Charles mumbles, “just don’t leave for so long next time.” 

Arthur hums, tucks himself real close against Charles like he can’t think of a next time. 

Before they succumb to the gentle hands of sleep, and before Charles registers Lenny cursing him out for switching half an hour early, still groggy and stumbling his way up the road, Charles thinks he doesn’t want to be normal. 

Yes, he wants a house on the lakeside and a husband to welcome him home, he wants the thundering sound of small feet running up and down the halls, screaming at a dog chasing them out the house and into the yard where they laugh and tumble in the grass. The life of the star-spangled American dream. He wants to hold Arthur’s hand during dinner at a restaurant and kiss him under the blinking lights of Saint Denis, love him in public without a care in the world because it’s normal. 

They’re not normal, however, and that’s fine with Charles. To be normal is to be accepted, and they’re not, the gang and them. They’re sunbaked and white-knuckled, hardened around their jagged edges and the sharp glints of their guns, the bullet-shaped holes and star-marked wounds of their skins. They argue and they fight, Arthur and him, they say harsh words to aggravate because that’s the only way they know how to live: to harm before you hurt. 

They’re not normal, and they’re definitely not always happy, but they’re together, and that’s how they’ll stay. All the time, and all for each other. 

[omgahgase]

idk man but i just picture din as this amazing cook who can whip up an delicious, healthy meals for grogu out of like 3 lame ass ingredients and luke is just never allowed in the kitchen bc he somehow burned water so din told him one day "i'll do all the cooking" and he does. and he's good at it.

but give this man a recipe for a cake or pie? no. absolutely not. he will serve you a blackened brick and think nothing is wrong with it. din's homemade cookies? this man is a mandalorian, he'll make the spiciest space chocolate chip cookies you've ever tasted. and that's if they make it out of the oven edible and not charred. not even grogu can stomach his baked goods. boba, cobb, and fennec have all told him that he's a terrible baker, and din's response is always, "you guys are just picky."

"yeah, vod, i choose to keep my teeth. not chip them on those abominations."

"bo is right—"

"don't call me that."

*chuckles* "bo is taken. call him booba."

"can it, shand."

din just shrugs and plops his horrendous snickerdoodles on the coffee table like they didn't just rattle the entire surface. meanwhile luke is in the kitchen with han saying that he "absolutely baked this bread! i'm capable of it!"

han takes another slice and gives luke an incredulous look, eyebrow arched and overly bushy. "sure, kid."

"i did!

"this is best kirffing bread i've ever had. it tastes like the holy land and carbs had a baby. i don't even believe if there's a holy land, but dank farrik, this bread can take me there."

"han...it's just bread."

and just like that, luke discovers that he can bake like a man mad. whatever he envisions, he can make with ease. cookies, snickerdoodles, cupcakes, pastries. he can bake it without so much as reading the recipe twice and din is flabbergasted.

"how can...how do you do that?"

"do what, my love?"

din waves his hand in a blobby, misshapen circle with luke—and his disaster of a kitchen whipping up some sort of blue macaroon for grogu that din knows comes out perfect every single time—in its center.

luke chuckles and moves around the island to place a floury kiss to his cheek, smearing some left over batter into the scruff of his chin.

"call it a gift."

"is this some sort of...force thing?"

luke laughs again and din hopes he kisses him one last time bc he deserves it for bringing forth such a lovely sound.

"no, it's just a me thing."

din hums, still not 100% convinced it's not luke and his confusing, space wizard magic, offers to help. only, luke shoos him out of the kitchen, brandishing his batter ladened spoon, dripping sticky all over the floor din just cleaned that morning.

"absolutely not. the last time you helped me, you mistook the sugar for garlic powder. chewie threw up, my love. i've never seen chewie throw up.

"...that was one time."

luke pats his cheek with delicate fingers, and if din wasn't already leaning into his touch, he would've griped about the batter trickling down his jaw.

"one time too many. it's fine, i can handle myself in here. now, get going. go on, out of my kitchen."

luke hops up onto his toes to press a fleeting kiss to din's lips and—really, it should be criminal how easily luke can turn off din's brain with one simple touch bc he didn't even notice how he ended up in the living room with both grogu and the family loth-cat trying to lick the drying batter off his face.

