Or: When a certain bat happens to both be your ex and sneaking into your place in the middle of the night.
Warnings: Minors dni, I couldn't resist the voices in my head so there's smut in this one! — Reader is afab / has a vag, but still referred to with gender neutral terms. Dry humping, unprotected piv, little bit of bodily fluids talk, cream pie. Bruce is a little bit of a freak and likes that his injuries hurt while they're at it, whoops - so little bit of pain play. Ex's to maybe back to lovers (cause no direct reconciliation yk), injury and blood talk, hurt-comfort. // Proof read once after i finished writing which means will probably be edited at some point for all the things I somehow missed // Long (5.9k-ish / 6k words) + mature content so it's under the cut!
Morph's thoughts: I've been thinking about Bruce and makeup sex for too long to not write this. I've also been thinking about Bruce himself too much not to write this lol // Been a hot minute since i wrote a full-on smut so apologies if I'm a bit rusty, also didn't realise how lonog it was until i had to add my dividers after getting all my text here because i forgot to do them before hand lmao // If I've forgotten any warnings, do let me know :)
It was late at night, that much you knew even without having to look at the alarm clock's glowing red numbers. You'd already gone to bed past the time you would've liked, too caught up with finishing some paperwork to realise how much you'd regret the decision come morning. A grunt almost echoing in the quiet of the night when you finally had let your body fall into the soft bed, drifting off almost immediately. And now, at most an hour after —if your lack of deep sleep is anything to go by— you're conscious again due to a loud thump coming from the adjacent room.
With a sigh, you're kicking the sheets off before your eyes are fully open, one hand blindly reaching for a worn zip-up hoodie while you round the bed. You ignore the quick flash of awareness that strikes you, the one that points out how you're way too calm for someone who has been woken up in the middle of the night by the sound of someone breaking into your place while living in Gotham, of all places.
Still, you know you're right in paying it no mind, because when you open the door to your bedroom, you find exactly what you were expecting. Across from you, all broad shoulders and looming height —more of a shadow than he is person— is standing the city's Bat. Or rather, leaning; body hunched slightly forward and to the side, one shoulder resting against the hallway's wall while the opposite arm reaches across his chest to hold somewhere along his ribs.
Your eyes find his, knowing where to look even through the white slits of the cowl, and you both enter a mix between a staring contest and what would seem like a telepathic conversation. Even without being able to see his face or having him mutter any words, just by the fact that he's standing in your apartment —probably having left blood marks on your carpet, that he will replace without you having to ask— you know what he's asking for. He doesn't have to say it to know he's hoping on a truce, a moment where the both of you can ignore how bad your last conversation had gone, how definitive the conclusion had been.
You could kick him out. Just a nod towards the cracked window he had sneaked through, and he'd be gone without any questioning. But you know that him leaving then would mean he'd leave completely, and that seems like too heavy of a decision to make in the middle of the night.
Instead you walk towards him, waiting for him to adjust his grip on his messed up ribs before sliding under his free arm, making sure to lean his good side against you as you drag more than walk him to your couch. Despite how gentle you try to be when setting him down, he all but flops onto the cushions, letting out a strangled groan that has even you wincing at what you're sure must be searing pain.
Murmuring a little apology under you breath, you make sure to adjust his arms and legs, affording him as much comfort as possible despite the bulk of kevlar and injuries loitering his skin. For a second you check his pulse, only feeling sure about leaving to fetch the first aid kit when it proves to be stable.
It barely takes you a minute, heading into the bathroom and back to the couch, but it seems to be enough for Bruce to feel like giving you a heart attack. With panicked speed you set the kit on the coffee table, gripping both sides of his head that has gone limp to the side. Ignoring how fast your hands starts to tremble, you make sure to keep him in a properly aligned position before sliding the cowl off.
Neither of you react when it clanks to the floor, instead your focus resides on pressing too fingers to the side of his neck, checking again for a still present but a little too-soft pulse before you're giving his cheek a couple pats. "Bruce? Bruce, can you hear me?"
