i know I've only posted for Logan so far and 99% of my followers will probably not read this but the lack of Quaritch pegging fanfics was unacceptable!
Pairing: Recom!Miles Quaritch x human!Reader
Summary: Who would have known that the Colonel knew what pegging was! But the real question is, would he let you fuck him? (Yes he would ;))
Wordcount: 5.1k
Warnings/tags: porn w little plot, pegging, anal, strap-on sex, blowjob, dirty talk, praise kink, slight edging, belly bulge, kuru play, Sub!Quaritch, Dom!Reader, anal fingering, prostate milking, doggy style, handjob, missionary, english is not my first language ❗not proof read❗im so tired
No pronouns for reader, gender-neutral
★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★
Miles was fresh out of the shower, just a very oversized towel hanging around his slender hips. You were lounging on his large bed, the air warm, soft with the sound of late night humming tech.
You watched a few stray drops of water run down his sculpted chest, biting your lip in thought. Who allowed him to be build like this? The scientists back on earth really did wonders with his recom avatar. You'd have to thank them one day.
The longer you watched him, the more you thought about the recent idea that had popped in your head as you watched him and the other recoms train outside a few days ago. You needed, CRAVED to see him arch his back while you fucked his ass, his ears glowing bright pink and trembling while the Colonel broke apart underneath you, someone just half his size. It made you shiver with anticipation!
Your eyes continoued to rake over his blue body, and you couldn't help but sit up on the bed to ask then, without shame "Hey, Miles...have you ever heard of pegging?"
He froze mid step and you could see his adams apple bop heavily, his ears flicking back. He tightened the grip around the rim of the towel, where his hand would usually rest on his gear, not even turning fully around to face you. Trying to sound nonchalant, he said "...nope" poppig the p.
You cocked your head to the side, mocking him "Oh really? Then why'd you pause like that?" you smirked, leaning back on your arms. His tail swished under the towel in irritation. You knew he hated how his body betrayed him so easily now. He couldn't hide anything anymore, every emotion laid out before you by his twitching ears and flicking tail.
"Didn't." He grunted out with a frown, brushing a hand over his damp, cropped hair. Your smirk only grew wider at his short response. "You totally did" you taunted him, hopping off his large bed to step closer to him, your voice dropping low, teasing and sultry, despite having to look up at him "You sure you don't know what it is?"
Miles scoffed, brushing past you to his wardrobe to get dressed, his tail purposefully slapping your face in the process. And despite his protests, you saw something move under the towel. "Yeah. Sure." he muttered gruffly, pulling a tank out of a drawer and pulling it over his head.
You raised an eyebrow and crossed your arms. "Well...I want to try it. With you."
He spun around to face you in just under a second, his ears flattened out, nose scrunched in horror "Absolutely not!" He growled, acting all defensive and...embarrassed. That was the answer you were looking for and your smirk turned fully evil.
"So you do know what pegging is!"
He opened his mouth, but closed it soon after he realized he had been caught. His ears twitched in irritation, anger and embarrassement, his tail flicking like crazy. He was too flustered for his own good and you were cheering internally. Everyone shat their pants at Hell's Gate if they just had to look Quaritch in the eyes and he didn't do much to hide if he was getting bored with a conversation. So his flustered state really, REALLY fed your ego.
You stepped in closer, your chin resting on his hip bone, softly nuzzling the velvety skin there. He looked down at you like you just ruined him and his reputation for good and hated how smug you looked about it.
"You've thought about it, haven't you?" you whispered, your breath tickling his v-line. "Getting taken apart by someone half your size? Letting go of control for once?" you ran a hand down his abs, watching as he shuddered and drew in a sharp breath, looking away from you.
He was fighting hard with himself, you could see it. But his patience and restraint were running thinner and thinner by the second "Just imagine it, Miles" you purred, biting your lip, two fingers hooking under the towel around his hips that did nothing to hide how aroused he was "You, on all fours. Me, behind you, fucking that cute ass until you cum"
He was hard. So fucking hard. And his face? A bright purple blush stretched all the way to the tip of his ears. He was gnawing at his bottom lip, fangs glistening in the low light of the room while he swallowed thickly. That was the most consent you would get from him right now and it was enough.