[omgahgase]

modern au were obi-wan is the bob ross of the PBS channel and cody tunes in for every episode

i saw a video of bob ross doing his thing on tiktok and my mind immediately conjured up obi-wan as bob ross, thus leading to cody developing a lil super fucking big crush on the pretty painter with a nice voice. i don't really know where i was going with this, but i had fun while doing it, and isn't that the whole point? the fic's under the cut, i hope you enjoy!

it started off as him dabbling in the arts, wanting to learn how to paint landscapes bc, as a nature photographer, he can capture nature's beauty, but he just can't paint it from his mind's eye.

he heard from his brothers about a tv show starring a guy who paints beautifully in simple and easy instructions so cody—thinking it's not possible to fuck it up if even his most creatively challenged kin can do it—can do it as well.

only, cody did fuck up and it's bc the guy who greeted him with a friendly, "hello there," and said that they're going to paint today is super fucking pretty and has the gentlest, most relaxing voice cody has ever heard. he's wearing a simple button up and slacks, his beard is neatly trimmed, and his eyes—dear god his eyes. they're a stunning light blue but under different lighting they shift from green to grey to—is that a mole? cody squints, leans in real close to the tv screen, and he groans. this guy has a beauty mark to the right of his nose, a little ways below his eye and it's so fucking endearing. he even has an accent, one cody can't decipher when his gaze is trained on the painter's—obi-wan's, his mind helpfully remembers—long, elegant fingers. hold a brush, a knife, gesturing in quick, stuttery movements, anything his hands do, cody's eyes follow relentlessly. obi-wan is saying something about happy clouds and reassuring his audience that even if they mess up, it's okay bc it's their world that they're creating so mistakes are happy little accidents and, suddenly, cody doesn't care about his blank canvas. all he wants to do is watch this pretty man with the velvet soft voice speak to him and say that life has its ups and downs but it's still a beautiful thing that cody should be happy to take part in.

and cody is happy, very happy, actually, bc with his new found motivation to watch every single episode, he learns how to paint. he learns newfound patience for himself that he thought he mastered after raising so many of his brothers. hell, he even develops a celebrity crush on obi-wan bc no one has ever spoken to him like that and, despite it being through a screen, cody feels as if he's painting with obi-wan for real, as if he's right next to cody, guiding him through creating trees and oceans out of nothing.

though, after so many weeks of watching, cody's crush stays as stand-still as ever when the person you long to know on a personal level doesn't even know you exist.

cody guesses that's why he books a little trip to the mountains, to take a break from the screen and from painting to go back to his first passion of photography. cody hikes through the shrubbery and finds himself wandering on a cliff looking out across the deep, green valley of forestry and rivers, content to snap as many photos as his camera's memory allows. he breaths in the fresh, crisp air and feels at home amongst the chirping birds, the sounds of shifting earth and rushing water, and for the first time in months, cody allows himself to forget about the pretty painter who so carefully carved himself a place in cody's mind.

(and in cody's heart, but he's not ready to admit how far his crush has gone.)

it's sunset when cody starts descending down the mountain trail and sees an open area overlooking the west. his photo-hungry brain tells him to capture one more picture of the sun's rays, the oranges, reds, and yellows blending into deep, dark purples and blues. he quickly jumps off the trail and makes his way to the opening through the trees, but stops short when he notices a painter, engrossed in his art and the beauty of the sun setting behind a curtain of mountains, facing the spectacle at the perfect angle—the same angle cody was hoping to stand in.

it's fine, though, because after carefully stepping around the painter because cody knows on a deep, personal level how frustrating it is to be interrupted in the middle of your craft, he finds a spot that's just as good as the one he wanted. cody gets his camera out and takes the obligatory photos his brain is telling him to take. After a couple dozen, he feels satisfied with the landscape's outcome, but a louder, more intuitive-feeling voice is saying to snap a photo of the painter.