A mix of relief and a strong want to punch him square in the face flood you alike when his eyes flutter a bit, head barely able to bob in agreement in your grip. "Mhm, hear you."
The mix of emotions comes out as a huff through your nose, hands still a little shaky as you make sure a throw pillow is properly supporting his neck this time. "Yeah? Then listen to me closely, don't fucking do that again." He's the one releasing a small puff of air now, one supposed to carry amusement even if it portrays the weight of his bones better.
"Eyes open," the reminder comes softer now, said at the same time as you click the closest lamp on, adjusting it so it gives you proper sight of his state.
It's pitiful, really. Half lidded eyes barely able to hold your gaze, puffy in one side, skin raising in a way that seems painful just by the sight of it. Skin quickly turning purple, spading onto the bridge of his nose and transitioning to the cooler yet still-dark tone of his other eye's bags. Tracing down doesn't make it any better, a split lip that is still bleeding, red smudged against his jaw and part of his neck, explaining the slight dampness on your right hand and the metallic smell that seems to be clinging to the air since he laid down.
By now you're an expert in both dismantling the bat's armour piece by piece and ignoring the way his barely-focused eyes follow every single one of your movements. Another sigh leaves you when the last bit is off, all of them piled onto an old towel and moved to the side so you can kneel beside him once more.
"Gonna tell me where it hurts?" despite your question, you don't really wait for an answer, already taking note of the few places his underlayer has been either ripped or sliced through. Before he can gather his thoughts enough to say anything you lean down, pressing you ear to his chest and listening to make sure there's no weird sounds that could mean there's broken ribs or punctured organs.
It all seems relatively normal, aside for the more laborious breath that comes with the pain he's in —and perhaps the feeling of having you lean on him—. You sit back on your heels a moment later, rummaging through the kit before getting out all you'll need to disinfect and stitch his cuts.
"One cut on the shoulder, two on the side. Knife. Should be good with stitches. Bruised ribs. Busted lip and a very bruised eye and knee." You trail the words off while doing your prep, eyes too focused on threading the needle to notice the hint of a smile on his lips or the satisfaction that seems to radiate from him when the thought of you sounding just like Alfred crosses his mind. "Am i forgetting something? Barring scrapes and smaller bruises."
This time you look at him when he lets out a gravely sound, starting by cleaning the blood that has made it to his neck and cheek while he does his best to answer. "'S pretty much it."
"Doesn't seem like there's anything broken or any internal bleeding. Should get a CT to know for sure, though." A barely contained huff leaves through your nose at his grunt of complaint, head shaking a bit in disapproval before you're moving a bit further down his body, clipping away his tattered shirt and disinfecting the multiple wounds covering his torso. "Right. So you're here instead of getting screened at the cave."
He just hums in agreement, because saying that is easier than having to explain that he consciously made his way to your place while actively bleeding out instead of letting the self-driving mode in the bat-mobile take him back to Alfred's much more experienced care.
"What happened to you anyway?" Both you know you don't really want to know it, you'd always kept a bit of space between yourself and the Bat's doings, mostly to avoid worrying yourself sick. But getting him to talk was a good way to keep an eye on his level of consciousness while you were busy stitching his wounds closed.
So that's what you do, nodding along as he goes on about how he thinks Two-Face and The Penguin might have struck a deal, about all the clues he'd found of an interchange happening at the docks that night and how it had ended up being a trap. You refrain from pointing out that the docks is pretty much across the city from you apartment, instead focusing on applying an antibiotic ointment over the stitches and finally covering them up with soft gauze.
He's already looking at you when you turn back to him, his eyes slowly scanning over your face for a moment before a hand slowly reaches out for your own, as if he were approaching a scared animal instead. The hint of a frown that had settled on his brows smoothing down when you don't pull away, even when his fingers loosely wrap around yours.