It all started with a kiss that let every bit of doubt fall away. You wrapped a hand around his long braid, pulling at it to make him drop down to his knees, which was surprisingly easier than you thought, before standing on your tip-toes and joining your lips together. It was desperate and needy, as if Miles had secretly waited his whole life for you to finally suggest this.
Reluctantly, he let you pull away so you could get the strap out of the closet and put it around your hips as if you had done it a thousand times before. Well, he remembered that, back when he was still a human Colonel, you told him about the experiences you had with some women on earth before you came to pandora. But how you were able to pull out a strap and toy from HIS room was still a mystery to him. But he was way too horny to care anyway.
You climbed onto his large bed and stood at the edge of it, while he was kneeling before you. Yes, it was a bit awkward like this, but it was the only way to have the silicon cock properly near his mouth so he didn't have to bend his back too much. Despite his new avatar body being about 20 years old physically, he still complained about his joints as if he was 50.
Trying not to let the awkward position ruin the mood, you bendt down slightly to scratch his ears, your fingers rubbing the sensitive base to which he shivered in delight.
Miles' eyes were half lidded, but his pupils blown wide like a dinnerplate as he stared up at you longingly. Your fingers playing with his sensitive ears slipped up the side of his head to fist his hair in a tight grip that earned you a low groan. "Suck it. And mind those teeth, baby" you purred teasingly, your thumb invading his mouth.
He sucked gently on the digit with a flustered hum, then he opened his mouth wider, his teeth flashing back at you. The pad of your thumb rubbed his sandpaper-like tounge, his mouth opening wider the further down you went, so you were able to guide the tip of the silicon cock to his lips, lightly smacking it against his tounge. It made him whimper, a sound you didn't know he could make.
He was still reluctant to take it in his mouth, so when you tugged on his hair, gentle but firm, he looked up at you as if he was still unsure, before finally closing his mouth around the head. He was acting shy with it at first, slowly moving his head, not taking it deeper than a few short inches and popping off the girth to kiss down the shaft instead.
You knew he could do better, that he was more experienced than he let on. You think it was all platonic when he was stationed with his marine team mates back on earth? Yeah, think again.
"Come on, baby. If you want to get fucked, you gotta earn it. Show me what a good boy my colonel can be, alright?" you cooed, your hand soothingly rubbing his jaw as a form of encouragement. The little pet name seemed to do the trick instantly.
His eyes glazed over, his mouth opening wider to slowly ease the toy down gis throat. He was humming softly, his ears trembling so cutely while tears were dwelling in his eyes from how deep he took it. "There he is" you cheered, admiring how his long lashes fluttered against his cheeks.
Though after a few moments, you pulled him off completely, an obsence pop sounding before he gasped slightly, a string of salaiva connecting his parted lips to the toy. His piercing golden eyes looked up at you as if he was scared he had done something wrong, but instead you just rubbed the tip over his right cheek, dragging it along his plush lips and dipping it back into his mouth, just a few inches, then smearing the spit soaked length against his left cheek. He moaned in surpise, but so turned on by what you were doing.
He kissed down the shaft, holding eyecontact with you without blinking, almost as if he was in search of your approval. You breathed out a low 'fuck' as you looked down at the face he made, and for a minute you wondered just how fucking hot he would look with a load of cum dripping over it. The thought made you exhale shakingly, oh how you wished you could do that to him.
His tongue dragged slowly up the length, curling around the head before softly dipping it into his mouth, his striped cheeks hollowing out. His flat nose, made to hold many kisses on its bridge, crinkled as he took a deep breath to prepare himself to let the toy ease down his throat. His ears were practically glued to his head and softly trembling like a kitten that was nursing milk from a bottle. His pink nose brushed your pelvis as he swallowed the length all the way down to the base. Miles' eyelids fluttered softly and helplessly, his eyes teary and glazed over while looking up at you, waiting for your praise.
When you asked him if you could peg him, not even in a thousand years you would have imagined this outcome. If someone told you now, in your horny haze, that you were actually poisoned by some pandorian flower and experiencing bad hallucinations before ultimately dying, you would have believed them. And you wouldn't have wanted to change a thing about it, you'd die any day if this was the last thing you saw- the Colonel choking on your cock like a slut.
