Look At You - Arthur Morgan x male reader fic ✦
size difference / praise kink / dom/sub dynamic / manhandling / breeding kink / coming untouched <3
minors do not interact ✦
The saloon in Valentine ran hot that afternoon. There were too many bodies in too small a room. Lamp-smoke hung in a flat sheet at shoulder height, and the floorboards had gone sour from a decade of spilled beer. You had been nursing one whiskey for the better part of an hour, which was long enough to clock the man at the far end of the bar for the third day running.
He wore his hat low. He was broad across the shoulders, so his shirt pulled tight over his shoulders every time he shifted, and thick through the middle, the build of someone probably throwing himself onto a horse a dozen times a day and never turning down a meal after. He looked tired, but the good kind, the kind you earn.
For two evenings you had watched people try to talk to him. He answered shortly and turned back to his drink. None of it was rudeness. So far as you could tell, it had simply never occurred to the man that anybody in the room might be there for him.
That was what decided you.
You crossed over and set your glass beside his. "Buy you another?"
He looked up. He had a good face. The nose had been broken a long time ago and set by somebody who cared less than he deserved.
"That depends." His voice pitched lower than you had braced for. "On what you want back for it."
"Company."
He blinked. Half a smile started up at one corner of his mouth, disbelieving, and quit before it got anywhere.
"Company?"
"That's what I said."
"Mister, I don't—" he stopped. He glanced down at the glass and back up at you, working out in earnest whether this was a joke at his expense. "I ain't sure you got the right table."
"I've got the right table."
"Ah," he drew the word out. "Well. I appreciate it, but—"
"You haven't even heard the offer."
That got half a laugh out of him, a breath through the nose and a shake of the head. It was the first honest thing his face had done since you sat down. "All right, then. Go on. Let me hear it."
You leaned in, and you didn't need to lean far. He smelled of whiskey and leather, and under that of sweat going cool and a full day around horses.
"There's a room upstairs," you said. "Already paid for."
Everything about him went still. His gaze moved from the glass to you and back. When he spoke, it came out quiet. "You paid for a room."
"Mm-hmm."
"For—"
"For you and me."
He wet his upper lip. The lamplight caught a small old scar at the corner of it. "Son, you are barking up the wrong—"
"I'm not."
"—tree, I'm telling you, I don't know what you think you're looking at, but—"
"I think you're the best-looking man in this saloon," you said, "and I've spent days working out how to say it. So now it's said."
He stared. His hand tightened on the glass, and for one long stretched-out moment you were certain you had read the whole thing wrong. Any second now he would laugh you off the stool and out into the street.
Instead, he took his hat off and dragged a hand back through dark blond hair, flattened by the hat and damp at the temples. Then he studied the bar top for a while. The bar top didn't help him any.
"Well," he said. "Hell."
"Yes or no?"
"You want to walk out of here with me?"
"I want to walk upstairs with you."
"Christ." He put a hand to the back of his neck. He was smiling now, and looked half stunned to be doing it. You'd knocked something loose in him just by sitting next to him. "You are somethin' else, mister."
"Yes or no, Arthur?"
He went still again. "You know my name."
"I asked around."
He held your eyes for a long moment. Then he put the hat back on and stood. You'd known he was tall. Up close, near enough to feel the heat coming off his shirt, you'd imagine him short. He filled up the space you were standing in, and had to tip his chin down to keep you in his eyesight.
"All right," he said. "Lead the way."
The room was small, holding a brass bed and a washstand. The window faced west, and the sunset going orange behind it threw one clean band of light across the quilt.
He shut the door and stayed put against it. He seemed to be waiting for permission to come the rest of the way in. You turned to face him.
"Arthur."
"Yeah?"
"Come here."
He approached carefully and stopped a foot short of you. He took the hat off again and held it in front of him. "Look, I ought to say this before it goes anywhere. I don't know what it is you think you're seeing. But I ain't much up close. I got a lot of—"
"Take your shirt off."
He went still.
"Mister—"
"Take it off."