cody doesn't photograph people, he found that he'd rather take his skills to the outdoors where he feels more comfortable, but now he has a deep, almost painfully knowing need to take at least one picture of the man standing with his back to cody. so cody does. he moves quietly, swiftly hopping over fallen twigs as to not step on one and spook the painter (and ultimately rat himself out in the creepiest way possible). cody has a stunning view of the canvas and it's breathtakingly likelihood of the setting sun and blooming night sky, but the man's face is covered by the collar of his jacket and the beanie sitting low on his head. cody feels a pang of disappointment at not being able capture the man's side profile, but the sun is quickly fading and he's in a race against time to still have enough lightning to showcase the canvas, so he snaps a photo.

then that photo turns into two, then three, and by the fourth one, cody's camera is bursting with shutter sounds that echo across the clearing. but the painter still hasn't noticed him. cody, thanking whoever's looking down on him, is eternally grateful because with how he's crouched behind a tree and pointing his camera directly at him, the painter wouldn't hesitate to call authorities on him at first glance.

with his need quelled, cody decides on one more photo for the road when a merciless gust of wind rips past both of them. the painter's hat floats off his head and he immediately drops his brush to reach for it, collar lowered and face fully exposed in cody's direction and—

"no fucking way," cody whispers.

click!

the fly-away beanie hits cody right in the face and over his camera lens, but he got it. he took a photo of the painter who, in just the few seconds his face was unobstructed, struck a chord of familiarity deep in cody's chest because he looks exactly like the reason why cody decided to escape into the mountains.

frantically, cody ignores the "hey!" called out to him in favor of scrambling behind his hiding place and desperately scrolling through his photos for the last one taken. he mentally curses himself for not changing the default settings and starting from his most recent photo as he fingers through the hundreds of previous ones he took. cody is almost to the bottom with the tiniest sliver of hope a frenzied, erratic thing rattling around in his chest when he hears footsteps getting closer.

he's there, he's almost there, just a little further down and he'll see if it's really—his camera dies. right in his hands.

cody lets out a frustrated, low guttural groan at his luck because of course this happens. he wouldn't have expected anything less when it comes to him because only cody can develop a crush on a man who doesn't know he exists then creepily stalk someone who looks scarily similar to said obtainable man. who's cody kidding? he's hallucinating, for christ's sake. he would've followed an apparition off a cliff if it looked like obi-wan and cody isn't afraid to admit that now.

the footsteps grow in volume until a pair of heavy hiking boots stand right in front of cody, most likely attached to a pair of legs that'll lead up to a man who's seconds away from calling the police.

"excuse me?" he says.

"yeah, yeah," cody waves him off, dejected and uncaring of how rude he might sound. he stands on shaky legs and shoulders his camera, eyes unable to move from his feet. he unclenches the beanie in his hand and dusts off pieces of leaves imbedded in the knitting. "Sorry about that, i'll delete the photos if you want. i know i didn't get your permission and it's super fucking creepy of me to just take photos of you—"

"on the contrary," the man says, "if you were taking photos of me, i'd very much like to see them.

the man has such a familiar accent that it has cody's head shooting straight up because there's no fucking way.

"hello there," obi-wan greets, grinning that sweet, gentle smile he wears during every episode of his show.

"uh—um. h-hi." god, could cody sound anymore stupider?

obi-wan's smile broadens and isn't that something? being on the receiving end of something cody's ever seen through a screen? cody feels like he just ascended.

"would you mind sharing them?" obi-wan asks, pointing to cody's camera. "it's not every day i allow someone to take candids of me, especially by someone as handsome as yourself."

okay, cody must've hit his head on something because the guy he's been crushing for months did not just call him handsome. there's just no fucking way.

"uh—i, um," cody clears his throat and manages not to choke on the embarrassed little stutter of his voice, then says with barely any mind, "yes, i'd like that."

if the sun were to burn out in that instant, then cody believes that the unrestricted smile obi-wan gives him could take it's place. it's bright and so genuine for someone he doesn't know let alone just met, and cody thinks he's undeserving of such a thing.

"wonderful. if you'd let me just pack up my things, then we can walk back together."