"You look so pretty like this" you cooed, your hand reaching down to cradle his face, to which his tensed facial muscles relaxed and he let out a cute little breath through his nose. "Such a good Colonel for me" your whispers made his spine tingle and eager moans rumbled in his chest like a motor. You felt the vibration of the sounds through the base of your harness. It made you grab the back of your head to pull him closer. He choked slightly, but didn't stop his suckling. He wanted to be good for you like you said, so good for you.
His hands came up to grip your thighs to ground himself, squeezing the fat and flesh between his long fingers while he was rutting the air unconsciously, desperate to get some much needed friction on his throbbing cock, which was already poking out and leaking from underneath the flimsy towel.
He was so fucking pathetic, you loved it. And he loved it too, though he would never say that. If any of this was ever made public, he would kill you himself. He had a reputation to uphold, he couldn't let his team know he was a whore for cock, artificial or not.
These thoughts crossed his mind for a moment. What would happen if Lyle walked in here right now? He knew the door was locked, that Lyles quarters were on the other side of the station and that he would never enter without permission, hell the whole base was probably asleep by now! So why was he so scared? Scared wasn't even a word someone would usually describe him with- or ever.
You quickly noticed his sudden hesitation and grabbed his face in both hands, making him look up at you. "Look at you. Sucking my cock like a desperate little bitch. You're a Colonel, you've got authority, but you just want to be used" a whimper slipped from his throat the moment a tear ran down his cheek as he processed your words. So beautiful.
You couldn't help it, you just had to rock your hips once, just enough to hear him gag around the toy. He moaned again, even louder and more pathetic this time, his cock giving a sad throb, a clear drop of pre-cum sliding down his shaft.
You pulled him off by the base of his braid with a loud, wet pop and he grabbed his throat, coughing wildly and gasping for air. Miles' chest was heaving for air while watching you stroke the silicon cock that was lubed with his spit, his ears straightening up to listen to the slick sounds.
You cocked your head to the bed you were kneeling on. "Get on, big boy. All fours"
You had never seen anyone scramble to their feet so quickly, especially not someone his size. In his urgency, the towel fell away, revealing his hard cock and fuckable butt. Damn if it ain't Mr. Bubble Butt over there, throwing himself on the bed in the speed of light. And as if this position was second nature to him, he spread his knees far apart, his chest touching the matress and lifted up his tail to reveal his puckered hole to you.
All this while his cock was leaking and throbbing between his massive thighs. Fuck. Fucking hell. Did you die? Was this fucking heaven? Jesus Christ.
"God damn you...fuck, I don't even know" you groaned at the sight, his ears pinned to his head, brows knitted together in an adorable horny frown. You were utterly speechless. Eywa might as well just blessed the fuck out of you.
Not trying to make him wait any longer, you crawled towards him, running a hand up the back of his thigh and grasping a handful of his ass, making him yelp softly. You gave it a smack, admiring the way the blue flesh jiggled and earning you a nasty glare from your Colonel. But his cock was twitching and dripping like crazy, so you knew he secretly loved it. "I didn't know our Colonel was this desperate to get laid. We just had sex yesterday" you mocked him with a hearty grin and a giggle, wrapping your hand around his tail and feeling the muscles twitch underneath the skin.
"Fuck you" he growled in the back of his throat, his eyes sharp with irritation. "Fuck you? Oh I will fuck you, alright" you retorted. Any other time he would have bend you over his knee for that, for being so disrespectful and sarcastic to your boss. But right now, he wasn't your boss. He was your needy little thing that begged to be filled. And you were gonna give it to him before he could tap out on you.
While Quaritch could easily snap you in half like a twig, or throw you off, he allowed your hands to roam over his bare body, worshipping his strength and smooth skin. His skin was like velvet under your fingertips, the only texture being the goosebumps your touch left in its wake and the sweat that clung to him. You had touched and studied him a thousand times before, you could easily identify him solely on the pattern his stripes created. You knew him inside and out, but you would never grow tired of it. Of admiring, worshipping, kissing and licking every inch of him. But someone else got fed up quite quickly.
