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appalachiancowboy99 · 4 months ago

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After Dark

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

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

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

Gif by: @sunwingsunset

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As always, sending my love - M. <3

#Thank you for reading - from the bottom of my little Appalachian Heart <3 #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x reader smut #arthur morgan #rdr2 community #grumpy #fluff #arthur morgan rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #john marston #rdr #dutch van der linde #molly o'shea #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you

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felassan · 9 months ago

Text

Letters from Lovers

Transcriptions of the letters from the various gear store items. under cut for length.

Isabela:

“My dear Hawke, Do you know anyone with a flock of parrots? I'm trying to cheat on a bet with Varric and the stakes are exceedingly high. If you help me, I shall take you to that breathtaking beach you so crave. Free of ancient horrors, too. I think. I'd hate to take respite from all my adventures, but there are other ways to make the heart flutter. In fact I'm already imagining a few. Aren't you? Sailing there can be fatal, but Admiral Isabela will keep you safe. Are you interested? I would love to see you again. Yours, Isabela”

Morrigan:

“My love, Now before that grin reaches your ears, perish the thought that this letter was my idea. 'Tis Kieran who would not give me peace until I wrote to ask how you are faring. Regale us, if you please, with another of your tales that I might read to him in bed. He is particularly fond of those wherein you spur mischief whilst you save the day. Thank you for your most delightful gifts. I shall make certain to wear them the next time you come home. Dream of me until then, my Hero of Ferelden, and have a care. Morrigan”

Dorian:

“My dearest Amatus, Home is ever as it was: a glittering whirl of dancing, politics, and murder. I'm used to people staring daggers at me - I quite relish it, actually - but the glares seem to possess a new intensity since my return to Tevinter. Do they disapprove of House Pavus freeing its slaves while I work in the Magisterium to end slavery across Tevinter? Perhaps they simply covet my cheekbones, and who could blame them? Real reform will take time, but we're making inroads. I miss you terribly, Amatus, perhaps almost as much as you miss me. I treasure you and your belief in my work here. Yours always, Dorian P.S. I wouldn't take it amiss if you might send me another barrel of that dreadful Fereldan beer?”

Alistair:

“My love, How are you? Is it true that you recently killed darkspawn with only a mean glare and a pointy stick? Ferelden is ablaze with this rumor! You do give people so much hope. Tales of your heroism never fail to astonish me and almost ease the pain of going to sleep without you by my side. Almost. I can't wait to be with you again. I'd bring you some roses, you could give me a tour of the keep, we'd drink with the new recruits and then cuddle in a tent. Without the new recruits! Tent time is just for the two of us. I want to make that clear. Now excuse me while I practice my death glare and rummage through the dog's stash of sticks. I love you. Yours forever, Alistair.”

The Iron Bull:

“Kadan, You won’t believe what I did today. I got a guy to flip! Twice! So yes, all is well. Except for all the demons. And this whole thing in which I’m far away from the love of my life. Really keeps me up at night. Anyway, you hearing these rumors of a dragon on the loose? Yeah! The boys and I are on its trail. Last I heard, it was flying toward the Frostback Mountains. Can you join us? I hope you’re not uh… all tied up. Don’t worry, I’m fairly certain it’s not a Ben-Hassrath trap. And if it is, you know I’m prepared. Ataash varin kata! I love you, Kadan. See you soon. The Iron Bull.”

Tali:

“By the way, I left something for you up in your cabin. Go have a look.” - Tali’Zorah --- “Dear Shepard, As you may remember, I presented this picture frame to you as a gift on the Normandy. It was my way of expressing my admiration for you and our bond as comrades-in-arms. On the back of the metal frame, I've emblazoned a promise that will never fade - 'Shepard, wherever you go, I'm with you.' I know it's not much, but...this is what I look like under the mask. I'm sorry if it's not what you were expecting. I know Quarian faces can be a bit...different. Every time you look at my picture, I hope you will be reminded of our adventures on the Normandy, from our battles against the Reapers to our intimate conversations in the privacy of our quarters. I am not one to express my emotions openly, but thank you for being my friend, my confidante, and my inspiration. I look forward to many more adventures together. Keelah se’lai, Tali’Zorah”

Another letter from Tali:

"Whatever the galaxy throws at us, I'll be at your side. - Tali" --- "Shepard It's been a while since I last struggled to sleep. You must be dreaming of falling through a fish tank or starring in a hanar vid? I can hear you muttering about jellyfish. It's funny. I've spent my whole life hoping for the future, but these days nothing scares me more. Keelah, why can't we stop time? Even for just a little bit? No war, no Reapers, nobody counting on us. Just you and me, as free as the dust in the solar wind. When this is all over, will you settle down on Rannoch with me? I love you. - Tali"

Bonus:

Shepard's N7 acceptance letter, from Anderson:

“N7 Congratulations on your graduation From Captain David Anderson Shepard, When I graduated from the N7 program I had the honor of meeting Admiral Grissom, the man who inspired me to pursue a career in the service, and I never thought I’d feel prouder in my life. I was mistaken. Don’t get me wrong, it was a big day. An important day. But there’s something about welcoming driven young people like yourself into the ranks that’s also pretty damn satisfying. Your distinguished service record may have gotten you into this program - but it was your courage, integrity, and tenacity that’s enabled you to join an elite few. You represent the best of humanity, and I feel certain you’ll make the galaxy a better place. And I’m not the only one who feels this way. Becoming an N7 means the entire Systems Alliance is telling you one thing - we believe in you. Let me end by saying this. Welcome to the team Shepard. We know you won’t let us down. David Anderson Systems Alliance Interplanetary Combatives Academy N7 N7 Acceptance Letter”

#dragon age #bioware #morrigan #queen of my heart #feels #video games #alistair theirin #fav warden #alcohol cw #long post #longpost #mass effect #gpoy #more of these pls 🥺#maybe.. a fenris one...? 👉👈#(if i missed any of these letters #pls let me know)

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withlove-angel · 1 year ago

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How would they confess to you ?

(Luffy, sanji, zoro, Buggy, law)

Luffy

I think Luffy would be very straightforward with his confession, he wouldn't want to beat around the bush or cause any confusion. He would be very clear about his feelings for you and how much you mean to him. He might not be the most romantic person in the world but he would try his best to show you how much he cares about you and how important you are to him.

He might start by saying something like, "You know, I've been really enjoying our time together, and I have to say...I'm starting to fall for you!" Then, he might add, "Oh, who am I kidding, I've completely fallen for you! You're the only person who can make me smile like this and I never want that to go away." He might even end his confession with, "So, wanna be my treasure?"

Sanji

Well, Sanji might not confess right away, but he might start with subtle hints. He might drop little compliments or flirt a lot more. He would also make an extra-special meal to impress you. Eventually, he might get up the courage to tell you how he feels, and he would say something like "You're so beautiful and kind, it's hard not to have a crush on you"

That's true! Sanji does like to flirt, but he's also very respectful of women and their boundaries. He wouldn't push if you said no, but he might be a bit... persistent... if you said maybe, or said you wanted to get to know him better before making a decision. He might ask you more questions about yourself and your interests, or try to impress you with his cooking or fighting skills. But he wouldn't force you into anything, even if he does really like you

"I love your smile, and your laugh. Your eyes sparkle like jewels and your hair is like the sun on a sunny day. You're strong and brave, and you don't let anything stop you. I want to be the person who makes you smile the most in the whole world. My heart is yours; will you please accept it?"

Zoro

The way I envision it, he'd confess during a time of quiet, peace, and contemplation. He'd be hesitant, nervous, probably even a little awkward in his own way, but he'd do it without hesitation because it's what he's feeling. He'd want it to be genuine and sincere, and maybe it'd even be a spur-of-the-moment decision. If it's a more emotional moment, his swords might even be discarded to the side, as a symbolic gesture

*deep breath*" Oi. You know it's me, right? There's something I wanna get off my chest. It's not easy for me to put it into words. I don't know if I'm making sense... But here goes. I kinda like you- like like you. A lot. I think I've felt this way for a while now, but I haven't been able to say it. I know it's a lot to just say out loud, and it feels a bit... reckless. But I gotta just get it out. I like you."

Buggy

Buggy likes to present himself as powerful and intimidating. But deep down he's just an insecure guy who worries about what others think of him. In a private setting with someone he trusts, I think Buggy would be a lot more honest and open about his feelings. But he would still do it his own way, maybe in a roundabout way without actually saying the words "I love you".

I think Buggy would be very loyal and protective in a relationship, and he'd make sure that his partner knows that he values their connection deeply.

He would be careful not to say anything overly cheesy or melodramatic. He might try to lighten the mood with a joke, or compliment you in a way that makes you feel special and important to him. He would probably try to impress you with his strength and courage, and show off his abilities as a fighter and leader.

He would probably also be quite thoughtful and sweet, and show that he really cares about your well-being and happiness. But he wouldn't want to be too vulnerable or emotional, so he would likely try to keep things light and playful.

"So.. I.. err.. *cough* you're the most beautiful and amazing person I've ever met. (Turns all red) *cough* I mean... err... you're not too bad I guess. (Tries to smile) Wanna.. err.. be my partner.. I mean... umm... *cough* wanna be my romantic partner? Yeah, that's it. *cough* That was a joke, right? Right?"

Law

Law is the type to give subtle hints that he likes someone while keeping his feelings under wraps. If you like him too, you'd probably have to make a move first. He's the type to deny his feelings until the moment they're expressed. He has a hard time displaying his emotions, although he's quite a warm person internally.

If you confess he would probably be stunned at first. He wouldn't expect this to happen. However, once he processes what's occurred, he would probably say something along the lines of "Oh... hmm. Is that so?" His expression would definitely display his surprised and potentially pleased state. Though, he'll probably keep his answer brief and ambiguous. But the slightly blush and smirk on his face dont lie...