"Thank you," it's quiet, gravely. Like every syllable is weighted by all the times he knows he should've said it but didn't. You just give a light nod, not returning the grip of his hand, but not minding that it stays around yours either.
"Wasn't going to let you bleed out," it's soft, followed by a light bite to you lip when you tilt his head to the side with your free hand, noticing how much worse his blue eye has become, now almost shut due to inflammation. "It needs ice." His response is a light nod, and yet his hold doesn’t loosen.
"Bruce."
There's a light hum of acknowledgement, but his eyes are almost pleading when he blinks at you.
"I'm just going to get the ice. Will be back in a moment," it seems convincing enough for him to let go this time. Although you can hear him shift to try and keep an eye on you as you make your way to the adjacent kitchen.
He's trying to play it cool when you finally get back, lying how you had left him. Still, his hand finds yours as soon as you're back at his side. "You're staying the night here," it's not a question and he knows. "You're stable, but i can’t know how much blood you've lost and you could pass out on your way back."
There's not a single peep from him, not about the decision nor the way you press the ice pack to his bruised-shut eye. He just slides his hand a bit higher, fingers tracing random shapes against your wrist—just over your pulse point— as you lean close to his side, making sure the swelling is going down.
The hour is unclear , but by the time the ice has mostly melted the deep purples of Gotham's night sky are melting into cool shades of blue, the closest to a hint of the early sun rising. Bruce has drifted off at some point, fingers now laced with yours, head tilted into the hand that was holding the ice pack in place for him.
You know you should get up and go back to bed, your alarm is bound to go off in a couple hours at most and you've got a busy day waiting for you at the office. Bruce would know where you were whenever he woke up, he'd get his things ready and leave straight for the cave, like he'd done before. There wouldn't be questions asked, just quiet understanding. This night would only be a parenthesis in your much needed distance.
Instead you take the melted pack back to the kitchen, make sure your alarm is off and send a last minute email about a sick leave before you're back at his side.
✴︎⋅ ┈ ⋆⋅☆⋅𖤓⋅☆⋅⋆ ┈ ⋅✴︎
The sun is definitely out by the time you wake up, the light seeping through the curtains carrying a silver hue rather than a golden one, thanks to the very unsurprising clump of clouds covering the city's sky. You should have a sore neck by now, given the unceremonious way you'd slumped against the side of the couch before drifting of.
Instead you're considerably comfortable, if a little squished. It doesn’t take long for your brain to register the line of a warm body pressed against yours, even less for it to recognise the familiar scent right under your nose. There must be some sort of tell, your breathing pattern must change or light tension has to appear in your muscles because before you can shift away, his arm is tightening around you. Mostly to avoid letting you slip over the edge, but also to make sure you stay against him for a little longer.
"Bruce," the scolding tone easily carries on from the night before, and so does his stubbornness. With a huff of air against the back of your neck, he just presses you back into his chest until you're flush against him, one of his legs petulantly tangling between yours.
"You shouldn't even be laying on your side!"
Your efforts to make him see reason prove sorely useless. Instead he just tucks his face into the crook of your neck, a happy little sigh leaving through his nose and against your skin as your familiar scent surrounds him.
"Seriously, Bruce this is not—"
"Don't leave," it's incredibly quiet, something you're only sure you hear because of how close to your ear it has been said. His chin rests on top of your head now, his hand gripping right over your hipbone. "Just… For a moment. Let me feel like it's still the same. Like we are."
That's where you should have pulled away, get up and and do one last check over on his injuries before sending him on his merry way. You should have said no and kept up the walls and distance you had so carefully built up over the last few weeks. You really should have.
Instead you give in, eyes closing as you let the tension release from your muscles, the lack of force making them go slack against his body. You try to ignore it, the way your contours fit perfectly, how the warmth that radiates from his skin to yours feels like coming home after a long day. For a moment you're sure you can feel it, his heartbeat against your back, perfectly synchronizing with yours.