"i can help!" cody so foolishly blurts. he flushes, cheeks warming under obi-wan's gaze and...and he really doesn't care anymore. Because obi-wan's laughing and the corners of his eyes are crinkling in that cute way he laughs at himself when he makes a mistake on his canvas, and cody thinks this is the most mortified he's ever felt. but dear god is it worth it. he'll embarrass himself to hell and back if it means obi-wan can giggle like that again.

obi-wan takes him up on his offer and that's how cody finds himself standing stiffly next to him, holding open a briefcase as obi-wan carefully places each tube of paint back into it's labeled home. he handles his equipment with grace, the same way cody handles his cameras, and it strikes it then: that he's actually here. obi-wan is in front of him, talking about his reasonings for trekking out this far from his studio and why he's so particular about the set up of his paint, a fact cody knows from his hours of sitting in front of a screen with or without paint and a canvas, and he's speaking to cody in that soft, gentle tone of his that cody—cody can't make a fool of himself anymore than before, so what's there to lose?

"i watch your show," cody says all in a single breath. obi-wan stops talking, a bit startled from cody's outburst, and raises a curious, bushy eyebrow.

"do you now?"

cody nods because it's the only thing his body knows how to do while under the undivided attention of a pretty man.

"yes, all the time. i-i've seen every episode. and i've even thought of sending in a letter and photo of my paintings but i just—i never did."

obi-wan hums, inquisitive, the sound warming something gentle behind cody's ribs. "why is that?"

cody shrugs. he's not about to admit that if he did then he'd be acknowledging how permeant obi-wan's become in his life, a deeply-rooted thing that cody thinks about every hour of every day and has never felt such strong feelings for despite never meeting in person.

that is, until now.

"didn't get around to it," he says instead. obi-wan takes that as an acceptable answer, though, because as soon as it fully sinks in, he's leveling cody with a hopeful stare so promising that the warmth in cody's chest implodes, nearly caving him from the inside out.

"well, i'd love to see those too, if you'd let me." obi-wan swipes the tip of his tongue across his lower lip in an unsure fidget—an action that cody's eyes greedily devour because how could he not?—then he's speaking with certainty that cody only wishes he could have. "i'm not sure why we're meeting like this, nor do i think it's just a coincidence that my hat decided to leave my head and assault you like that." they share a laugh, a private, little thing that cody's going to treasure forever. "but i feel like—like something is telling me to not let you go."

cody eagerly nods along because he knows. he's felt that exact same stomach-swooping tug the moment obi-wan appeared on his screen with a blank canvas and an open smile, happy to meet someone he can't even see.

"same here," cody agrees. "i feel it too, like there's something leading me to you. a—a sort of—"

"force," obi-wan breathes, eyes shining in the dimming light of the setting sun. "yes, exactly that. i'd like to further understand that feeling, why it's there and what not. and," obi-wan takes the case from cody and steps closer to him, until there's barely a foot's length of space between them. standing this close, with obi-wan looking directly into cody's eyes, cody can see that obi-wan's taller than him by a few inches at most. cody would've never learned that though a screen.

"i'd like to get to know you, too," obi-wan says, voice a velvet soft litany in cody's ears. "if you'd let me that is," he adds as an afterthought as if cody would say no.

as if cody would say anything other than yes.

"i'd like that." he smiles, the corners of his lips stretching side across his face, a mirror imitation of obi-wan's.

the sun has fully descended behind the west mountains by the time cody and obi-wan are finished, everything packed up in the bag that hangs from obi-wan's shoulders. the ground lights on the trail illuminate the path back to the main road and they follow it engaged in conversation about cody's work and obi-wan's humble beginnings, for the tv show and even before his decision to become an artist.

"i wanted to be a singer," he confesses, shyly looking down at his boots as if they're more interesting than the disbelieving look on cody's face.

"you can sing?" obi-wan nods, a cute, little shake of his head and cody's heart soars. "i can play the guitar. and i sing a little, too."

"really?" it's obi-wan's turn to look at him, eager and nothing short of extraordinary. "amazing. then you can serenade me as i paint elaborate landscapes dedicated to your likeliness."

that pulls a laugh from cody, the sound a joyous echo in the forests space. "don't get ahead of yourself, pretty boy. serenading is third date material," he says, then promptly shuts his mouth. maybe cody can get stupider because what the actual fuck? he chances a glance at obi-wan to make sure he hasn't disrupted the casual thing they have conspiring between them, but his expression in unreadable in the dark of the forest.

in that next second, they step back onto the main road and underneath a streetlamp shining down on a large map that reads 'YOU ARE HERE' with a bright, red arrow pointing at their location. in the light, cody can see obi-wans pondering stare, the furrow of his brows and hand under his chin. cody closes his eyes, sure he messed up a good thing before it even started.