#yandere one piece #one piece imagine #buggy the clown x reader #buggy x reader #buggy the clown #law one piece #law x reader #luffy x reader #sanji x reader #zoro x reader #one piece #zoro #sanji #luffy

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thee-horny-thicky · 1 month ago

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This might be a weird request. But I was looking for a Muzan or douma x reader. However whenever they get intimate- the female never moans. It’s not that she doesn’t enjoy it she just isn’t very vocal which annoys and gives them a complex. The fact they can’t even get a human girl to moan annoys and frustrates them. She’s shy, little insecure (chubbier side) so never moans. Also doesn’t get off on general just touching etc. it excites her but doesn’t get her soaked.

Congratulations, Anon. You've been selected for 'Drafts Thicky Should Finish and Post Program!' I chose to do Douma for one because that's what past me chose to do. Anyway, enjoy!

Much didn’t hurt Douma’s pride. But you, a little human maid, succeeded easily. You were supposed to be a distraction, a way to get his dick wet. Then, when he was done with you, he’d turn you into a meal. You had a cute face and ample curves that’d keep him well-fed. At least, that was the plan, until you rejected him.

“I’m honored,” you’d said, a blush consuming your plump cheeks.

He remembered grinning smugly, thinking he had you in his trap. Then, you’d continued speaking, wiping his smile away.

“But I must decline your offer."

With that, you’d bowed and scurried away, leaving a shocked Douma in your wake.

Your rejection had lit a fire under Douma, spurring him to chase you until he finally got you in his bed. Somewhere along the way, he’d grown attached to you, the game of cat and mouse being played throwing a wrench in his plans to fuck and eat you. Through hours of stalking and harassing, he’d gotten to know you, and your gentle, bashful demeanor reminded him of Kotoha, when he’d first stumbled across her. Maybe that’s why, after he just finished fucking you, he had no interest in consuming your flesh. Or perhaps, it was because his mission felt incomplete. He’d bedded you, yes, but you barely made a peep. Your lip stayed firmly between your teeth, and when he managed to coax a sound out of you, it was only a few whimpers.

Worst of all, Douma didn’t think you came.

So, there he lay, stewing in frustration and humiliation, tangled in the sheets, his nude body pressed against yours. He had half the mind to snap your neck right there, for all the effort you were making him put in. But if he did, he’d have no chance to redeem himself. So, instead, he voiced what was on his mind.

“Was I not good?” he blurted, the question sounding absurd coming from his lips.

He was Upper Moon #2, irrefutably handsome, powerful, intelligent, and had a legion of loyal followers. He’d given many pleasure before you and would continue to give pleasure to many after you. Douma was more than good enough, he was amazing, and yet you had him questioning himself.

One day, you’d pay for that.

You looked at him, face flushed, lips swollen from his kisses, and eyes glossy. You looked thoroughly ravished, except you hadn’t fucking come.

“It felt good,” you said with a small smile, meant to be reassuring, but doing nothing for him. “I-I just don’t…”

You trailed off, then shook your head, looking away as your cheeks grew hotter. “Never mind. It’s silly. I…I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Tell me,” he ordered, feeling borderline desperate.

You sighed, then refocused on him. “I…I just don’t have intense orgasms. Really, there’s nothing wrong with you.”

He stared at you, not fully understanding. Never had he been with a woman who didn’t have a noticeable orgasm. Douma analyzed everything he’d done to you, which was rather tame compared to past encounters. He limited it to fingers and cock, too consumed with want to do anything else.

Oh.

At that moment, he had a revelation, suddenly feeling like a dumbass. Penetration alone wasn’t enough for many women.

His gaze remained locked on yours, and the longer he stared, the more embarrassed your expression became. “Just forget I said anything,” you said pleadingly.

Absolutely not.

Instead of obliging, he sat up fully and crawled over your prone form. First, he kissed your neck, relishing in your soft gasp. He smiled against your skin. Already, you were proving his theory correct.

“Silly me, not savoring you properly,” he murmured as he kissed down your body, stopping at your breasts.

You squirmed, trying to escape his touch, but he held you in place

“Y-you don’t have to do this,” you panted, before whimpering when his tongue swirled around your pebbled nipples.

As he sucked and nibbled, he could feel your heartbeat quickening under his palm, smell your arousal, sense the blood pumping through your veins. The results he was getting just couldn’t be denied.

“But I want to,” he said, before switching to the other breast and giving it the same attention.

You moaned, back arching, hands tangling in his hair. Any protests you had died a quick death.

When he had his fill of your full tits, he resumed his descent, kissing your soft belly, then your wide hips, and finally your thick thighs. The smell of your wet heat had his mouth watering. He parted your legs, taking a moment to admire the slickness that greeted him, before leaning down and swiping his tongue along your slit. When your taste hit his taste buds, he groaned. You tasted so sweet. He imagined your flesh and blood would be just as flavorful.

When he spread your lower lips to have full access, he blew air onto your dripping sex, chuckling at your whimper and pathetic shoves. Teasingly, his tongue darted to sample some of your juices. The rich, tangy taste made his restraint snap. Not even a second later, he speared his tongue inside your core, nearly drooling at just how delectable you were, at the sweet sounds you were finally making.

“Oh!” you gasped, gripping the sheets and arching into his mouth.

He ate you with gusto, his eagerness reflecting his hunger for you, literal and metaphorical. Each move he made resulted in his nose bumping your clit, stimulating you further. Your shyness started to disappear, and soon, you were shamelessly grinding against his face, chasing the pleasure you’d been deprived of earlier.

Silly Douma, thinking his cock was the best part of him. Clearly, it was his mouth. Not only was he an excellent conversationalist, but his tongue could bring pleasure to any woman, a fact you were reaffirming.

He kept a firm grip on your thighs and hips, keeping you still as he feasted. To send you hurling toward the edge, he rubbed his thumb over your clit in quick, firm circles. Moments later, your body was tensing, your pussy clenching around his tongue as you came.

“Don’t stop, please!” you cried as you experienced your peak, moaning at the top of your lungs.

He had no intention to. He licked and fingered you through your orgasm, drawing out your pleasure until you were a sweaty, panting mess. He was content staying between your legs the rest of the night, finally sampling your flavor and pleasing you. It was a win/win, and most importantly, saw the return of the ego that defined him.

TLTR: Reader only has intense orgasms from having her pussy ate

#asks #fanfic #fem reader #chubby reader #demon slayer douma #demon slayer kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #douma kny #douma x reader #kny douma #douma #sorry for the delay #no reason this ask should've taken this long #please accept this humble offering #smut #demon slayer smut

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spiriteddreams · 1 year ago

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thinking about sassy and teasing boxer!wrio... f!reader, slightly cheesy flirting (as you can imagine)

thinking about boxer!wrio, a frequent at the gym that your father, former lawyer neuvillette, owns. you decide to spend some more time with your father to help run the gym when you meet wriothesely, the sassy, uncrowned champion of the boxing ring.

initially he takes no care that you’re around, he figures you’re just someone neuvillette ended up hiring to help out around the place part time. you’re interesting, he’ll give you that, with the way you walk around far too comfortably as if you know the place like the back of your hand. and you talk to neuvillette with such familiarity, dare he say informality, that he can’t help but wonder who you are. and the moment he discovers that you’re his neuvillette’s daughter, suddenly he’s even more intrigued. and he can’t help but start talking to you more, about school and work and everything in between. he tries to get you to call him “your grace,” the nickname he’s garnered after climbing up the ranks but each time, you roll your eyes and tell him off. it only spurs him further.

but conversation continues with each time you meet and he tells you about what he’s what to outside of the ring, while slowly taking note of all the little things you say and your mannerisms when you’re grinning up at him from behind the front desk or when you’re watching him and some of the others train in the ring. and after awhile, he can’t help but start to like you, not just because you’re pretty, but also because you don’t take his shit. and even when you do, you throw it back right in his face.

“take your words to the ring, i have no intention of humoring you, wriothesley,” you sigh behind the front desk computer, which hides an open notebook full of notes and annotations. he loves the way his name sounds from your lips, drawing out each syllable as if trying to taste it. you say his name with exasperation and slight annoyance, but he can still catch that hint of amusement in your tone.

his flirty approaches might have initially been met with a flustered look on your face, but not you don’t even bat an eye at his sly comments. neuvillette however, shoots wrio a glare everytime he starts to say something he thinks could be flirtatious.

boxer!wrio, who comes in one early morning to help bring in some new equipment for the gym. and you’re sitting with your father at the front, drinking water and chatting when wrio walks in, shirtless, muscles on full display, sweaty and oh so gorgeous and you can’t help but choke on your drink, so clearly staring at the view.

“put on a shirt young man!” neuvilette’s thundering voice echoes throughout the room.

and much to his dismay, wrio is feeling particularly dangerous that day and says, “but i think she’s quite enjoying the view.” you feel your face warm as your father glares at you before turning back to give wrio a piece of his mind, already telling him off as he follows the boxer towards the back room where he can place down the boxes and then be chewed out by your father. but wrio thinks it’ll all be worth it because your expression was priceless.

he's used to people ogling him when he's training or fighting in the ring, whether or not he has a shirt on. but he can't help but sneak a look whenever you're around, trying to catch your wandering eyes to see if you're eyeing him too. and when he does catch you, he straightens up, tilts his head and throws you an arrogant smile.

"see something you like, princess?" he calls out boldly. other customers either look away or chuckle at the now familiar sight and sound of wrio's teasing. the times when neuvillette is there, he snaps at the boxer sharply then turns to you, eyes twitching with annoyance as he tells you to get back to work. you know he means well, and you know wrio only does it to rile up your father. and to flirt, you suppose.

boxer!wrio, who, one afternoon on his way out, makes sure to stop by the front desk to linger around you. it just so happens that you’re getting ready to leave for the day. fresh from a rinse with hair dripping wet and wolfish grin plastered across his face, wrio leans over the front desk, cocky as ever and asks if you’d like to grab a bite with him. he catches sight of the way your eyes narrow and quickly flicker over to where your father stands on the other side of the gym, working with another customer. for a second he thinks you might bail, but much to his delight your shoulders loosen and you smile at him and say, “where are we off to, your grace?”