It's too much, feeling like everything settles into place when you're with him. A lingering regret getting louder in the back of your mind, questioning if this right now wasn't the perfect spot to be in, to return to. So you do the only thing you know will distract you long enough from it. "You better not have lifted me while I was asleep."
"Nothing's broken."
"That doesn't make it any better." Despite your annoyed scoff, he only pulls you closer. "You really shouldn't do any force right now, and you know it perfectly."
A dismissive hum leaves Bruce and against the skin of your shoulder, his lips brushing in a barely-there kiss before his face is tucked against the curve of your neck. "Had worse."
"That doesn't help your case either."
"I know. Still rings true, though."
He takes your silence like a small victory, shifting once more so you can be fully enveloped by him now. The armrest of the couch doesn't hold the weight of your head anymore, the firm yet tender plush of his bicep taking the spot now. Equally, his arm isn't draped over your middle as a make-shift safety measure anymore, now fully enveloping your body to hold it as close as physics allow.
"I'm sorry." It's a quiet mutter, something he acknowledges at least a few minutes later, long enough for the shadows projected by the cloudy skies to have shifted around and created new light patches across the quiet room. "'Bout everything, not just bleeding on your pillows."
As much as your chest tightens and your breath seems to get caught in your throat, you can't help the small amused huff that leaves through your nose. "Been through worse."
He hums lightly, giving a squeeze of acknowledgement at the same time his lips brush another almost imperceptible kiss to your neck. "Shouldn't have."
You both know it's not about the pillows you're talking about, but neither of you dare to say it overtly. Instead you let you weight sink in a little further into the couch, head tilting back and giving him the chance to place another kiss on your neck, this one a little more confident, more tangible.
"'M trying." It comes after a few more minutes and kisses, and gets a light hum from you. One of your hands reaches down, finding the arm his has around your middle, nails lightly brushing the skin and causing goosebumps to spread through his body. "For you."
The room falls into a comfortable silence once more and you know it's definitely been a while this time —even suspecting you might have drifted in and out of sleep for a bit— because the next time you pay attention, the clouds seem to have given Gotham a break, golden rays seeping through the curtains.
There's a light squeeze to your hip then, and when Bruce doesn't fully release you, you understand the intention behind it. Carefully to both avoid slipping off the edge and to avoid bumping into any of his bruises, you slowly turn around in his arms.
Your breath catches a bit when you finally settle on your opposite side, because out of your medical attention last night —because even if you'd leaned in to check his state, it had been done while in survival mode—, this is the closest you've been to him since the split. Your chest is practically flush against his and your legs are fully tangled with his now. You can feel every breath he takes in, a soft brush of air against your forehead every time he lets it out.
"You look horrible," you murmur after a moment, eyes tracing over his half-shut, black and blue eye, the loitering of scratches on his forehead and cheeks. Your eyes land on his lips and you try hard to convince yourself is due to the crusted-up blood that shows his split lip is starting to heal, and not due to anything else.
A gruff little laugh leaves him, one that has him wincing at the pain and your hand quickly reaching out to cover his ribs, as if the touch would make the deep seated pain magically fizzle out.
"You look beautiful."
Fuck, you hate it. You hate the way you love the softness in his tone, the sincerity in his eyes. You hate that you feel like you've been struck by lightning and like a thousand butterflies have materialised in your stomach with the only purpose of fluttering like crazy just because his knuckles carefully caress down the slope of your cheek. In a hopeless effort you forget his ribs to hold onto his wrist, but all it accomplishes is for his warm palm to settle on your skin instead.
"You've always been."
Again, you're struck with a wave of awareness, of clarity on how this is just making everything so much worse and complicated for the two of you. Helping him last night was one thing, but letting him stay the night, then the morning and now this… You had to get up, help him up and back into his clothes, into a car that would take him directly to the Manor. You had to do anything but let this continue.
He leans in, chapped lips brushing against your forehead. And all you can do is let your eyes flutter shut when it's followed with a kiss to your temple, to the spot between your brows and down the bridge of your nose, to either of your cheeks and on your chin. There's a moment of pause, a beat where you give each other the time to do anything but this. Instead his lips land on yours.