"would dinner tomorrow night at my hotel count as our first, then?" obi-wan asks, timbre high and expectant.

cody releases the shaky breath that was caught in his lungs, relieved. then, because he's feeling bold and stupid and so revved up on everything obi-wan, he says, "no, that would count as our second. splitting a shake and some fries at that mcdonald's down the road can count as our first, though."

obi-wan starts to grin that happy pull of his lips cody's seen as many times as he can count on his tv and he wonders how many dates it'll take to kiss a different sort of happiness to obi-wan's mouth.

"sharing milkshakes already, are we? how brave. we've already evolved so far into our relationship and i don't even know your name."

cody mentally berates himself because, yeah. with all the excitement and emotions running him through the ground, he forgot the most important thing when trying to shoot your shot with the pretty painter: his goddamn name.

"i'm cody. cody fett," he introduces, hopefully sounding cooler than he really is when he's pushing 35 and desperately pining over someone he's met just shy of ten minutes ago. though, cody's known obi-wan for months now, so maybe he's not a total loser. cody shifts his camera strap more securely over his shoulder then extends his right hand. "it's a pleasure to meet you. and you are?"

obi-wan giggles and no matter how many times cody hears it from now and how ever long he's able to, he's sure he'll never get used the gentle chime of it, how it's directed to and for him alone.

"hello there, i'm obi-wan kenobi." obi-wan takes his hand in a firm grip and cody swears sparks fly from their joined palms. "and, i'd love to join you for a milkshake. chocolate flavored, please."

that catches cody off guard. "chocolate? i would've figured you'd be more of a vanilla type of guy."

obi-wan releases his hand but holds onto cody's fingers, letting them hook over each other in the shared space between them. "you have a lot to learn, my dear. i have many secrets that people don't know about me."

cody sucks in an optimistic breath, eager to learn every single one.

[omgahgase]

Either smut or comedy (or both!): What was Charles' reaction the first time he was Arthur's wolf-shifted cock?

hello there, i come bearing this hastily written thing that doesn't make much sense in my midnight haze, but i am still so very excited to share with you bc wolf-shifter!arthur and his pretty human charles is so special to me, yes they are yes they are! thank you for the ask, i appreciate your help in getting me to write more often <3

Charles is a man of many words. He just likes to keep them to himself. It’s in his nature to be quiet, to be reserved. For he’s not one to speak unless the conversation interests him or the company he keeps wrangles a short, clipped reply out of him that leaves them satisfied until the next drunk arm winds tight around his shoulder and prompts him into a word. If they’re lucky, they’ll get two. 

It’s easy to find comfort in silence, to let an endless stream of words swim around his brain where they’ll drift onto his tongue and fall through the slip of his mouth if he wants. He’s never been speechless, never had a moment where his brain wasn’t running faster than his hands or ever had the idea that his stream of thoughts would dry up, leaving him fumbling for something to say because he’s a man of many, many words. He just doesn’t like saying them all at once.

That was, however, until Arthur manhandled him into an old cabin out in the middle of the Grizzlies and shifted for the first time during a roll in the sheets. 

He knew of Arthur’s secret, has known since the day he returned to camp with the bear that’s been terrorizing the local area slung over his horse. The bear was already skinned and most of the meat was harvested into neat, cubed chunks of hearty game. Arthur covered up the teeth and claw marks pretty well, the damage he did to the bear well hidden beneath praise and appreciation from the gang, but when Charles checked his repeater cartage later that night, not a single bullet was missing. 

It didn’t scare him any more than the stories his mom used to tell him about the ghost and creatures of the night that roamed the land when the life of it slept. Charles waited until Arthur told him, then he didn’t think twice to accept him once Arthur showed him. The creature is a part of him as much as his sky-blue eyes and the sun-kissed freckles of his shoulders, the scars of a life crafted by blisters and bullets. Charles has seen it all, the good and the bad, the beauty of his fangs and fur, and the danger in his howl, the blood on his claws. Charles was sure nothing could surprise him any more than it could scare him. 