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! <3 a/n: i have SO many more boxer!wrio thoughts to share hehe

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley #genshin impact wriothesley #spiriteddreams writing #spiriteddreams

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kipkoh · 4 months ago

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I know it’s fairly popularized that Hunter liked being the Golden Guard but there was a line in Hunting Palisman that he says to Luz that has always captivated me: “At least you can figure out your own (future).”

This (not very subtle) statement of wishing to make his own decisions coupled with the fact that Hunter was studying wild magic even while he was still in the Coven is heavily indicative of the fact that he was dissatisfied with his role in life. I’m sure he was proud of being Golden Guard and really did want to help Belos in whatever way possible, but a big part of him did wish things could have been different for him. Those desires he announced in Thanks to Them were probably not spur of the moment ideas he wished he could have experienced before what he thought was going to be his death, but rather long term wants he’d been imagining himself taking part in even before he defected.

I’m bringing this idea up mostly because I keep thinking about Hunter’s life in the castle and the rare moments when he got to witness what normal kids lives were like. If the school tours of the castle were a common occurrence, I imagine he'd be curious enough to watch them when he could. At first he'd secretly trail them and observe how the kids interacted with each other, how they joked around with their friends, and overall how carefree they appeared. He'd watch the way they'd awe at the castle in a feeling of excitement he'd never gotten to share having grown up within those walls - the castle being all he’d ever known. Sometimes he'd imagine himself in one of their places - just a normal kid whose biggest worry was getting his homework finished before it was due instead of how he might be tossed aside and replaced by the one he called his family the second he was no longer of any use to him. At some point, maybe he would start avoiding the tours whenever they happened, not wanting to feel that painful yearning for a life that was never even within his grasp and instead choosing to try and forget about it completely in order to convince himself he was content being the person Belos wanted him to be.

Sometimes on his weekend missions he would encounter parents with their children just going about their everyday lives, smiling and happy and completely juxtaposed to his own experience with familial adults. He'd watch the ease of how a child's hand would slip into their parent's as if it was such a natural and common action, without even a hint of fear of negative consequence for the touch. Hunter would look down at his own hands mummified in leather and wonder why he'd never felt the gentle press of someone's loving palm against his own.

He'd watch two young children play fight with loose branches. He'd envy how their battle was pretend and the fact that neither of them were in any real danger. He'd silently scrutinize their battle form before offering to teach them proper tactics, only to be harshly turned away and reminded of the fact that normal kids didn't care, nor have a need, to know how to fight. He'd scoff at their lackluster ambitions and comment about how they would never join a decent Coven with attitudes like that, blatantly ignoring the fact that not everyone was forced to worry about proving their worth to everyone around them.

I don’t think Hunter going to Hexside to find new recruits in Any Sport In a Storm was just a random choice on his part. While there is some evidence that kids can choose to join the Covens early, it doesn’t seem like it’s something they’re forced to do before they at least finish school. Maybe they can be forced, which is what is implied when Hunter kidnapped the Emerald Entrails, but wouldn’t it be easier to seek out new recruits who would actually be willing to join of their own accord? Otherwise there would be no guarantee they would care enough to do their job well.

Hunter did try to recruit them naturally at first but when no one seemed interested, instead of moving on to a different group of people, he just chose to kidnap a group of kids and force them. He has this intense longing for a normal life but no way to reasonably go out and get it for himself, so instead he tries to bring that life to him instead. Maybe if there were other people his age around, it could be possible for him to experience even a taste of the camaraderie he’s seen the students on tours have towards one another. Of course a bunch of kidnapped kids might not want anything to do with him, but Hunter is probably desperate enough to where he didn’t really think it through that much. Either way, even if he can’t have that life for himself, maybe he’d feel less alone if he knew there were other kids experiencing the same struggles he was. Maybe he wouldn’t feel out of place if he wasn’t the only kid being forced to train for regular battles and missions. Maybe he wouldn’t feel as bad about not having the kind of parent-child relationships he sees in the streets if there were other kids around who never got to see their parents anyway. He wouldn’t be the only kid lost in a sea of adults at the castle who refused to respect him partly due to his age.

Of course we know it wouldn’t end up being the catharsis he’s seeking, but he’s willing to try. He’s spent over a decade in a life he wasn’t sure he wanted, constantly yearning for something more with other people always (though unwittingly) waving around their happy, normal lives in front of his face. He’s sad, he’s alone, he probably feels super guilty about it because he still wants to be what Belos wants and can’t… He’s probably spent his whole life in a constant internal struggle trying to either ignore his own desires or attempt to find a balance between his personal wants and his job that never truly existed.

#Luz was so right he is a bad but sad boy #toh #the owl house #hunter toh #toh hunter #toh headcanon #the owl house headcanon #toh talks #im extrapolating a lot from one line but listen #why include it if it didn’t mean anything #Hunter could be proud of being GG and still yearn for a different life #they aren’t mutually exclusive ideas

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lu-is-not-ok · 7 months ago

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*rises from the grave*

*trips and falls flat on my face*

Heyyyy, it's ya boy, your favorite chronically exhausted Hong Lu identity that forgor about posting to Tumblr. Hi. Hello.

So. Timekilling Time, huh? Very fun, very exciting, we love focusing on Sinners that are misunderstood both in and out of character. We love Rodya, Hong Lu, and Ryoshu focus. We love Ryoshu's butch mustache swag.

Anyway, allow me yap about it a bit, because I took frame by frame screenshots of the teaser and I haven't yapped on Tumblr in a while. I'll also give a general update on how I've been doing at the end of the post for those who are interested.

The first thing I've noticed in the teaser is Dante actually lays out the exact traits that their choice of Sinners would need. These being (exact wording):

Someone who can support Dante

Someone who can remain laser-focused on the case

Someone who can be free from biased judgement while making rational, quick spur-of-the-moment decisions

In other words, we need Sinners who will help Dante out, are able to stay focused, and who can think on their feet without relying on their own internal biases.

I think it's important to lay those out as clearly as possible, because it makes the selections made by Dante and Verg very interesting, and also kind of funny.

Let's look at Dante's picks - Yi Sang, Meursault, and Faust. These are all, at a surface level, decent general picks, as all three of them are seen as smart and rational. However, if we look at them while keeping the previously mentioned traits in mind, it turns out these three might just be some of the worst picks Dante could ever fucking make.

The biggest issue - none of these bitches can think quickly. Faust is especially notorious for this, as it's consistently pointed out how she always needs a long time to come to a conclusion or otherwise has to pause to come up with answers. We also know Yi Sang is the type of person to get lost in his thoughts and just meander instead of getting to the point. Meursault is a bit of an outlier in that we see that he can think quickly, but if he's not given any orders he's never gonna act on those thoughts. Admittedly, he has been getting better at speaking up over time, but he's still mostly in this "only does what he's told to do" mode of operations.

This is where their issues split up a little bit.

Yi Sang is probably the most likely to be supportive of Dante out of the three - we see that he cares about others and has learned to interfere and give advice when he feels it's necessary (though who knows if he's doing well enough to keep that up after Canto 6, oof). No, rather his other issue lies in the focus department. This is the guy who, as I previously mentioned, meanders all over before getting to the point. Again, like Meursault, he has been getting better at not doing that, but he's still got ways to go.

Faust and Meursault on the other hand have the opposite issue. While they're fairly goot at staying focused on what they have to do, the issue is that they never fucking speak up. They're probbably the furthest from being supportive of Dante. They're most likely to learn info and just keep it to themselves until everyone has wasted way too much fucking time. Hell, Meursault would probably make a decently good detective if allowed to do the case all on his own, but since he's meant to be a part of a group, he's unlikely to help out that much without Dante directly ordering him around.

Now, onto Verg's picks - Rodya, Hong Lu, and Ryoshu. This is where things get really, really interesting. Because we have the reverse situation to Dante's picks - on the surface the choices seem random and counter-intuitive, but if we look deeper, it turns out they all fulfill the requirements surprisingly well.

I'm about to go on a tangent here, but I find it extremely important that we're focusing on this group of Sinners in the first Intervallo between what I consider to be the most thematically different arcs within Limbus. The first half of Inferno has been pretty squarely about confronting one's past, whether learning to face it properly after running away from it (Gregor, Rodya, Sinclair), or learning to move past it after refusing to let go of it (Yi Sang, Ishmael, Heathcliff).

However, looking at the Sinners we have left, it feels like the second half of Inferno might be focused less on the past specifically, but more about the Sinners' general reality. Especially the next upcoming trio of Cantos - Don Quixote, Hong Lu, and Ryoshu - have some heavy thematic focus on the idea of one's perception of reality, especially fitting for the three Sinners with weird eye shit going on.

With Timekilling Time focusing on the Sinners most misinterpreted by others in-character (and out of character), it feels like the perfect intro to this switch in thematic focus - exploring the actual realities of people who are otherwise hard to understand.

Anyway, back to discussing how Rodya, Hong Lu, and Ryoshu fit Dante's requirements.

Supportive of Dante - this is the requirement all three fulfill pretty well. Let me explain.

Rodya is probably the most obvious - she's a hypegirl through and through, and happy to take the reigns in some way or another if nobody else is able to, as we see in Canto 2. She's often one of the first people to point out when someone is not doing well, and shares a lot of her insight if in the mood, but she also knows when discretion is necessary.

Hong Lu is a fun one here - he's extremely perceptive and insightful, often sharing his thoughts with very little prompting. His only issue is that he tends to backpedal when he feels like he said something wrong, or generally just words shit in weird slightly offensive ways. He's supportive, he just doesn't always talk like he is.

Ryoshu is one I find most interesting here, as a lot of people seem to miss this about her character - despite her short temper and peculiar manner of carrying herself, she's actually pretty understanding and helpful towards people she's on amicable terms with. She always explains her acronyms if asked (and when she doesn't it's usually because people stop asking or Sinclair translates instead), she listens when told to stand down or otherwise do something when asked of by Dante or Sinclair, and the reason she tends to stay quiet is because she only speaks when she feels what she has to say is important.