It's tentative at first, barely there brushes where all the unsaid words seem to float between you. But then you hand moves up to rest over his on your cheek, your fingers perfectly slotting in the space between his, and suddenly it's like puzzle has been solved.
Much more decisive and fervent, one kiss turns into two and then three, enough for you to lose count and taste blood at some point. You pull back for a second at the metallic feeling on your tongue, easily spotting the source. His lips are glossy and kiss bitten, the split bit clearly having been irritated enough for the scab to give out and blood to slip though again.
"Love, you're—"
You don't get time to realise what you've said before he's back on you, yet another kiss muffling your words and completely erasing them from your thoughts. Bruce adjusts then, one hand staying on your cheek while the other pushes off the couch and lets him hover over you. A chocked grunt leaves him and against your lips, one that clearly shows the move has hurt like a bitch. Still he doesn't stop, barely getting air before his tongue is licking the corner of your lips and into your mouth to tangle with yours.
"Say it again," It's muffled and lost in between kisses, a mutter that you oversee, too busy feeling his taste after so long, sliding your hands over his sides and against the warm skin of his broad back.
Your focus seems to snap back into place when he whispers your name against your lips, one of your hands finding its home in his hair when you manage to blink bleary eyes at him. "Saying it again, darling. Call me that again."
He shifts down a bit, just enough so that his kisses can follow the shape of your jaw and the slope of your neck, so he can nibble and lick to every weak little spot he's come to know so well after so long by your side.
It's with a little gasp that you finally comply, one hand lightly tugging at his dark locks when he nibbles on that sensitive bit by your clavicle. "Bruce- My love."
Neither of you are sure wether the grunt that leaves him is out of pleasure or pain, but he's planting his forearm by your head and leaning his weight on just one side again, his free hand busy guiding your legs apart and around his waist.
You're the one letting a choked out little groan when he carefully lets his weight down on you, the bulge barely contained under his boxer briefs pressing right where you needed it to. He happily complies when the hand on his hair lightly tugs up, his hips giving an excruciatingly slow roll while he muffles the noise that leaves you with another kiss.
It's due to he insistent pain on his side —or that's how you try to justify it to yourself— the reason as to why he keeps on teasing you with slow grinding motions, every roll of his hips making you feel his full length through the thin layers between you.
In reality you don't care why it is, because while Bruce keeps his composure perfectly, maintaining the same rhythm, able to kiss your lips and your neck and chest like nothing is happening, you're an absolute mess under him. Your hands are trailing all over him, his hair is all ruffled by now, you've touched and groped everywhere; his arms, his shoulders, his well-defined pecs and up and down his broad back.
You're really trying, being mindful of the bruises and the bandages, but you're sure your clothes are soaked through now —you're sure he knows they are—, and he just keeps on going. Even when you whine and moan, when you tug at his hair and drag your nails down the expanse of his back. It just gets a pleased grunt and a harder rut from him, a grumbled «getting feisty» against your ear while he keeps on torturing you.
"Love," that seems to get his attention, eyes focusing on you from under his unfairly long lashes, giving you the chance to notice how the blue has been mostly swallowed by his dilated pupils. "Need to actually feel you, now."
Shit, you would've said so way sooner if you'd known that was all it would take. Despite the way his stitches pull and his muscles burn with the effort, Bruce sits up, making a quick job of getting your sleep shorts and underwear off of your and somewhere on the living room's floor. He doesn't have the same patience for his own boxers, just tugging them low enough to get himself out of them before his blanketing over you once more.
You could lose your mind with the way he drags against you when he gets back in position, with the firm press of him against your slick skin, the way he's just shy of pushing into your entrance.
Maybe that's what he wants, to drive you completely mad. Because he's taking his sweet time with it, guiding one of your legs around his waist before carefully doing it with the other. He pushes some hair out of your face and leans in so his forehead is against yours, and just when you think you're going to fully lose your sanity, he guides one of your hands off his shoulder and to wrap around him.