He set the hat on the washstand. He checked your face one more time. Then he started on his buttons, working them down slowly with blunt fingers scarred across the knuckles. At the last one he pulled the shirt free of his belt and shrugged out of it. Then he stood there in his union suit with his jaw set, waiting for whatever came next.
You stepped in and took the top button between two fingers. "May I?"
He made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "May you?"
"May I?"
His eyes went to the ceiling, then returned to you. "Yeah."
You worked the buttons down without hurrying. When the collar fell open far enough to bare the base of his throat, you dragged your knuckles over the skin. It was hot, damp, his pulse leaping right beneath it. You heard the breath catch in his nose. The union suit peeled off his shoulders and hung at his waist.
God, but he was something. He was broad through the chest. The hair there ran a shade darker than what grew on his head, trailing down over his belly to disappear into the fabric bunched at his hips. His stomach was soft over hard, and you already yearned to bury your face there.
And he had scars everywhere. A pale seam across the ribs on his left. A burn turned shiny along one forearm. Three small marks on his side that were an old bite, and smaller ones past counting that you'd have needed daylight and an hour to go over properly.
He had his eyes on your face. He was braced for it to change on him.
You put your palm flat against his sternum. "Do you have any idea what you look like?"
He huffed through his nose. "I know what I look like."
"No." You ran your hand down slowly, over his chest and the swell of his belly, and stopped it just above the waist of his union suit. He drew a sharp breath. "You don't."
You leaned in and set your mouth to a scar under his collarbone, and the whole of him went rigid.
"Mister—"
You went lower to the seam along his ribs and traced its full length with your lips. A low, mortified sound came out of him. His hands hovered somewhere near your shoulders without ever landing. "Christ. You don't have to do all that."
"I want to, believe me."
You went down on your knees for the bite on his side, and above you he said, almost wrecked, Oh, Jesus. Then you caught his wrist and put your mouth to the old shine of the burn.
When you looked up, he was staring down at you, mouth parted, his eyes gone wet at the rims. He looked like he'd forgotten where he was standing.
"You," you breathed, "are the best-looking man I have ever laid eyes on."
"Don't."
"You are."
"Don't." His voice cracked clean through the middle of it. He reached down and cupped the back of your head, just holding on to something. "You're gonna make me say somethin' stupid."
"Say it."
"No."
"Arthur."
His eyes shut, and his fingers tightened in your hair. You knew before he moved that he'd made up his mind .
He hauled you off your knees one-handed and put you on your feet, his palms bracketing your jaw.
"You listen to me." His voice had dropped, gone gravelled. "I don't know what you're after. I don't rightly know why you sat next to me. But if you're asking what I think you're asking, you'd better be damn sure about it."
"I'm sure."
"Really?"
"Yes."
His gaze dropped to your mouth. "Then come here."
He kissed slowly at first, working through whatever reasons he still had to hold back. Somewhere in the first few seconds, he stopped bothering.
The hand at the nape of your neck was the tell. Broad enough that his fingers reached up into your hairline, it held you at exactly the angle he wanted while his mouth opened hot over yours. He tasted of whiskey and, faintly underneath, of the smoke in the room downstairs.
You made a sound before you could think better of it. He gave one back, lower, dirtier for how quiet it was.
After that, it was a different thing entirely. He caught your lower lip between his teeth and teased at it until your mouth came open. He now kissed you with all his attention, and your knees quit on you. He felt you go, smiled against your mouth without breaking off, and held you up in one hand while he kept at it.
"There you are," he murmured.
He walked you backward toward the bed without breaking it off. The mattress caught the backs of your knees. He slid a broad palm under your skull as he laid you back, and then he was on you, all his weight, chest against chest and a thick thigh shoving up between your legs.
You ground on it before you knew you'd decided to. Then he brought a hand to your hip and pinned you still, and when you made a noise about it he shushed you into your mouth.
"Now hold on. You don't got to do all the work."
He shifted his leg higher, and then he moved it. Slow drags of his thigh, up and down at his own chosen pace, and there was nothing you could do about any of it. He kept your hip fixed where he wanted it. You couldn't chase it or rush him, could do nothing but take what he gave and make noise into his neck.