Staying focused - this one is a bit harder to judge, but I'd say the only one who might not fulfill this one is Hong Lu, but only by a margin. Ryoshu is shown to get so focused she gets impatient when she can't get to the point, and Rodya always has her goal in mind even when she might act like she doesn't. Hong Lu is a bit harder to judge, as he seems to be the type to prioritze gathering information and satiating his curiostiy over the main goal, but in a case like this that might just be a massive plus.

Unbiased quick thinking - again, all three fulfill the quick thinking part very well. Rodya shows it constantly throughout Canto 2, Hong Lu shows it best in social interactions, and Ryoshu just doesn't want to waste time and so she naturally thinks quickly as well. It's when we come to the unbiased part that things get extremely interesting.

As individuals, Rodya, Hong Lu, and Ryoshu are all very biased people. Rodya sees the world from the perspective of someone who suffered in the poor Backstreets. Hong Lu sees the world from the perspective of a rich Nest dweller coming from a family of dubious morality. Ryoshu sees the world from the perspective of (probably) an ex-Ring member obsessed with the art that is reality. Their backgrounds color the information they take in a lot.

However... this means that as a group, all three balance each other's biases out. Rodya's cynicism gets balanced out by Hong Lu's idealism, which is balanced by Ryoshu's realism. Their backgrounds couldn't be more different, and thus give the widest possible perspective when put together.

I think this is the point Verg is making with this selection. Dante's selection is the easy way out. It's people that Dante already knows how to deal with, and would rather pick even if their skillsets don't fit the situation. Verg is making Dante learn how to work with Sinners who might be harder to deal with, but have skillsets more fitting for the situation at hand.

Dante can't keep half-assing everything by always turning to the same few people. Every Sinner in the group has their use and are smart in their own unique ways. They have to figure what every Sinner's strong point is, otherwise they'll end up putting everyone in danger by relying on people who are simply not good in a situation while ignoring those who could help.

So... that's what I think.

Anyway, personal general update - I'm still alive! And also very swamped with college and constant exhaustion. So, things will have to change a bit moving forward.

Number one - I will not be returning to old analysis requests. There's too many at this point, and I just don't have the time to sit down and write longass posts whenever I want anymore. However, that isn't to say E.G.O and Sin analyses will never return! I have plaaans for what I want to do with those moving forward, it just may take some time to materialize.

Number two - I'm generally just more active on Discord than on Tumblr. Yapping on Discord feels more natural for me, as it's just... less formal than making a full post I guess. So, if you want to discuss things with me, or if you're on a server that you think would do well with having me yapping in there, feel free to shoot me an invite link in replies (or in DMs if you don't want it to be public)!

Number three - Go check out the Absolute Pride Resonance event on Youtube! I'm not a part of it maybe next time wink wink nudge nudge, but you should still check it out cause it's a bunch of cool people doing very scuffed streams, as is fitting for the scuff Project Moon is known for.

Alright, that's it. I still don't know how to end Tumblr Posts. Bye.

#lu speaketh #limbus company #lcb spoilers #intervallo 6.5a #timekilling time intervallo #we're back baby #rodion lcb #hong lu lcb #ryoshu lcb #fun fact i'm up to 1.1k hours on limbus #god help me

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vivalabunbun · 2 years ago

Text

Overdue Books and Ghost Stories

Summary: If the scholars at the Akademiya are so smart, why can’t they remember a few due dates?

Word Count: 6.4K

Tags: Alhaithamx GN! Reader, Shy! Reader (you hate eye contact), Librarian! Reader, Fluff, SFW, attempts at humor, pure fluff, written before 3.6 so Alhaitham is still acting grand sage, slowish burn?, Akademiya setting, slight mutual pining, Sumeru boys drive the librarian insane, especially a certain gray-haired bookworm.

Authors note: I just wanted something light-hearted and fun to write as a reward for getting stuff done. Shy people who force themselves to be responsible and hate eye contact unite! Enjoy!

He’s being followed.

Alhaitham can feel the fleeting presence lingering just a few seconds behind him.

The warm late afternoon breeze caressing through his grey locks, his cape trailing behind, and belt clattering with each fluid step. Teal-orange eyes faced forward towards the hectic stall-lined streets, but his attention was focused on the ghost that trails him from behind.

Every merge into the crowded pathways lined with vendors, every sharp turn down hidden allies, every street he circles back on, the traces linger like a dream fleeting from the memories of deep sleep.

He can’t allow a ghost to accompany him home, lest it decides to haunt the house.

Alhaitham had wasted enough time walking in aimless circles, if he can’t throw off the ghost, he concludes he must exorcise it.

Long legs pivot into an alley confined by stone walls and empty of shouting merchants and haggling shoppers. One, two, three slow strides towards the pale dead end that faced him.

“I know you’re there. Might as well stop with the games.”

Ghosts don’t exist outside tales told to innocent children to keep them tucked tightly under the covers. However, the iniquitous villains that terrorize the plot do, and they’re known as humans.

Were they going to fight or flee?

The presence behind Alhaitham finally materialized into something more than a fleeting dream. He glanced over his shoulder, hand ready to summon his sword. Behind him stood an unassuming figure, with no sensible ill intentions, their hands up as a sign of surrender.

Eyes adverted elsewhere like a child caught trying to sneak one more piece of candied Ajilenakh Nut.

The viridescent robe that enveloped your figure paired with the matching barrette, there’s no mistaking your identity. Another scholar from the Akademiya, great.

With power comes prestige, two notions Alhaitham couldn’t care less for. He was more than satisfied as a simple Scribe filing away applications in the archives away from searching eyes.

Those days were a luxury stolen from him by the title of “Acting Grand Sage”.

Now it wasn’t an uncommon sight for some researcher to come floundering through the crowded halls of the institution towards the ashen-haired man. From time to time there would be the bold student, agglutinating to his side with their wasted attempts at a conversation.

With great power comes great inconveniences.

Inconveniences that unabashedly believed their polite smiles could divert his teal gaze away from the insincerity. That offering a cup of coffee along with a rehearsed elevator pitch could sow the seeds of a superficial bridge.

One where they’d walk across with forms awaiting a signature along dotted lines or a towards a potential high seat at the Akademiya.

Their desire for this absent bridge coerced them to shallow down their pride, spurring this fruitless endeavor despite the Acting Grand Sage’s indifference and unreturned interest in small talk.

First, he was pressured into taking a position he didn’t want, then he became the target of people’s irrelevant aspirations, and most damning of it all even his privacy’s being invaded. To put it frankly, Alhaitham’s tired of it all.

Surely, it couldn’t take this long for the great institution of wisdom to select another leader, when can he finally stop this sham act?

“I’m off the clock, come find me on the next working day.” He’d prefer it if you didn’t.

The frigidness of his words with their thinly veiled politeness didn’t cause a single muscle of yours to budge.

“The Epistulae Morales ad Lucilium has been overdue for 6 weeks now, please return it to the House of Daena immediately.” A hand extended out in front of you, open and expecting.

No introduction, no chivalrous greeting, no frivolous small talk. Alhaitham certainly wasn’t expecting this from the strange ghost that stalked him.

Oh, so that’s where your eyes were. Honing in solely on the book currently clutched by his hip. One of the many books he signed out of the House Daena on a whim, simple academic works to stimulate his mind during the respite between busybodies and paperwork.

One he then promptly cast to the side by the beckoning of a journal from the restricted access collection. Only after a pile of files was removed from his desk that his eyes rediscovered the title.

“I understand, I shall promptly return it by the end of the next work day.”

“No, a student has requested this title for a week now, after they’re done with it, you may sign it out again.” Voice firm and steady as you gestured for the book to be returned to your hand.

No. An unfamiliar word spoken in a tone now foreign to the towering man.

His keen eyes observed your homogeneous uniform of standard greens and gold, you must be a regular librarian employed by the Akademiya. The Akademiya currently under his jurisdiction.

How bold of you, or has this job already drained you of all sense of self-preservation?

Regardless, your statement wasn’t without merit. The Epistulae Morales ad Lucilium doesn’t belong to him, and who was he to inconvenience a standard employee this Wednesday afternoon?

It wouldn’t serve him any benefit to be in the ire of a librarian, Alhaitham concludes it would be wise to just surrender the book. So he relinquished it.

From your pocket, your other hand produced a slip of parchment.

“Here is the late fee, please address the payment to the House of Daena by next Wednesday.”

Instead of offering the Acting Grand Sage a cup of coffee, you offered him a fine in exchange for confiscating his book.

With a slight bow, the ghost was exorcised, ambling back into the busy streets of Sumeru City until your back disappears from his teal eyes.

Alhaitham was left with no introduction, no coffee, and no book to spend the evening with. Even still, his mind has found something else to ponder about to pass the time.

Alhaitham slowly rejoins the buzzing city streets, the chattering voices carried by the cool breeze that rustled his cape and made his ash locks brush his cheeks.

‘How refreshing,’ he thought.

When the current Acting Grand Sage of the Akademiya was announced most people never heard his name before. Have they ever shared a class together? Were they ever in a group research project together? How could someone so brilliant escape the eyes of eager upstarts?

They could’ve had a prominent headstart in their careers if they’d built those bridges all those years back.

To be fair, you would’ve fallen into the clueless demographic as well. Were the two of you in the same graduating class? If your job didn’t require you to check the library ledgers every day, his name would’ve eluded you.

Even with a brisk thumbing through of the ledgers, it’s hard to miss the repetition printed on the pages.

Alhaitham was a regular name to be found in the library ledgers, you’d even argue he’s the biggest patron of the House of Daena.

However, it wasn’t the only pattern that would jump out to even the blindest man in Teyvat. What would be printed next to each book signed out by Alhaitham? Overdue.

Yes, you would think a man brilliant enough to plan the greatest insurrection in Sumeru’s history could remember a few due dates. But the ledgers refute that impression.