You leaned over him, lips brushing his neck "Hurry up or we're not doing this" he warned you, his voice shaking slightly. You chuckled, a sound that made the hairs on Quaritchs neck stand up. "Patience is a virtue, Colonel. You gotta respect that fact every second of every day" you chuckled, using his words against him to see his ears pin to his skull.
Then, you held your hand out, positioning it in front of his mouth. He furrowed his brows in confusion, his frown getting even deeper as he watched you smirk. "Spit" you said, and he snarled in disgust. A snort left you "A minute ago you were sucking me off like a whore, but this is where you draw the line?" you taunted him with a raised eyebrow.
Miles opened his mouth to protest, but quickly closed it again after he realised he could play hard to get all he wanted, but you wouldn’t give up either. With a flustered grunt, he spat into your hands. That earned him a smile "Good boy" you cooed, making his tail wag softly.
You pulled back to settle behind him, your hand that wasn't covered in spit spreading his ass cheeks. He huffed out, turning his head into the pillow. He was so...bare. And vulnerable. It felt wrong and uncomfortable, but damn, he didn't have it in him to stop you.
You rubbed his spit between your fingers, bringing your pointer and middle finger to his puckered hole, circling the makeshift lube around the rim. He tensed up immediately. "Fuck" he muttered "This is so fuckin' embarrassing."
You gave his lower back a gentle pat to get him to relax. "Just trust me, baby. I'm gonna make you feel so good you'll forget your own name, let alone how embarrassing you think this is" you reassured him, or at least tried to. He groaned like he hated how much that thought turned him on.
"Now open up, I'll be nice and gentle" you prepped him slowly, keeping in mind that his avatar most likely never had anything up his ass. At least his tightness let you think that. But you managed to slip in the first finger to your last knuckle, wriggling it around his soft walls. Miles whimpered above you "feels...weird" he said, clearing his throat as if your touch wasn't affecting him in the slightest.
He tensed up as you added another two fingers, his breathing turning a little shallow with every thrust of your fingers. "How do you feel?" you asked him, moving your fingers as if you were in search of something.
And for a second, you wondered if Na'vi and Avatar even had prostates. But before he could answer your question, the pads of your fingers passed over a soft lump, that special spot you were determined to find, and he gasped and keened, hips bucking while his cock twitched helplessly beneath him.
It was like a lighting bolt struck his body when you touched his sweet spot "What the f-fuck.." he rasped, trying to look over his shoulder as if he could see what you just did that felt this good. "Ah, there it is!" You cheered, aiming at his prostate again. It was pretty war inside, with his size and all. "Where is what- oh! fuck!" he was cut off by a screamed moan, your fingers rubbing his prostate with more purpose now.
His mouth stayed open in a silent groan while you circled the nub in slow but firm motions. His body was drawn tight like a spring ready to snap. The pleasure was so new and nothing he ever felt, he wanted more but he couldn't move, only fist the sheets and bite into the pillow to leave holes.
Miles tail curled around your wrist, squeezing you with every thrust just like his puckered hole did around your fingers. You watched his sexed out face with a satisfied grin and a giddy feeling rose in your chest. Just how fucked out would he look if he came on your strap?
He already seemed so close to cumming, subtily pressing his ass back against your hand, his cock drooling non stop over the sheets and so did he, his salaiva soaking the pillow case.
He looked divine, his moans and whines music to your ears. "Someone is enjoying himself, huh?" you purred, applying just a bit more pressure. It had him babble out a cute, dumb "uh-huh" and made his cock throb heavily against his stomach.
When you deemed his hole to be wet and loose enough, you pulled your fingers out. Quaritchs ears shot up in horror- how could you just stop!? He started to regain his senses just enough to lift his head and wriggle his ass back to chase your fingers "Fuckin'...don't stop now" he panted, the words ending with a low little whine. He had already lost his dignity, so he didn't care how needy he sounded or how much you would tease him for it. He just wanted to cum.
You giggled at his eagerness and straightened up on your knees "Relax, big guy. I'm on it" you mocked, blowing him a rasberry to which he could only respond with a frustrated huff and settled back into the bed.
You lined your strap up with his hole "Trust me, this is gonna feel so much better than my hands. Pinky promise" and with that, you pushed the tip past the tight ring of muscle.