"That's it," he said, slowly ruining you with one leg. "Ain't got to hurry. We got the room all night."
He was hard against your hip, thick through his union suit and insistent with it, and he ignored it entirely in favour of watching your face come apart above him.
Your cock dragged wet against his thigh with every pass and left the fabric damp, and when your breath started coming out in a way neither of you could mistake, he stopped.
You made a sound that was almost a sob.
"I know." He sounded pleased about it, thumb rubbing a slow circle at your hipbone. "Not yet, and not like this. I've got better plans for you than my leg."
By the time you were bare he had his own belt off. He sat back to take in what he'd unwrapped and shook his head slowly, defeated by it.
"Look at what I got," he said, mostly to himself. He laid a flat palm on your stomach and ran it up over your chest and back down, and further down, until his thumb dragged the length of your cock and you swore at the ceiling. "Still worked up off my leg, ain't you?"
"What else?" You managed a grin.
He shoved your thighs apart and went down without another word.
His mouth took you to the base in one greedy slide, and his throat clenched around the head as it went past. You made a noise you'd never have made in daylight, helpless with it.
And you were loud. He'd had you wound up tight on his thigh, and his mouth on top of all was too much too fast. Every drag of his tongue dragged another sound out of you, and not one of them had any dignity.
"Arthur—" It came out wrecked already. "Arthur, I can't—I'm not gonna—"
He wanted you fast and he wanted you down his throat, and there'd be no talking him off it.
You lasted about a minute.
You drew up tight and came apart under him, hips fighting the hand on them, and spilled straight down his throat in thick pulses he took without so much as a flinch. You were loud enough that everybody drinking downstairs now knew his name. He stayed on you and swallowed every last spurt, right through the shaking, and didn't come off until you were twitching and shoving weakly at his head.
His lips dragged up every inch so you felt all of it leaving, and the head slipped out wet, going soft against his lower lip with a thread of spit stretched between the two. He looked drunk off you, off the sight of you undone a minute in.
"Half the town heard that one," he said, rough with pleasure.
"Shut up—"
"No, no. Don't you go shy on me now." He crawled up your body and kissed the noise out of you, easy about it, but filthy. He kept a loose hold on your softening cock and gentled it while you flinched at how much it was. "You got no idea what a sound like that does to a man. You don't say a word to me, and now here you are hollerin' the place down inside a minute."
"You're insufferable."
He grinned against your jaw. "Give it a breath. I ain't near done with you."
"Jesus."
"Uh-huh." He kissed down your throat while you got your breath back.
"Hold on, I have — something."
You had to reach for your own trousers, kicked half off the end of the bed, and dig the little tin out of the pocket. You'd carried it for three days, which told its own story about how sure you'd been of this. He didn't say a word about it, though his jaw worked once.
"That’s for—" He stopped, and understood.
He took the tin off you and turned it over in his blunt fingers and read the little label off it, for all the good that did him. Then he thumbed the lid off, considered what was inside, and raised his eyes to you, and you both arrived at the same place at the same time: neither of you had the first idea how this part was meant to go. You only had a rough notion of wanting it badly.
"Just — go slow, I guess. And a lot of that."
"Yeah." He wet two fingers heavily, more than he needed, erring in the only safe direction he knew. "You tell me if I do it wrong. I mean it — I don't know the first thing."
The first one was strange, more than anything. He felt you flinch at the strangeness and went still, watching your breathing so closely that the clumsiness stopped mattering. The second was more. He added the slick without being told this time, learning as he went. The stretch of it dragged a sound out of you that had him swearing under his breath.
"There," you breathed, when he crooked them and hit the place that lit you up white. "There, God, right—"
"Here?" He did it again, and your spine came off the quilt, and the grin that broke over his face was pure filthy discovery. "There. Christ, right there—"
"Don't you dare stop."
He didn't. By the time he worked a third in and you were loosened, dripping the grease down onto the quilt, the pair of you sweated through, you'd long stopped caring who downstairs could hear.