Thinking back on it now, he’d probably laugh. 

Arthur’s cock is larger, thicker. He whimpers as Charles sits pretty on his furry lap, the two of them splayed across the old, rickety bed of some seasonal hunters, naked as the day they were born, and wraps curious hands around Arthur’s length. His fingers don’t even connect, let alone cover half of him. Charles isn’t a small man by any means, having spent the worst parts of his life knowing he’ll always be bigger than he actually feels, but right now? With Arthur’s cock standing gloriously solid and slick in his palms, measuring from just below Charles’ navel to a little bit before his heaving breasts, with Arthur, larger than life in his wolf form but not so much compared to how Charles sees him daily, to how he fell in love with someone who has so much to give after he takes, makes Charles feel tiny. A feat he never knew was possible. 

“Charles, darlin’—” Arthur’s deep, ancient voice reverberates across the room and settles behind the spark of desire zipping up Charles’ spine. He arches his back when Charles uses both hands on the upstroke, smears wet across his dripping head and down his shaft where his fur thickens, darkens between his legs. 

Charles doesn’t answer his call for he has no reason to detach his focus and shift it to anything that isn’t the monster of flesh in his hands. There’s not a thought in his head besides the broken phonographic record of Arthur Arthur Arthur Arthur’s cock Arthur’s big cock, an accompaniment to the secondary mantra of I need him now playing on a loop in his otherwise endless stream of words. There are words, alright, but they all say the same thing because Charles has never been so aroused in his life. 

He’s never had a time in his life where he’s not thinking of his next move, his next plan of action for survival. Except tonight. Tonight, his only desire is to take Arthur until he howls. 

It should scare him, the amount of prep and slick he needs to even imagine fitting Arthur inside. His fingers push and prod, the three of them stretching his swollen, puffy hole until a fourth can slip inside with less resistance. But still, Arthur protests as if it wasn’t his idea to push Charles up and against the cabin’s door and suck him down until white painted his pink lips. If he wasn’t eager to get Charles alone after a month of constant gang jobs and personal errands for Dutch, then he wouldn’t have shifted in the middle of swallowing around him—then maybe Charles wouldn’t be holding back the tears pin prickling behind his eyes as he fingers himself to preparation, anticipation pumping hot in his veins for what he’s about to do. 

Charles is never one to point fingers, and maybe they would’ve found themselves here one day, with less need and more care, with no primal desire to feel Arthur so deep inside him Charles will remember every vein and every twitch of his cock like a burn to his innards. But, as it stands, Arthur shifted with Charles’ hand knotted his hair and his cock pulsing down his throat and the result is Charles seeing just what sort of beast Arthur really is. 

“We don’t gotta do this,” Arthur tries for the second time, thinking he can talk Charles out of something he’s set mind to. He watches as Charles raises above him, the thick corded muscles of his thighs flexing as he removes his fingers from his ass and positions himself above Arthur’s length. Arthur, with white eyes bright and shiny, his face decorated with a pretty red blush across his cheeks and around the fur of his jaw, scrambles large paws around Charles’ waist, pleading. “Sweetheart, we can do somethin’ else. You’re gonna hurt yourself.” 

Charles snorts. As if he isn’t ready to crack himself open for Arthur upon the first word. 

“I can handle it,” is his reply, weighty and serious. He gives Arthur a look, the same one he wears when Arthur manages to reach into that space within him and pull out a younger version of himself, someone dangerous—a man who isn’t one to back down at the face of something he wants. 

Arthur licks his lips, laps at his maw, the sharp of his fangs, and nods. 

Charles sucks in a deep breath as he gathers Arthur in his hands, dragging the wet of his precome across his taint until he finds something pivotal to the way Arthur pops in with a simplicity only achievable by sheer determination and a copious amount of salve. Charles sinks down past the head, moaning filthy as he eases lower, shifting ever so slightly to take him bit by bit. And Arthur praises him through it, the rumble of his voice doing wonders to push Charles further, until every ‘pretty thing’ and ‘fuck, you feel so good, Charles’ is met with more of him driving into Charles’ very being. 