Before, the Scribe turned Grand Sage would simply return the books 1 or 2 weeks overdue and pay the fee at the same time.

Was it due to the increased responsibilities that now befell him or the increased financial freedom granted by a bigger paycheck that caused this pattern of extended tardiness?

Regardless, The Epistulae Morales ad Lucilium has returned back to the House of Daena, much to the delight of a hysterical student who pushed off a paper for a bit too long.

That Wednesday afternoon was the first time you spoke to the mysterious man of infamy, in an alleyway tucked away from prying eyes. He gave you the book without much of a fight and accepted the punishment without complaint.

If only it was always this easy.

First impression overall? The whispers in the halls were an inaccurate depiction of Alhaitham. To you at least, he was a rather tolerable man with a good sense of regulations, handsome hands too.

Was your first impression bad? Impudent even? Script rushed by the pounding metronome of your heart, skipping over a few key sentences, like an introduction.

Oh, you also forgot to call him Grand Sage… Surely he won’t hold such a petty grudge over that, he seems sensible.

You flipped through the library ledgers one last time before your duties ended for the day, stopping on a page as you pursed your lip at the familiar name next to The Critique of Pure Reason boldly stamped overdue.

If only the Grand Sage would fix this sloppy habit of his.

Alhaitham is very much aware of the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon, the frequency illusion. The tendency to notice something more often after noticing it for the first time. It wasn’t hard to pinpoint the exact inception of this phenomenon he was experiencing, a certain meeting in an alleyway.

–

“General Mahamatra,” A distinct cadence enticed the Ashen-haired man’s focus away from the matra delivering his daily report.

There’s a hush that befell the halls of the Akademiya today, no reason to speculate, it’d obvious to even the dimmest of fools. Cyno, the General Mahamatra, returned today from the sandy wastelands.

In fact, Alhaitham had just concluded his brief discussion with the electro wielder a few moments prior. The General left the paperwork delivery to the woefully ignored matra currently in front of the dendro wielder.

The faint reverberation of the dreaded title paralyzed the few scholars and researchers that dared roam the in presence of the General. Intense scarlet eyes centered on the viridescent clad librarian that called, your eyes seemed occupied with the object encased by tan fingers.

“Law and Order of the Pursuit of Wisdom is overdue.” A steady cadence incited the General.

“By how long?” Spoke an authoritarian tone.

“8 weeks, General.” There wasn’t the slightest pause from you.

The dense tension within the enclosed space was palpable, many pairs of eyes fixed on the scene happening under these fluorescent lights.

The seconds counting down to the decisive moment, what will become of the incautious librarian after this show-down?

…

“My apologies, I should’ve returned the book before I embarked, may I pay the fee now?” The treacherous edge was absent from the general’s voice.

With a swift nod, you turned on your heel, leading the General Mahamatra toward the judgment awaiting him in the House of Daena. A sight so flipped on its head, the witnesses of this event couldn’t seem to decide which direction was up anymore.

–

“Mr. Kaveh.”

A librarian intercepted a certain famed architect’s search for a certain Grand Sage evading the responsibilities piling up on a polished desk.

A spectacle was certainly about to happen in the House of Daena, Alhaitham gathers from his position just covered by a towering bookshelf.

“Oh, yes?” The furrow between blond eyebrows dissipates in an instant, his fury distracted for now by the polite use of his name.

“Were you the one to sign out The Death and Life of Great Design, Mr. Kaveh?” You held out the title in question, holy text for every architecture, your impassive eyes trained on the cover.

“That’s correct, I’m certain I returned it in time, has anything arisen?” The light of Kshahrewar raised a brow at the sudden inquiry.

“Would you mind explaining this, Mr. Kaveh?”

The book was pried open, revealing to the world the chaotic collage of jumbled words and sketches haphazardly scribbled among the print with the faintest whiff of wine.

Even from this distance, the bold vandalism was observable to his teal eyes. So was the slackened jaw of the architect with his now saucer-sized eyes.

The closest equivalent Alhaitham could compare your current expression with was a parent’s gaze toward the discovery of a crayon mural on a wall. Three pairs of eyes observing the blatant defacement of literature.

“The replacement cost of this book is 141,471 mora, it was an antique print.” Your hands gingerly shut the covers, hiding the book’s shame away.

“H-how much??”

“I’ve written the amount down on this form, please address the payment to the House of Daena by the end of this month, Mr. Kaveh.” From your pocket, you presented the blonde with a fine that exacerbated his dreadful finances.

With this, your performance concluded, a mannered bow before swiveling back to your post at the library’s front desk. Leaving the famed Kaveh silent and color absent from his face, the slip of parchment pathetically pinched between ailing fingers.

Stepping back into the shadow of the shelves, Alhaitham reaches a hand up to enable the feature of his earphones that preserves his sanity. He already had a premonition of what was to greet him, might as well enjoy the fleeting moments of silence while it lasted.

–

The sky over Sumeru was a brilliant blue, tufts of fluffy clouds cushioned the earth from the harshest rays of the sun, but not enough to embargo the comforting warmth. It’d be a shame to throw away such beautiful weather in the confines of an office.

Enough justification for Alhaitham to enjoy a quiet reading session under a hidden pavilion, just to the side of a neglected pathway at the Akademiya.

Just because a place is neglected, it doesn’t mean it’s completely abandoned. The scurrying of two sets of steps made their presence known along the uneven path.

“Please return Handbook of Qualitative Research to the House of Daena,” your stony voice perked his ears.

Those words weren’t directed towards the unseen Acting Grand Sage, no, they were addressed towards the researcher whom you were just a few seconds behind. Impassive gaze concentrated on the overdue book in his arms.

The exasperated man huffed out a breath, bringing a hand up to rub at his dry eyes drooping under the weight of the discolored skin hanging under them. Alhaitham hypothesizes that this must have gone on for a while.

“Listen, I know it’s overdue, I promise to return it once this report is finished.” The researcher tries to quicken his strides.

“No, it’s late 4 weeks now, please hand over the book.” That signature gesture made its appearance, palms open and expecting, your pace never once faltering.

“Could you please make an exception, just this once?” Tired exasperation morphing into a sharper edge.

“There are three other patrons queuing for this book, I’ll add you to the list and notify you once the title is available again.” Indifferent eyes never once left the imprisoned book.

Ah, your words became the straw that broke the Sumpter Beast’s back.

“Three? THREE??! I don’t have the time! If they’re students they can wait, this project has dragged out for months, months! It’s only now drawing to a close, oh for the love of Lesser Lord Kusanali, just let me-”

Fatigue overboiled into raw frustration, the researcher now lively as ever, moved senselessly close to your face.

One boot-clad step makes its appearance from behind a pillar. It’d be best to de-escalate the situation now before the potential for a physical alteration manifests into reality.

Especially for a librarian that’s too focused on a book to recognize the looming threat. As Acting Grand Sage, maintaining order was the priority.

Instantaneously, a lone finger shot out towards the azure sky, with it followed the wearied eyes of a man mid-manifesto. The hypnotically soothing hue of the vast space momentarily ceased the researcher’s grievance, reminding him of the bigger picture, of the bigger world.

Bringing him comfort with the realization that these sleepless nights won’t be permanent, that this too shall pass.

Was that the goal of your diversion? Probably not. Regardless, the hostage has been rescued into your secure arms, back where the book belonged.

The view of the sky must’ve reminded the researcher’s body of its limit, as his movements faltered back sluggishly. Bloodshot eyes blinking at his now empty hands.

“Please address the payment to the House of Daena by next week.” A slip of parchment produced from your pocket fills that void for him.

Without another word, the librarian trekked back up the beaten path, leaving behind two very silent men. With only the researcher’s figure left in sight, Alhaitham’s mind quickly lost interest.

Withdrawing back behind the cover of the marble pillar, he couldn’t help but recount the details.

‘The General Librarian’, ‘The Punisher of Fines’, ‘The Ghost of Due Dates Past’. All names coined by the sleep-deprived minds of slouching students and destitute scholars awaiting the saving grace that was their paycheck.

Perhaps it’s that inorganic cadence of your voice. Or how one of your hands reaches out to demand the return of printed works while the other indited the transgressors with a note worth months of coffee.

Maybe it’s the focus of your catatonic gaze solely upon the books in question, denying wrongdoers a chance of mercy formed by eye contact.

An itch tickled the back of Alhaitham’s throat, the same sensation that tugged the corner of his lips upwards towards the brilliant sky.

How did such a fascinating individual slip away from under his nose for so long?

Almost there, just a little longer, the doors to the House of Daena came into view, you’re so close to reprieve. One hand still clutching the freshly recused book against your chest, you pried the door to the staff room open. Empty.

Thank the Archons.

Ducking into the sanctuary devoid of library patrons and chattering coworkers, sealing the solid wood behind your back, you could finally breathe.

Lungs burning for the taste of oxygen again, the pounding in your chest subsiding with each greedy gulp. Drained figure finding solstice against the sturdy door.

You achieved your goal, so why were you so defeated?

His eyes got close, dangerously close. In your peripheral, the puffiness of his eye bags were in full detail. Your lids shut firmly as if shutting out the intrusive thoughts that threatened to infiltrate your mind.

It’s fine, everything is fine, your eyes never met. There’s no arrow in the back of your heel, the script has not gone off course.

What a childish Achilles heel, eye contact, the most basic requirement for a conversation between peers and people. One you can’t fulfill. Even the briefest moment of connection will crumble the mask you dawn, exposing the puny coward to the world.

One look and you’ll be thrown off script, your career’s saving grace.

Book overdue?: “Please return [Title] and address the late fee payment to the House of Danea by next week.”

Damages?: “Please compensate the House of Daena for the damages done to [Title] by next month.”

Need a book that isn’t available?: “I’ll add your name to the waitlist for [Title] and inform you when it’s returned.”