"I'm sorry." It's a quiet whisper, just like it had been earlier, more a brush of his lips against yours than it is a sound. You feel it all the same. "For that night, for last night too. For not being better. For not saying it before."
There's a pause for a moment, a sigh that leaves him and some saliva that is swallowed to push down a quickly-forming not that threatens constrain his throat. He pecks your lips before he continues.
"I love you. I'm incredibly bad at showing it. I know, and I'm sorry for that too. But I do love you. More than anything."
His eyes search yours and you know exactly what he's asking with them. You also know you don't need words for it, instead your face tilts forward so you can stop the million thoughts running through his mind with a kiss.
At the same time your hand adjusts between you, guiding him so his tip nudges right at your entrance. All you need to do is give a light squeeze of your legs around his hips and he's pressing forward, sinking into your welcoming heat in one smooth movement.
It seems to constrain his lungs just as much as it does yours, chocked little gasps being shared in the minuscule space between your mouths, everything else seeming to fade away when a shudder runs down your back at feeling this full again.
Bruce has always been a caring lover, so it's no surprise when he stays fully pressed into you, murmuring praise of how well you're taking him, how good you feel and how much he's missed you while you get used to him again. He trails kisses everywhere while the words spill from him, once more biting through the pain so he can push your shirt up and kiss as far as he can reach, every touch reverent.
He knows what's coming when your hands cup his cheeks, when you guide him so his hooded eyes can find your equally as hazy ones. Still, he waits for you to give the green light.
Your head bobs lightly, a little nod while he leans further into you, breaths mingling once more. "Go on. Move for me, love. Show me how much you've missed me."
That's all he needs to fall into the same slow and deep rhythm as before. And for how desperate and pent up it had made you feel when it had been a dry drag over fabric, now —when you can feel all of him with every roll of his hips, when a whimper threatens to leave you when he's almost fully out just to press back in and to the hilt, and a mix of a wet squelch and the slap of skin on skin is all that fills the room— you can't help but cling to him and hope he'll keep doing just that for the rest of time.
His voice gets gruffer and more breathless with every minute that ticks by due to the restrain it's taking him to keep going like this; to make the effort to feel every bit of your gummy walls and the way they seem insistent on pulling him back in with every thrust, to keep focused despite how pretty you sound and look under him. It feels like his brain is buzzing in his skull every time you mumble a praise, every time you ask him to keep going, to hit that plushy spot again. He's worried it could just shut off when he tilts his hips just right to make you moan his name.
There's moments where he just has to muffle them with kisses, when he needs to feel your mouth against his and focus on only that feeling unless he wants to finish much too early.
It's until he feels another squeeze of your legs around him, your back arching and hips managing to meet his thrust for thrust, that's how long his decisive nature lasts. Because then you're whimpering a soft little «need more, love» against his ear and he knows he can't handle it anymore.
He straightens out, just enough to cage your head in between his forearms, to look down at the way your head presses back against the couch cushions and your glossy and kiss-bitten lips part to let out moans of his name when he puts more weight on his knees. His thrusts increasingly gaining force until one hand has to cup over the top of your head given the way they make your whole body rock with every swing, how they push you up the couch's length.
"Bruce," He feels a shiver run down his spine at how wrecked you sound, at how long it's been since he last heard you call for him like that. "Love, I-I'm… Close- getting close."
He gives a hum of acknowledgement, his face finding it's way back to the crook of your neck as he bows over you, leaving lingering kisses and marks as he somehow only fucks you faster. "Gonna come for me, darling?"
You feel how he falters a bit, how every swing of his hips is becoming harder, feel the skin under the bruises and bandages burn under your touch. Still, it doesn't seem to bother him, if anything he's just driving harder into you, getting louder against the side of your neck.
"Mhm… Almost there, love. I can— Bruce!"