Arthur’s paws are soft on his waist, the velvet of his fur a distraction to the burn of Charles’ hole, the stretch of skin and the lick of fire flickering in his lower belly. It’s difficult work, not to throw the last bit of his sanity and slam himself down with all the grace of a charging grizzly. Charles knows Arthur, knows how he’ll get if Charles is hurt in the act, how he’ll blame himself for something Charles wanted and will carry his guilt around like a bullet lodged in his chest. So Charles takes it slow. His legs quiver with the effort to hold himself up, his cock, untouched and weeping, dripping a puddle of slick over Arthur’s furry abdomen. 

It takes time, longer than what Charles wanted because for all the ways he’s mastered patience for the craft of hunting, he’s still unforbearing at his most basic level. He’s nearly fully seated on Arthur’s thighs, the latest few centimeters gained by force more so than persistence, when he slips, loses balance where his hands were planted on Arthur’s chest and his legs trembling, slides down. Arthur, faster than a cougar, catches him with strong paws under his thighs, his palms big enough to house each limb easily, and the tremor creeping up Charles’ spine is near violent, his grin cock-drunk and punch-happy. 

“Almost,” he slurs, throwing his head back with a moan. He’s glad he tied his hair up before this, the sweat dripping down his back growing tacky on his drying skin would’ve been hell to deal with if his hair was loose like how Arthur wants. Next time, Charles, thinks. He’ll have it down for Arthur next time. 

Pain breaks through the walls of pleasure as Arthur aids Charles in his endeavors, lowering him down until he’s flush with Arthur’s hips, until the entirety of his cock disappears inside his lover. Charles chances a glance down, a crack in the tear-stuck clumps of his eyelashes, and feels something sharp shoot up his belly at the sight of their bodies meeting. He lets out a long, self-satisfied groan, smiles into the lip of it. 

“Fuck, baby,” Arthur moans. He holds Charles where he is, eyes rolling back into the dark of his head when Charles squeezes around him. “You did it, you gorgeous thing. You look so full, Charles—fuck.” 

And he is. Where Arthur sits nestled inside of him, the skin of Charles’ belly swells around the shape of him, round and prominent. Charles’ hand weakly trails over the outline of Arthur’s cock, and Arthur whines at the sight of it, his mouth a pretty ‘O’ shape as Charles strokes down the length of him, feels him pulse against Charles’ walls. It’s obscene and filthy and Charles never would’ve imagined he’d end up here, fucking himself on a creature of his people’s nightmares, loving said creature to bits and trusting him all the more. It’s strange, how Charles’ life led him here, but it was to be expected either way. 

Charles isn’t exactly normal by anyone’s standards. Normal is boring. Normal isn’t him. He’s a mixed man who runs with a gang that’s more family than criminal, who’s content to be quiet and reserved where being brash and foolhardy can guarantee survival in a world that’s just as bodacious. And he loves a wolf, a monster of an animal who thrives in the same unknown as Charles does. 

Arthur leans up from his pillow mound against the headboard to kiss Charles stupid, licking into his mouth and scraping his fangs across plump lips until Charles adjusts just right. He pushes up halfway on shaky legs and sinks back down in one fell swoop, the slide of skin on skin, the sound of too much salve and come coating the puffy rim of his hole is filthy. It’s mind numbing, how good the friction is, the slide of finally getting what he wants. 

“Charles,” Arthur moans, wanton and desperate. He looks debauched, eyes glossy and drool sopping out of the corner of his mouth. Something in Charles strikes deep in his chest when Arthur begs, “My big man. Please.”  

That’s all it takes for Charles to lift himself up until just Arthur’s tip kisses his entrance before slamming himself back down, bouncing on the impact of Arthur’s thighs. Stars shoot across his vision as Charles humps and rides, as he pushes down over the bulge of Arthur’s cock and grins, feral, at the groan of approval from his lover below him. 

Kisses are shared and bites are left on Charles’ shoulders by the time Arthur’s knot swells at his base. He’s told Charles about this before, what it’s meant to do and how long they’ll be stuck together, and just the idea of staying like this, of having Arthur inside of him all throughout the night, is enough for Charles to come. It’s sudden and embarrassing and so shameful, a fantasy he’s had on his loneliest nights so close yet just a hair lengths out of reach, acting as the catalyst for the most violent orgasm Charles thinks he’s ever had. 