He stepped out of the union suit and the trousers, and you didn't look away for a second. He was thick everywhere, heavy through the thighs. His cock, when he freed it, was decently sized. But it was the girth of it that stopped your breath — a dark, blood-heavy curve against his belly, fatter through the middle than at the head, the flushed crown already wet where it had been leaking.
He caught you staring, and there it went across his face again, the I ain't much to look at. It died there. Whatever was on your face, he couldn't make it read as disappointment.
"Sweetheart," he said carefully. "You sure about this?"
"Get up here before I lose my mind."
He came up over you.
Chest to your chest, belly to your belly, and his cock lying along the crease of your hip while he braced up on one elbow, leaving a wet stripe on your skin where the head sat.
He slicked himself and used too much, both of you over-correcting the one mistake you knew to avoid. He lined himself up by feel, having nothing else to go by, and pressed — and it didn't work. The head caught against you and slid off. He made a frustrated sound and tried again, and it slid the second time too.
"Hold on." You reached down and took him in your hand, hot to the touch, and held him where he needed to be. "There. Now — go slow."
He pushed, and the blunt of him met a resistance that did not want to give, and your whole body tightened against the wrongness of it. He stopped dead.
"It's — no, wait." You'd read your own body wrong; you'd braced for it to open and it had shut. "Don't push. Let me. Give me a second."
He held there, jaw clenched, sweat from the work of not moving, and let you have your second. You breathed, and made yourself slack, and when you'd stopped fighting it you rolled your hips down onto him a bare half-inch, and the fat head of him worked past the tight rim of you and popped in.
You both made noise at that. His was disbelief. Yours was closer to alarm, because it was a great deal at once, a thick stretch that kept on being more than you'd braced for.
"Stay," you got out. "Don't move yet."
"I ain't moving. Christ almighty." His voice had gone thin, and his arms shook where they caged you. "You feel — no, don't you mind me. You just breathe."
When the ache dulled to something you could handle, he fed himself into you by slow inches, forehead to yours. It was awkward and it was slow and your hip cramped and you both laughed about it. Then he was seated to the root and neither of you had a word left.
"There," he breathed. "There. Oh, that's—" He shifted, and you felt it move in you, and whatever he'd meant to say left him. He pressed his forehead to yours instead. "I don't — sweetheart, I don't got words."
"Yeah, you — you can move. I wanna feel it."
He pulled nearly out — you felt every inch of the drag, the fat ridge of the head catching at your rim — and pushed back in on a groan that came from the soles of his feet.
"Whole town thinks I'm some ugly son of a bitch drinking by himself," he got out against your throat, "and I got you here instead."
"What — are you saying? I've never been this turned on in my life."
That word cracked something in his chest.
When you could only moan and hooked your heel behind him for more, all caution went out of him at once, and what replaced it made your cock jump untouched against your belly.
"That's it," he said, his voice dropping lower and surer with it. "You want it harder? All you had to do was say so."
He got a hand in your hair and pulled, tipping your head back to bare your throat, and set his teeth to it while he drove in hard enough to shove you up the mattress. When you gasped he soothed the mark with his tongue and did it again. He'd found what you needed off him, and he meant to give you all of it, and he'd stopped asking out loud because your body answered every question before he could put it to words.
"Look at you," he said against your jaw, the filth and the tenderness in the same breath. "So pretty when you finally let go. Open up for me."
You opened your mouth, and he spat inside. He watched you swallow, and the noise you made at that put a wicked curl on his mouth.
"What a good boy."
You could happily die right this instant.
Sweat had come up across his shoulders. You put your hands on what you could reach of him, the muscle shifting under the skin of his back. He was so much. You couldn't get around him.
Then you flattened both palms on his chest and shoved.
He went over willingly, laughing. You came up astride him with his cock still buried in you. The angle changed — he sank in deeper than before, and your breath left a sound not far off a sob.
He settled both hands on your hips and gazed up at you with his mouth open and his eyes gone to slits.