His whole body arched at the intrusion, a sound ripping from his chest, loud and unfiltered as you pushed forward. His nose was crinkled in a deep snarl, almost as if he was in pain, fangs buried in his bottom lip until it bled.
"F-fuck, fuck! it's big-" Miles gasped, the stretch making his body lift off the matress slightly, only to realise his arms felt like jelly and couldn't hold him up. "Bigger than you" you confirmed with a nod, thrusting forward an inch, a hiccup sounding from the recom below you.
Just a few more inches and you were nestled inside all the way. His thighs were trembling and you soothingly rubbed a hand over them, squeezing the strong flesh softly. His eyes were screwed shut tightly as he tried to adapt to the stretch in his gut, his ears pinned back, breaths deep and controlled. You smiled warmly "Now you know what it feels like. Its pretty similar when you dick me down, so its only fair."
You leaned in and murmured "Now we're even" before deciding he had enough time to adjust, much like he did when you two had 'ordinary' sex, and pulled out to thrust back in.
You went to set a brutal pace, grasping his slim hips to pull him against your cock with every harsh thrust you delivered. His moan was straight out of a porn video while he couldn't control the way his hips were rocking back to meet you "Shit- shit- oh fuck, don't stop, please-" Miles cried out to you, grasping the headboard tightly you were sure if it was wood, he would have crushed it under his palm.
The sound of wet skin slapping against each other echoed through the room, in sync with his adorable little squeaks. He sounded like a baby viperwolf while he got fucked, he wasn't able to hold back a moan even if he wanted to.
He tried to bite into his hand to muffle some sounds, knowing after this he wouldn’t be in the mood to get a noise complaint from the room next to yours. But you wouldn’t have that.
You reached around, grabbed his braid, wrapped it once around your palm before pulling, his head jerking back with a yelp. "Don't you dare hold your sweet moans back." you barked, your answer being a pained groan from Miles. "Don't act like you don't want others to hear just how good you're getting fucked. Do you think they'd be jealous?"
He didn't respond to you, even after a few seconds, he just couldn't find a way to speak with how hard you were pounding his ass. You pulled his braid harder and slapped his ass with the hand that was gripping hips. His cock throbbed eagerly at the painful sting "Answer me, Colonel" you growled. "Would. They. Be. Jealous?" you asked again, thrusting especially deep with every word.
His back arched, his chest pressed flat on the matress "Yyyes, yes, yesyesyesyeas-" he babbled, turning more and more incoherent the further you impaled him on your strap.
"That's it, such a good boy. Can't even speak properly. Feels too good, doesn’t it?" you cooed and he nearly sobbed, nodding slightly despite the tight hold you had on his hair.
Thats when you hit it again. His sweet, sweet spot. But this time, it took out his legs and he screamed "Oh god fuck! Fuck right there!" he howled, his body limp on the bed. You even had to let go of his braid so you could use both hands to guide his hips back onto your dick. You grinned wolfishly "Fuck you're so hot like this, baby. Wanna keep you like this forever"
A deep pressure formed in his abdomen every time you brushed over his prostate. He felt like he was about to explode, it was so much, so overwhelming, but he feared he'd die if you stopped now. "I-I..I think- m'cumming" he rasped out, his breathing starting to pick up as he braced himself.
His cock was pulsing, purple and swollen at the tip, getting ready to cum all over the sheets. Just a little more, just a bit more and-
You stopped.
Didn't pull out, just stopped.
The feeling started to fade almost instantly. He sat up on his hands, pleadingly looking over his shoulder with the biggest, watery puppy dog eyes you had ever seen. "Fuck, don’t do this to me, I was so close" Quaritch whined, rocking his hips on your cock again, his own edged dick smearing precum over his stomach.
You bit your lip, you could just cum at the sight. "I know, thats why I want you on your back. I want to see that beautiful face when I make you cum" you panted, feeling a slight burn in your thighs now that you weren't moving.
In a second, he was on his back, trembling, spreading his legs for you. His cock stood proudly, the tip angrily throbbing over his belly button. He was averting your gaze, a part of him still being rational enough to be embarrassed.
But you softly put your hand on his cheek, wiping the stray tears that managed to escape his eyes without him noticing. "Watch" you said, guiding his gaze downward to were you slowly pushing the tip of the strap into him again. He groaned softly at the sight, finally feeling full again after you had pulled out of him moments ago. To him, it felt like hours of being empty and denied.