He revels in the way you choke on your words, how quickly your brain seems to go blank when he reaches a hand between the two of you and rolls even circles against your clit. "That's it, darling. Let go for me, let me feel you."
It's too much, all of it. His praise against your ear, the pistoning of his hips, the teasing brush of his thumb against your clit and how gentle his other hand is at keeps you from bumping your head against the couch's armrest.
All you get to do as warning is cry out his name. By the next thrust, one of the best orgasms you've ever had is washing over you, making your head trash back and into his hold as your eyes squeeze shut, you back arching and pressing your chest flush against his. Your legs, still wrapped around his waist, tremble before they press tighter together, right at the same time your hole clutches down on him and pulses with every wave of pleasure that runs through you.
That's when you notice, though. When you can tell that the way your pussy seems to make an effort to make him cum right after you isn't the only thing making him moan along with you. Because you feel it, the soft texture of the bandage that covers one of his cuts. And as mind and bone less as that orgasm has left you, you're as tuned into Bruce's pleasure as he's yours.
So you don't doubt it, one hand buries in his hair so you can guide his lips to yours, while the other finds the big bruise turning his ribs purple and presses down.
A chocked little sound you'd never heard before leaves his lips and against yours, his hips stutter and give a few more halfhearted thrusts, pushing all the way in before he's cumming with a moan of your name that comes out just as wrecked as yours had just moments ago.
The room falls back into silence except for the ragged breaths leaving the both of you and the soft pitter-patter of rain that you're not sure when even started.
You're the first to move, loosening your legs from around him before they're just lightly bracketing his sides. The hand that was nestled in his hair gently scratching against his scalp and earning you a grateful little hum, while the one that had inflicted the pressure that seemed to break him into pieces rests, warm and reassuring, against the centre of his back.
You can feel it like that, the way his breathing and heartbeat even out, the tension that leaves his muscles when he fully comes down from the mind-numbing orgasm as his body goes slack over yours.
"Never knew you liked that."
You feel that too, the chocked laugh that leaves him, the shift of his muscles when he adjusts to look at you with a softness and playfulness that you hadn't seen in a long time playing in his eyes. "Didn't know it, either."
His smile only widens when that has you laughing, melting into a softer one when you lean to give him the nth kiss of the morning.
"You've probably pulled most of your stitches." It earns you a hum of agreement and another kiss. A light hiss leaving you when he shifts and pulls out, fully damming the state of his injuries when he reaches down for your discarded clothes to wipe the translucent fluid that slips out of you before repositioning the both of you.
At least he has half a mind of not worsening all the damage he's already done, laying on his good side and pulling you close. "You can check them, in a moment."
"That's such a bad idea," despite your mumbled disagreement, you're only snuggling closer, happy to bury your face into the crook of his neck and melt against the warmth of his skin while he drapes a throw blanket over the two of you.
"It is," he concedes, pausing to press a kiss to the top of your head. "But I'll deal with it later. This is more important. You are."
sitting on the kitchen island while he talks to you from between your legs, his hands stroking from your calves to your hips, you’re wearing his shirt, his lips constantly inches from yours, just a breath apart
f/o who talks you through your orgasm, a gentle “good girl” and “yeah, that’s my girl” spilling past his lips as he works his fingers in you, eyes stuck on your face as you tip over the edge, something akin to wonder as he watches you with rapt attention
Warning: Descriptions of depression? (nothing too detailed but best be safe)
To be held by Arthur Morgan is solace defined.
On days when your thoughts feel too loud and heavy, all you want to do is just hide away from the world. If you could, you'd simply cover your ears and curl up into nothingness to just make it all stop. You try to detach yourself from everyone and everything around, and it doesn't go unnoticed by Arthur. He whisks you away to a spot on the outskirts of camp where you two can be alone. "Tell me what's botherin you, hm?" He gently tilts your head up to set your gaze upon his worried yet tender one. His blue-green eyes look upon you with worry mixed with a tenderness that he only reserves for you. You wonder, why do those beautiful eyes of his gaze upon you like a believer before an altar?