"Well, now."
You could feel how much of you they took up, thumbs nearly meeting at your navel. You covered them with your own, and you started to work.
It was work. He was too thick for it to be anything but work. He lay back and let you earn every inch, his chest flushed dark under the hair. Every time you dropped down it forced a grunt out of him. Every time you dragged back up, his hands jumped under yours with the effort of not just grabbing your hips and having you.
"Look at you up there," he managed. "Look at you go."
"I paid for this room, you know."
His chest jumped on the laugh and drove him up into you, and it knocked the sound clean out of you both.
"You did," he said, wrecked with it. "Hell. You did at that." His fingers dug in. "Go on, then."
You set your palms flat on his belly and rode him properly. He let you, for a while, watching you work with a heavy-lidded, filthy appreciation. "Look at you ride," he murmured, running his big hands up your thighs. "Came up to me at that bar so sure of yourself." Then his hands took over by degrees, lifting and dropping you at his own pace. The moment your thighs began to fail he took the job off you entirely, holding you and working you on his cock from below, hard enough to knock every sound out of you as it happened.
Your nails found the soft of his stomach and dragged.
He gasped, and his hips snapped up.
"There—" you cried.
"Yeah?" It came out breathless, delighted, catching on the discovery. He did it again, chasing the sound you'd made.
He sat up, and all at once you were in his lap with his arms wrapped around your back, his hips grinding up in short brutal strokes. Held so close you couldn't get your arms around him.
"I got you." It came ragged into your neck. "Look at me when I'm in you."
You looked. The blue softness in them had gone somewhere else entirely.
"Tell me you're mine." His big hand came up and closed round the front of your throat, his thumb under your jaw tipping your face up to his. He seemed half-afraid of the answer. "I need to hear it. Please."
"Yours—" It came out thin under his hand. "God, yours, Arthur, only yours—"
Something in him gave at that. His grip flexed once, and your whole body clenched down around him, and the sound he made was closer to relief than triumph.
The last of him came apart. He tipped you back onto the mattress and set to ruin you for anyone who might come after, the hand still loose at your throat and the other clamped at your thigh_._
You were reaching down to get a hand on yourself when he caught your wrist and pressed it gently to the mattress by your head.
"No, leave it—" His breath came apart against your mouth. "I want — can you, just from this? Just me? I want to feel you do it just from me."
So it was just him. He kept the same slow grind, working himself against the place that undid you, and the pressure climbed with nowhere to go. Your cock was trapped between your bellies, leaking and dragging through its own slick every time he rolled into you. You held on until you couldn't. Your body clenched down hard around him as you spilled on your stomach, mouth slack against his, and trembled uncontrollably. You didn't recognise the sound you made. He fucked you through all of it, his face an inch from yours, close enough to catch every noise in his mouth.
His hips stuttered. "Where do you— I'm gonna, where do you want—"
"In me. In me, don't—"
"Yeah? You sure? I don't want to—"
"I'm sure. Don't pull out, just — stay, stay in—"
You felt it happen — the jerk of him, then the heat, more of it than you were ready for, so much that the next shove of his hips pushed it out around his cock and down. He didn't stop moving until there was nothing left in him, and even then he kept making small, useless pushes, unable to make himself quit.
He collapsed on your chest, going soft inside you by degrees.
You could feel it leaving you, the slow, warm slide down between your legs. He pressed two fingers and pushed it back, and made a sound in his chest that you felt more than heard.
"God, look at—" He'd gone quiet, watching his hand. "Would you look at that? Hmm…"
He got an arm under you and pulled you up onto his chest, and you let him, boneless, your cheek over the slam of his heart while it slowed down. He dragged a broad hand up your spine and back down. There was a mess drying between you and neither of you did anything about it.
"There, there. Y'did so good," he said, most of it lost in your hair. "Go on and rest. I ain't going anywhere. I got you."
You meant to answer. You didn't get the chance — you were gone, further under than you'd been in a long time. The last of it was his voice saying something you didn't catch, and his mouth at your temple. Then nothing.
the end