Lines rehearsed time and time again, now ingrained into your tongue, spoken by instinct. It’s not a conversation, it’s merely a stage play, performed by a coward shielded by a crafted blanket of indifference.

‘The General Librarian’, ‘The Punisher of Fines’, ‘The Ghost of Due Dates Past’.

Better that they interpret your aversion to eye contact as malice instead of cowardice. After all, the world is not kind, especially not towards the meek. Papers and delegated responsibilities suddenly thrust upon those too shy to voice their dismay.

What could the meek do? Nothing. So they’ll silently grit their teeth and bare it all as a doormat trampled by those whose voices don’t stumble and shutter.

A scheme you’ve fell victim to time and time again within the walls of this hallow institute of knowledge. An experience under oath by oneself to never repeat again.

The intermission is over, the performer must return back to their positions. You unlatched the door, stepping back into the fluorescent lights of the House of Daena.

Alhaitham is aware of the frequency illusion, however, he’d argue that it’s no longer an illusion. The ghost has come back to haunt him. For what reason? Alhaitham’s not sure. Surely his books aren’t that overdue, and if they were then why hasn’t your hand appeared in front of him?

Instead, you left traces, whispers of your presence in the form of handkerchiefs and pressed flowers on slips of paper.

The evidence found beside the Acting Grande Sage’s lunches and piles of applications, his teal eyes always just catching the briefest viridescent wisp fleeing the scene of the crime.

The ashen-haired man finds great delight in abstruse books, the rare feeling of reading a line more than once to grasp the concepts formed on the page.

He enjoys the sporadic occurrences that challenge his sharp mind, it’s good to feel fresh thoughts run through.

Has Alhaitham found an archaic journal tucked away in some dusty corner? Perhaps he found a handwritten copy of a book, one with fewer than ten in existence. Was it a long-forgotten text that challenged contemporary beliefs?

Surely, to baffle the man known as Alhaitham, the scripts must have something reality-shattering. Like something saying that the azure sky, with its moon and sun, were nothing but mere imitations.

No. It wasn’t any print signed out from the restricted collection in the House of Daena that had Alhaitham’s mind pondering the slightest nuances. It was the librarian, currently penning his name down in the ledgers, that perplexed the towering man.

Humans are flawed in the sense that they’re uncomfortable with the concept of ‘unconditionality’. Everything has a fair price and equivalent exchange. One back was scratched in return for the same. So, what did you want?

Were you trying to form a bridge? One crafted from slips of paper and thin decorative fabric? If so, then why has your introduction yet to reach his ears?

The eyes are the window to the soul. Windows that offer indispensable insight into the other person’s agenda and convictions. For the Acting Grand Sage, it’s easier for him to gain access to the restricted vaults in the House of Daena than the librarian’s eyes.

Is it unprofessional to think that the Grand Sage, the figurehead of the Akademiya, is a menace? If you kept these thoughts to yourself then it shouldn’t be a problem, right?

Could it be the nagging of Kshahrewar students, whining over the unavailability of their holy text, that made you hypersensitive to the treatment of printed works?

The students should direct their grievances towards the ‘light’ of their Darshan, the one that defaced their holy text. You’re a librarian, not a magician you can’t make books appear from the abyss.

It was a coincidence to witness the Grand Sage, Alhaitham, enjoying a shawarma wrap under the shade of a stained-glass pavilion. There’s nothing wrong with a man just having his lunch. However, there was something very wrong with how his other hand held a book.

Paper becomes discolored in the stained area and transparent as molecules of oil fill the spaces between cellulose fibers. Over time, the parchment will become brown and brittle, the ink lifted by the fatty acids.

But what can you do? Interrupt the Grand Sage’s lunch? Lecture a superior on proper book care procedures?

You’re not dense.

Still, you could take some preventative measures. Done in the form of a handkerchief carefully folded just behind his right shoulder. He seemed too engrossed in the text to perceive your proximity to him. It was just for a few seconds anyways. You retreated.

The next incident happened within the wall of the House of Daena, where food and drinks were strictly forbidden. It was a slow day, with nothing much to do besides returning a few books back to their proper homes along the hundreds of shelves.

During one of the many trips pushing the cart back and forth along the path, a certain head of ashen hair with teal streaks fell into your peripheral. It must be a slow day for him too. The Grand Sage certainly made himself comfortable, desk piled with stacks of books strewn about.

The purse on your lips returns as one side of your cheek is sucked in. A few of the books were opened and placed paper-side down on the smooth table. You witnessed him losing interest in his current text, letting it join the spread bodies of its fellow brethren.

Laying a book face-down breaks the binding and weakens the hinges, where the covers attach to the pages. Some of those titles have existed for more than double your combined ages, think of their poor spines.

Out of pity for the aged scripts and for your own patience, while passing his table from a pocket you slipped out a clumsily made bookmark.

Fashioned from scrap paper, craft supplies, and one of the many Sumeru Roses that dotted the paths in this nation. A new hobby of yours that’s proven itself useful.

With your duty fulfilled you returned back among the towering shelves.

–

The job of a Grand Sage is demanding, much more demand than the job description of a librarian, you understood that. However, surely there are enough hours in the day for him to have lunch and read separately.

The position of Grand Sage means he often has to determine the best policies and actions. So why can’t he read one book at a time, close it properly, then pick up the next?

Being the Grand Sage must be time-consuming and hectic, but he could at least send someone to return his books before the due date.

How many handkerchiefs did you purchase in the last month alone? How many yards of decorative string? Is it possible to make the Sumeru Rose endangered? Would it be appropriate for you to itemize your purchases for reimbursement by the Akademiya?

For a person that enjoys reading printed works, it seems that he’s only concerned with the contents of the book and not its physical well-being. A menace to literature.

You were the unlucky sheep tasked with delivering the new budget proposal for the House of Daena. Stepping into the grand office after an unnecessarily long elevator ride, you wondered what violations will greet you this time, or if the elusive man was even here.

Ambling towards his desk, eyes focused on the budget in front of you, only switching position once the polished wood came into view.

Ah, he had another book face-down on the desk with one of your bookmarks just off to the side. He almost had it. Glancing up, your world momentarily stilled.

The Grand Sage was in his office after all. Chest gently rose and fell, face supported by the back of his knuckle, long lashes closed. Thank Archons, he’s asleep. Your heart restarts its tempo.

Your eyes quickly snapped back to the cover of the book, The Symposium, you recognized that title from this morning’s flip through the ledgers. It’s overdue.

There’s not even a point in sighing, you expected this. Flipping over the philosophical work you gingerly placed the bookmark in properly, then shut the covers closed.

Curious eyes wandered back to the sleeping figure in the board seat. His ashen hair looked soft as it fell across his face, lips slightly parted as quiet breaths exhaled.

From his lips, your greedy eyes began to trail down his covered arms, all the way down to the bare break that exposed his robust arm-

You stopped yourself, he’s asleep. You must be reading too many books from a certain island nation.

Is it unprofessional to think that the Grand Sage, the figurehead of the Akademiya, is attractive? If you kept these thoughts to yourself then it shouldn’t be a problem, right?

You left two pieces of parchment on his desk.

‘I’ll give a one-week extension, please return this title to the House of Daena before then.’

Alhaitham certainly didn’t expect to find this from ‘The Ghost of Due Dates Past’ when waking from a nap, he wondered if it was conquered by the remnants of sleep.

Or perhaps it was their parting gift, one last lingering trace before the ghost that haunted him for these past few months retreated back into their world. No more handkerchiefs left by his lunches. No more pressed flowers to decorate his desk. His teal eyes were unable to catch a very specific hue of viridescences.

Did the ghost slip out from under his nose again?

–

There isn’t much of a reason for Alhaitham to be at the Pardis Dhyai, after all, he’s not a Amurta scholar. Just a chore from this temporary position. His boot-clad steps made their way up the stone path blooming with lush vegetation, the view was almost enough to make up for the troublesome journey.

Keen eyes honed in on familiar ebony ears from the doorway to the greenhouse. Oh, Tighnari is here? What a rare sight.

“Please pay the late fee by the end of the week.” A certain cadence seized his attention.

“Yes, yes, I get it,” Tighnari sighed, moving to place his closed pen where he left off in the book.

“Chief Forest Ranger, please use this instead.” From your pocket emerged an all too familiar violet.

“Oh? Did you make this yourself? Mm, a Sumeru Rose, on my way here I noticed that these plants don’t seem as plentiful recently.” The forest ranger observed the bookmark in his gloved hands.

“I wouldn’t know, sir.”

Oh, so you gave those bookmarks out to anyone indiscriminately. It made sense, you’re a librarian, employed to help the patrons of the House of Daena with their literary needs.

It didn’t mean much just to hand out a few slips of paper. Something annoying and greener than the foliage scratched at Alhaitham’s neck.

–

At the Pardis Dhyai, you had a duty to fulfill, as did he. Not an appropriate time to initiate a conversation.

Thus, the ashen-haired man can only mull over the situation in the stillness of his own home. A blond architect sent out to fetch groceries to account for a certain damages fee.

A lone finger taps rhythmically on solid oak while the opposite hand supports his pondering head. As quickly as you came, you left just as suddenly. As capricious as the wind, slipping through the gaps of his fingers just as easily.

How does one catch a ghost?

Beryl gaze travels the length of the workspace, over the scattered sheets and abandoned quills, landing upon negligently stacked covers. A scheme conquers itself into existence.

Throughout history, many methods and rituals have been used to summon beings from the great beyond. As a scholar, who was he not to test those hypotheses?

The Norton Anthology of World Literature; Overdue 5 weeks

Academic Charisma and the Origins of the Research; Overdue 5 weeks

Cases on Academic Rights and Justice; Overdue 5 weeks

The Symposium; Overdue 8 weeks

Patron: Alhaitham

Ah, you can’t let this continue. It’s time for ‘The Ghost of Due Dates Past’ to collect their dues. Even if you wanted to bash your head into the ledgers.

–

Just beyond the threshold of a pavilion offering shelter from the sun's rays stood a familiar caped frame. Unabashedly reading The Symposium, back resting against the pillar.