A part of your mind cries out to you to tell him everything, but another scolds you that your lover has enough to deal with every day and you'd simply burden him with your problems. He asks you again to just talk to him, his voice hushed as if he were trying to calm down a spooked horse. "Words ain't been my strong suit..." he trails off.
"So let me do something to help you." He sounded like he was begging. He leaned in closer, waiting to hear that he was needed by you. That you wanted him by your side in the darkness that shrouded you. You wanted to answer his plea, peel every layer and bare yourself to him to show him what was hurting. But even the thought of opening your mouth threatened the cracks inside to split open and leave you shattered on the ground.
So you held out your hands to him as your throat constricted and dilated, leaving short breaths to escape your nose. He wanted something to do? Well, you needed those arms around you right this instant.
Arthur didn't hesitate and brought you into his arms, encircling you in a cocoon of warmth. For a ruthless and tough outlaw, the man's hugs were heaven-sent. Muscled arms, built from years of roughing it in the Wild West; a chest broad and strong but not hard as a brick; and a voice deep and rough yet rich in adoration brought the pounding thoughts to a hush for just a moment. One hand wrapped around your waist, and the other rested on the top of your head, gently patting and stroking.
You closed your eyes, just breathing him in, the scent of gunpowder, tobacco and something herb-like. It lulled you to a state of calmness you craved after days of spiralling. When he kissed the top of your head, you finally allowed yourself to break, sobbing into his chest as he held you up, keeping you pieces together.
You knew he'd worry that you were weeping all of a sudden. But once you calmed down, you'd talk to him. You'd feel clearer in the head because of him
"But I didn't say a thing," he'd say.
Just being in his arms healed more than a thousand words could.
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This is very self-indulgent for a first post, which isn't a reblog or a like, excuse me. I was finally convinced by my friend @ceaseless-edge to start an Arthur rambling blog because I kept screaming about him to her. Let's see how this goes and who else will be screamt about on this blog.
He cares about you like no one ever has. He loves you deeply, wholeheartedly.
When he’s with you, he is steady and unafraid—a comforting presence that never wavers. On the days when all you need is his touch, he gives it freely, without hesitation. His arms open for you before you even ask, always ready to pull you into an embrace where nothing can reach you.
His hands are strong and warm. When yours begin to tremble, he gently takes them in his own, his thumb brushing across the back of your hand in a silent attempt to soothe what words cannot. He lets your body sink into his, cradling you against his chest as he shifts to make room for you, making sure you’re comfortable, protected, safe.
When you hide your face against his neck, hot tears dampening his skin, his thumb rubs slow circles along the nape of your neck. He pulls you closer still. His brow furrows with quiet heartbreak as your fingers clutch desperately at the worn fabric of his shirt, as though you’re afraid that if you let go, you’ll fall apart entirely.
And when your tears become broken sobs that wrack your whole body, he slips an arm beneath your knees and gathers you into his lap, holding you impossibly close.
“I got ’chu. I got ’chu… it’s okay,” he murmurs into your hair.
You curl inward, drawing your knees to your chest, and he wraps himself around you as if he could shield you from every hurt you’ve ever known.
He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t pressure you to explain. He knows you’ll tell him when you’re ready.
“I have you, darlin’. You’re okay. You’ll be okay.”
His voice catches around the lump in his throat. Your pain wounds him, and he wishes—more than anything—that he could take it from you. That he could carry it himself. That he could spare you from whatever has left your heart aching so deeply.
He presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head before resting his forehead against the curve of your neck.
And he stays.
He stays through every tear, every trembling breath, every moment of silence. He never lets go before you’re ready. And when the words finally come, he listens.
He’s with you, you don’t have to carry this alone.
him kissing you like he’s been holding back all day. slow at first, almost polite. and then his hand tightens in your hair and suddenly it’s not polite anymore
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