He hunches forward, his hair falling in waves over his shoulders, free from his bun, as he grips onto the bed’s headboard for support. Arthur calls him beautiful as Charles shakes through it, strokes his sides and up his back, grinds into the soaking wet valley of his thighs. His claws are cold against the warmth of his flushed skin, his tongue soothing as he swallows the sob breaking through Charles’ lips, bitten raw and kissed swollen. 

“Inside,” he pleads, mouthing against Arthur’s upper lip, skimming over his cheek and up his temple where his hairline meets sandy brown fur. “Want it inside.” 

Arthur nods, kisses at his collarbone as he thrusts up into Charles’ heat with newfound fervor. He spills hot and full inside his lover, fucks the come into Charles until his knot dies down to a managable degree, then he’s crushing Charles to his chest, winding large arms around his shoulders and tucking Charles’ into warm nook of his neck.

Time is an irrelevant son of a gun as Charles’ body cools down, relaxing around the cock still snug inside him and listening to the calming heave of Arthur’s breathing. Weak hands splay over Arthur’s chest, fingers twirling sweat damp fur, when Charles’ stream of consciousness returns to normalcy. It’s a lot, swirling around up there, mostly elaborated lines of speech about how Arthur is so important to Charles and that he loves him and that Charles can’t imagine a life where Arthur isn’t in it. It’s overwhelming and full of devotion and Charles thinks about voicing some of his thoughts for Arthur deserves to know them, deserves to hear how much of an impact he’s had on Charles within the last two years of knowing each other and the last year of being together. 

What Charles mumbles in a post-sex haze of satisfaction and a near nauseous bout of happiness is this: 

“I was expecting you to howl.” 

Arthur tries so desperately to stifle his laughter into Charles’ hair but he fails honorably, letting himself indulge in the silly remark of his lover’s words. 

“I can,” he says, chuckling into the sweat-damp tack of Charles’ temple. “Thought it’d be too much for you like this. You can try again next time, sweetheart.” 

That stirs up something dangerous in Charles’ belly, has his spent cock kicking up in interest at the thought of going again, of feeling the gratifying slide of Arthur’s length leaving him empty just to fill him back up with haste. 

It has Charles untangling their arms and sitting up in Arthur’s lap again. It has him palming at himself as he rocks back and forth atop Arthur’s cock, slow and attentive until Arthur gets the hint and laughs wholly, grips Charles’ grinding hips with gentle paws and a loving grin—a juxtaposition to the sheer filthy stretch of Charles’ hole. 

Arthur’s hips meet him on the downstroke, flush. “Who’s eager now, huh?”

“Not eager,” Charles corrects, biting his lip to keep his words steady, his mind already going blank, “determined, more like it.”

He rises and falls, melts into the feel of Arthur fucking into him again and again, his left hand an anchoring weight over the movement of his stomach, savoring the dirty drag of Arthur’s cock carving out a space for himself in Charles’ insides. 

“We got all night, darlin’,” Arthur reminds him, his fangs glinting in the warm glow of the bedside lamp something fierce, something primal. “You can make me howl as many times your ‘lil heart desires.” 

That’s a big promise for someone like Charles, who’s a man of few words but many thoughts and deliberate actions. Who’s life isn’t normal compared to the colored folk in town or the Indigenous people of the Wapiti Tribe. 

It’s a big promise for Charles is going to keep him to it, because for all the ways Charles is strange, Arthur is just as unusual, be it creature of the night or the man who lassoed Charles wholeheartedly as easily as he does a wild mustang, Arthur isn’t exactly the type of thing Charles had foreseen in his future. 

He’s content with it, though, as he always has been with the things that don’t make sense in this strange life of his. 

[omgahgase]

idk man but i think it's real funny that percy's hellhound is named mrs. o'leary. i get that she's cerberus and nyx's daughter and probably named after the lady with the cow, but there should be a mr. o'leary too.

let percy have 2 hellhound pets! let percy have a hellhound puppy litter! everyone gets a hellhound puppy!