Plugging the title into your script your lungs muster up a deep inhale, it’s time for the coward to dance on stage.

“Grand Sage.” You stopped a few paces away.

There was the gentle clatter of his belt and cape, the weight of his gaze now resting upon your shoulders, but your eyes were honed in on the cover in his clutches. You got his title this time.

Alhaitham feels he should give bygone scholars and minds more merit, a ghost can be summoned, an incentive is needed for the ritual.

“Please return The Symposium immediately, and address the payment to the House of Daena by the end of the week.” Like rehearsed, your hand reached out, palms awaiting the smooth back of the book.

His half-gloved hand shut the pages together, rotating the book horizontally, it slowly travels the distance to your hands. Your eyes chaperoned every movement, legs eager to return backstage to the House of Daena.

Just as the smooth cover brushed against the clammy skin of your palms before your fingers could fully enclose around it, the title suddenly took a detour. With it followed your attentive eyes.

It’s a childish scheme really, like a schoolyard bully using his vertical advantage to hold the object of desire just out of reach. As the saying goes, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. Such elementary actions hold some merit… because they worked.

Attentive eyes clashed with teal, stunned irises that dilated faster than the thump of your heart. You got to witness the Grand Sage’s features in all their glory for the first time, so his beryl eyes also held some citrine in them.

Instantly, your neck snapped to the side. But it’s already too late, the coward dropped their mask, shattering at their feet. Revealing to the world the scarlet face of the wimp whose sheet was stripped off their heads, there was never a ghost, only a performer.

You were standing in the shade, yet it felt as if you stumbled into the desert.

Alhaitham’s indebted to the fact you don’t look people in the eyes, such an event would prove disastrous for this institution of wisdom and rationality. Such a sight should have limited access he deems.

A sweet breeze blows through the pavilion, cooling his cheeks and yours the same, however, the ears hidden under his earphones still burned.

Throughout the House of Daena, the soft fluttering of pages turning and quills scribbling down notes could be heard. At the front, a librarian glances at the clock slowly ticking down to the hour of freedom.

“I would like to return these,” spoke a husky voice.

Your eyes traveled up from the freshly stacked books up toned forearms, reaching their final destination on a pair of impartial teal irises.

Opening up the ledger, you swiftly flipped to a familiar name. Scanning the titles you noted each one down.

The Uses of Literacy; due in 2 weeks

The Great Conversation; due in 2 weeks

Contingency, Irony, and Solidarity; due in 2 weeks

Patron: Alhaitham

“Thank you for returning the books before due, have a great evening.” You bowed a little at the Grand Sage. Gathering up the books into your hand and placing them in the return cart.

It’s past 5:30 pm, the Acting Grand Sage is now off the clock. Thus, he didn’t let one second go to waste. Long legs taking swift strides out of the grand doors of the Akademiya, skillfully dodging the searching eyes of ambitious scholars.

Ambling down the stone pathways to the bustling city center.

Entering the favored tavern of any famished local, Alhaitham places his order. Watching the clock as Lambad packed his two to-go bags.

Dropping the mora off on the counter, Alhaitham seized the freshly made dinners into his hands, exiting the tavern. Merging back into the crowded pathways until he reached his front door. Shifting the bags into one hand, he turns the silver key to his abode.

Placing the takeout bags onto the polished kitchen table, his teal eyes once again wander towards a clock, 6:10 pm.

He prepares two glasses and a bottle of wine from a secured cabinet. It’s the weekend now, there’s no risk in enjoying a few glasses tonight. Just as the ashen-haired man finished setting the table, the unlocked door lightly creaks ajar.

Your frame soon comes into view, arms stretched above your head to loosen the tension that comes with a desk job. A breathy yawn followed the release of tight muscles along your back, walking into the kitchen where Alhaitham stood.

“You’ve worked hard today.”

You hummed in agreement, hand gently rubbing the fatigue from your eyes as the delicious scent of tandoori roast chicken beckoned your nose.

Food and drinks were strictly forbidden in the House of Daena, and you’re quite ravenous. Advancing toward the paper bag located on your side of the table with an eager bounce in your step.

Only to be blocked by a toned arm.

“Aren’t you forgetting something, my librarian?” Inquired a low voice.

You glanced up at the hurdle that dare separate you from a delicious meal, lip pursed out just the slightest bit.

“I returned my books before due, desired behavior requires positive reinforcement.” There’s a glint in his beryl eyes.

You huffed, you should’ve known he was feeling a bit cheeky today from the moment he stepped foot into the library. Still, he’s right, good behavior deserves a reward.

Tenderly your hands clasped around his soft cheeks, guiding his face downwards as you straighten your back. His ashen locks tickled you as you awarded the towering man his prizes.

Your lips gingerly press themselves against his features, the warmth of your burning cheeks felt soothing to him, and you could feel the upward pull of his lips.

Once on the forehead, once under his eye, once on the nose, and… one final time against his soft lips.

Quickly pulling away, the slow blink followed by a slightly quirked eyebrow tells you enough about his thoughts.

“The last one was a thanks for the food.” You turned your flaming cheeks away, settling down and releasing your meal from the confines of the bag.

Your lover hums in understanding, a cheeky smirk ever so clear on his usually stoic face. Regardless, he moves to his side of the table and unpacks his dinner, filling two glasses with fragrant wine.

A clink signified the start of your dinner ritual, performed away from prying eyes.

Somewhere during the comfortably quiet dinner, Alhaitham’s hand by habit inched towards the book placed just off to the side, violet bookmark recording his last endeavor among the text.

Just as quickly as it started, his hand stopped. Like a stern swat, your eyes pierced into the back of his hand. A silent warning. He withdrew his hand back to his side, deciding to practice proper dining manners, for you of course.

Satisfied, your attention returns back to the seasoned meat and sauces on your plate, fork and knife quickly getting to work.

Alhaitham’s perfectly spiced food took a backseat in his mind, eyes more interested in observing the endearing fullness of your cheeks as you chewed.

Inquisitive irises returned his stare, he sees the teal that reflected off. How could the corners of his mouth not lift at the sight in front of him?

Please keep your eyes on him, so that he may continue to watch you for now and for the far future. His librarian.

Fin~

#alhaitham x reader #al-haitham x you #alhaitham x y/n #alhaitham x yn #genshin impact x you #genshin x you #genshin impact x reader #alhaitham x you #genshin x reader #genshin alhaitham #alhaitham fanfic #alhaitham fluff #genshin fanfic #genshin fluff #vivalabunbunfics #al haitham x reader #alhaitham scenarios #alhaitham imagines

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always-andromeda · 7 months ago

Text

𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐫

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⟡ Javi Gutierrez x F!Reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ⟡ 2,685

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ⟡ A lull in your relationship with Javi leads to some revelations about both of your interests.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ⟡ so this was a new one for me. this piece is part of @iamasaddie's kinky writing challenge for May and my pairing was Javi G with impact play. I am happy to report that I enjoyed researching this more than I thought I would? I found some really interesting kink blogs that kind of walked me through safe practices and it started to paint the picture in my mind that would become this fanfic. big disclaimer: I've never practiced impact play in real life. my depiction of it comes primarily from the research I've done and what I know of my own personal preferences and I've tried my best to depict a healthy dynamic. so if I'm getting something wrong or I'm depicting anything in an unhealthy way, feel free to let me know!! divider credits go to @saradika-graphics!!

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ⟡ smut (minors, do not interact), impact play, oral (female receiving), aftercare, pet names (hermosa, baby), reader is given no physical description aside from being able bodied, allusions to past negative experiences with sex (nothing specific is described), a little bit of soft!dom/switch Javi, please let me know if any more are needed!

It’s not that you weren’t satisfied with Javi. The sex had almost always been fine. Hell, most times it was fantastic; better than anything you’d had before. There certainly wasn’t any love lost between you and him. You’d always adore him and the beautiful life you’d built with him by the sea in Mallorca.

At first you thought it might have been the passing of time that spurred this particular…yearning. After all, don’t most couples go through these patches after a few years? But it quickly became apparent that this wasn’t a fleeting desire. Days passed and you kept going back to the same blog: Impact Play For Beginners.

The first time you’d stumbled across it, you hadn’t paid it much mind. You were looking for ways to spice things up with Javi. But it didn’t seem like him. As your eyes flitted over images of paddles, whips, and canes, all you could think of was how uncomfortable he’d most likely be. The idea of that turned you off, of course.

But you didn’t stay off for very long at all.

Perhaps it was the fact that he felt so safe that made the idea so enticing to begin with. You’d never been with anyone who approached sex as healthily as Javi did. He’d always been fervent with his desires. At the same time, he’d never made you feel like you had to do anything. There was always foreplay, regular check-ins, aftercare, and the ability to say no to whatever, whenever.

It was refreshing. Relieving. And that’s what made it so rough, thinking about possibly bringing something new into the equation. But, Javi had always been big on communication. You trusted that the same principles would apply here. So that’s why you brought it up.

Javi had been open but hesitant about it. At face value, this kink really wasn’t his style. He favored a softer approach. He couldn’t imagine laying a hand on you and causing any sort of harm. But in all honesty…the idea excited you.

The more you looked into it, the more you began to draw some hard lines in the sands of your mind. First and foremost, no toys. As exciting as a crop looked, you weren’t sure if you were prepared for that. At least not yet. For now, you were sticking with the advice of various kink blogs you’d scrolled through and starting off with hands only. Not only were those the instruments that piqued your interest in the first place, they also put you the most at ease. It felt poetic somehow; his usually gentle hands delivering both pleasure and pain this time.

Another aspect you started to delve into were on and off limit body parts. That was the moment Javi set a boundary of his own. “Nothing with your face. I’m not touching your gorgeous face, hermosa,” he’d said with the softest puppy dog eyes. And you didn’t argue. You weren’t feeling comfortable with that either.

No, you’d start out in the safest zones possible, the places that would be least likely to get injured: your ass and thighs.

Then came the scheduling. You both agreed on a weekend night just so there was an adequate amount of time for recovery before either of you had to worry about work.

You stand in front of the vanity mirror in your bedroom. Part of you feels like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff as you stare at the lingerie clad figure being reflected back at you. With the night that’s ahead of you, you figured it’d be safest to wear something you’re familiar with sans the bottoms for easier access. It’s a simple chemise that’s comfortable enough, yet it hugs your body in a way that you know both you and Javi enjoy. You try to focus on that thought as you think.

The most reassuring part is that you aren’t afraid. As much as you’d wanted this, you’d also wondered if you would be. Instead you’re all raw nerves. And the electricity thrumming from them only calms when Javi appears in the mirror behind you.

You watch his dark eyes trace over your body in the mirror. It’s a sight he’s seen probably hundreds of times at this point, yet he still looks like it’s the first time he’s laid eyes on you.

“You are so beautiful, hermosa,” Javi breathes out in genuine awe. “Gorgeous.”

Your cheeks warm at the dose of flattery.

Javi’s hands start at your shoulders and you relax into them. The heels of his palms knead the muscles that seem to be perpetually knotted up. You close your eyes and picture that taut tissue slowly and carefully unwinding itself. A small sigh escapes you. It sows hope within you knowing that he’s willing to step out of his comfort zone for this. But it also brings you comfort; he’ll always take care of you just like this.

“Are we doing okay, so far?” Javi mumbles.

You stifle a small laugh and the urge to say, “We’ve barely started anything.”

Because you know this is new for him. You try to remember that you’re new at this too. Don’t go too far, too fast. Pace yourself, you say internally.

“We’re alright,” you finally assure him.

“Promise me you’ll use your safe word if you need to.”

You meet his gaze in the mirror. He eyes you with furrowed brows and his lips in a thin line. His hands still work at your shoulders; work you into the most soothing rhythm that makes you want to fall asleep. But the fire that fills your bones makes you feel more alive than ever.

You nod and then turn to face him. “I will. I promise.”

Your hands find his cheeks and cup them. In that moment you’re holding your entire world. And you’re trusting him to fulfill some of your most vulnerable fantasies.

Your lips meet his and it all starts to fall together. He’s warm and tastes vaguely of citrus. His hands land on the globes of your ass and he gives them a good squeeze. A moan slowly rises in his throat. If there was one thing you knew Javi was looking forward to, it was paying more attention to that part of you. Besides, there was no way you could miss the way he looked at the pictures on one of the kink blogs you’d scrolled through together. Shots of a woman’s back. Bright red marks in the shape of a hand on her ass.

His eyes had been so wide, simply staring at them as you read through tips for beginners.

“You wouldn’t want marks like that…would you?” he’d asked then.

The note of hopefulness in his voice was palpable. He’d never been good at concealing his emotions, especially around you.

“I don’t know…maybe,” you’d replied coyly before admitting, “I kind of like the idea of it. Of having that reminder of you.” As if everything else wasn’t enough. As if you needed to see the evidence of his love represented by blemishes on your skin. That was the thing about Javi though, his whole being was so infectious. You needed him to inhabit every part of your life. You needed to see his handprints on you like you needed to breathe.

Anticipation sends a shiver up your spine as you lay on your stomach along the foot of the bed you share with him. Propped up on your elbows, you arched your back in order to better present your ass to him.

He takes a moment to lean over your form. You already feel a bit of a bulge poke the back of your thighs. At least he’s starting to enjoy himself, you grin.

“Are you ready to begin?” Javi asks. You hum absently only to be met with a brief pause before he adds, “Words, hermosa. Words.”

“Yes, sir,” you say, voice raised louder this time. You don’t see his expression, but you can imagine the way it stutters based on the silence that follows.

Javi thankfully doesn’t leave you with too much time to second guess yourself before you hear his chuckle, “Very good job. I’m already so proud of you.”

He stands again and continues gentle ministrations on your upper thighs. Once again you feel as though you could simply fall asleep. And there’s something secure in feeling like you could. You’re safe.

A pleasant flush builds on the surface of your skin. You can feel the blood coursing through your veins as Javi warns, “I’m going to give you the first strike. Then we’ll go from there, alright?”

“Alright. I’m ready,” you affirm. And you mean it.

A few seconds later, you feel a light slap on your ass. It’s almost playful. And it doesn’t satisfy the craving within. You start to squirm, hoping to suppress some of the restlessness brewing in your chest.

“Easy, hermosa. Good girls stay patient,” Javi says. You’re not quite used to hearing such language come from him. But it’s perfectly in line with his desire to care for you. It’s how you feel confident that you’re both on the same page. He doesn’t want you overwhelming yourself either. So despite the soft start, you don’t feel any disappointment.

You do what you’re told and stay patient.

The slaps don’t startle you until one leaves a particular sting that awakens a heartbeat in your core. For the moment it lives, it means everything to you. The initial jolt, along with that expectant throb, subsides a little too quickly for your liking. You fist the silk sheets beneath you just to find purchase in something.

“Keep going like that,” you whisper breathlessly, wanting to chase that feeling to the ends of the Earth.

And Javi lets you. He slaps your ass once, twice, three more times and each one builds the heat that crackles along your flesh like thunderclaps. On the fourth slap you finally gasp a small, “Fuck.” You feel yourself clench around nothing. But Javi still groans as if he was inside you.

“You like this, hm?” he growls.

“So fucking much,” you whimper.

Smack.

The impact is hard enough that it makes you jump. More importantly, you feel that throb once more. Your belly fills with butterflies as you start to realize that it’s fucking working for you.

You try to imagine what you must look like from his point of view. Ass up, head bowed, gasping between blows. You bet that based on your position, from where he stands, he’s probably getting a peek at your cunt too. And if it looks anything like it feels, you’ve got to be glistening. You’ve got to have the most inviting look about you. And the fact that that vulnerability still doesn’t scare you…your head feels lost in the clouds.

You feel Javi’s fingers drag over the curve of your ass before they stop just short of your cunt. He says suddenly, “Fuck, I need you. I need to taste you. Please?” he begs.

All you can manage is a whine along with a swift nod before rolling around on your back. Just as quickly, Javi is on his knees, dragging you down the bed by your ankles until he’s almost face to face with your cunt. You can feel just how swollen your lips are. And as he begins to lap at your slick, you know that you haven’t gotten this wet in a while. It fulfills something inside you that you hadn’t expected.

Your thighs and your ass burn, but it only adds to the pleasure gradually filling your belly. The pain and pleasure come together in a gorgeous harmony that has your hips rocking along against Javi’s mouth. His warm tongue fucks you as your clit rubs against his nose. It’s a classic position that’s only heightened with the knowledge that when you wake up in the morning, his handprints are going to be on your ass.

You’re shamelessly rutting against him now. Fingers knitted through his hair, you ride out the mounting pressure like you’ll die if you don’t. And Javi – being the pleaser he is – enjoys it. Between breaths, he groans, sending vibrations through you that seem to rattle your bones.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you whine.

“Mhm,” Javi hums desperately. “Go ahead, you can get there, hermosa. Just use me, please.”

Tears start to slip down the sides of your temples. Flashes of all the men you’ve been with before fill your head. You think of all the times you weren’t in control. All the times you felt you didn’t have a say in what was going to happen to your own body. And those memories only remind you that none of that is true anymore. Right here and right now, you’re with Javi. And he’s indulged in something you would’ve been too afraid to express to anyone else. All he wants is to please you. And that only makes your tears flow faster.

You’re going to combust. Javi Gutierrez is going to make you fucking explode and you don’t even care. You’ve gotten yours. As long as he too gets to feel the impact of his kindness, you’re satisfied.

Just like that, the bomb goes off and you’re on fire as pleasure rips through you. You’re in pieces. Legs wrapped around Javi’s upper half, heels digging into the muscles of his back, and hands keeping him held in place; keeping what’s left of you together in a shaky embrace.

It takes a few seconds for the shock to melt away. Somehow you catch your breath and finally remove your hands from Javi’s curls to wipe away your tears. If you weren’t tired before, you’re exhausted now. More than the physical satisfaction, you couldn’t have foreseen the emotional release.

Your ass and your thighs don’t quite hurt anymore. It’s more of a soft ache; a rolling wave you ride on until it passes, leaving your head floating in a placid ocean of bliss. This naturally comes with some swirls of catharsis and sentimentality. They both buzz in your mind and you're only distantly aware of it when Javi gets up to wet a washcloth.

When he returns, he cleans you up the way he always does. Asking if he’s alright to touch you in various places and letting you know before he does so you’re not startled. You pay just enough attention to hum in agreement as he carefully parts your thighs to wipe up the remnants of slick and spit.

Javi finishes the job a minute or two later, leaving once more to add the washcloth to the laundry basket in your closet. Then you feel the mattress dip as Javi lays beside you, looking spent without even taking off a shred of his own clothing.

You return to your own mind for a moment. Enough to turn, lay on your side, and send him a worried look. “Oh, I’m so sorry, baby. Do you need me to take care of you?”

Javi laughs lightly, “No. It’s alright, hermosa. You don’t need to take care of anything for me.”

“Are you sure?”

A soft smile forms on his face. “You’re happy, right?”

You nod.

“Good. I’m happy too. We don’t need anything else.”

Javi tenderly places a hand on your lower back and pulls you a little closer towards his chest, his grin growing. “Besides, I can’t wait to see those marks in the morning.”

His expression is so contagious you can’t help but return it before placing a kiss on his nose. “Me neither,” you whisper. Within a few days those marks he most certainly left would start to take on a purple hue before fading into a yellowish undertone. The prospect of seeing that progression fills your stomach with butterflies once more. Surely you both prepared enough that they wouldn’t take long to heal. But that doesn’t bring you down in the slightest. Because as long as Javi is willing to, when those marks do go away, you and him get to make them all over again.

Thank you so much for reading!! If you enjoyed, please consider reblogging; it's massively appreciated!!

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