When he took you to the base, he threw his head back. You stared. Stared at his stomach. You knew he was slim, but you could literally see a small bulge forming on his abdomen. You groaned, cursing under your breath and going back to thrusting into him at a fast pace, but not without pressing onto the bulge in his tummy for a while to feel yourself moving within him.
Miles easily fell back into the pleasureable rhythm of being fucked, the change in position hitting even more spots inside him that made him see stars.
Without even having to say anything, he lifted his legs up so his knees where near his face, giving you the room to fuck him even deeper mating press style. Every time you fucked into him, his tight ass squelched around the strap. If Eywa would grant you one wish, you'd wish to have a cock so you could actually feel him squeezing you, how tight and warm he was. And the best- you could cum in him. The thought and desire drove you to pound him even harder, putting everything you had into your thrusts.
With the way his cock was moving with every harsh thrust, you couldn't just not touch it. You wrapped your hand around it, jerking him off in the same rhythm as your movements. He growled deeply, his dick pulsing in your grasp and his thighs trembling around your face.
Thats when you noticed his braid over his shoulder, the tendrils at the end pulsing in time with his rapid heartbeat. Without a second thought, you took his queue, looked him dead in the eyes, watched his pupils dialate as he registered what you were about to do and then let the tendrils wrap around your tounge.
He yelled. Straight up screamed with his chest. You sucked on his kuru, your wet tounge wriggling and swirling around it. He felt it in his head, in his whole body, the tingles and shocks your touch brought.
"Sweet Eywa- I- I can't-" he sobbed, his head tipping back before he couldn't hold it anymore. The abuse on his sweet spot, your hand stroking his cock at just the right pace, your tounge scrambling his brain- all of it made him lose his composure entirely.
The deep knot in his stomach snapped at last, cum shooting out his cock like a geyser. His vision went white and for a moment, he swore he was floating in Eywas realm, not caring that he didn't even believe in that stuff.
Ropes after ropes of thick cum painted his abs, his chest, even his throat and your face. He howled through his orgasm after his face had been locked up in the most pleasureable, eye-crossing expression you had ever seen, desperate sounds ripping from his throat.
His whole body was trembling and thrashing, the jerky movements nearly making you fall off the bed. You fucked him slowly through his climax, gently pulling out as you noticed his face scrunching up in discomfort.
Quaritch looked a mess. Covered in his own cum, his short hair sticking to his forhead because of how much he had been sweating, his braid tousled and coming undone at the end. He panted undern you, desperately trying to catch his breath.
You rubbed a hand over his trembling thighs, cooing to him. "You did so good for me. We gotta do that more often" you smiled and crawled up to him to kiss his lips. He barely had the strength to kiss you back.
When you pulled away, he grunted in agreement, a satisfied but tired smirk on his face. "Not bad for a civilian" he teased. Ah, back he was to being himself again. You almost missed the whiney man he was just moments ago.
You laughed, swatting his cum covered chest playfully. "I'll show you not bad" you giggled, climbing on top of him once more. "Let's go another round, shall we?"
★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★
Please take your time to like, reblog and comment! It means the world to me
This took so long only for no one to read it💔 I already know it won't do good bc Quaritch is sooo criminally underrated. Maybe the hype will come back when the third movie is out so i didn't just write this fic for me and the other four ppl
a/n: sometimes a wip starts rolling again and u end up here! hi! sorry i was gone for such a hot minute! :D
wc: 4.3k
synopsis: You’re Dutch’s girl. Which means, as everyone at camps knows, you’re off limits. Arthur knows this better than anyone. Tonight, though, there’s a reason to push the boundary.
[mutual pining, technically emotional cheating but women are allowed to be evil to me <3, sfw, fem!reader]
For his line of work, Arthur was surprisingly honest man.
And only the Arthur Morgan could get away with it — be a thief and a conman who's as bad at lying as he was good at shooting.
Hosea and Dutch had given him hell for it when he was younger. Back when he hadn't quite grown into the hand-me down boots from Hosea and nothing mattered more than proving loyalty to his new family.
It was all too easy to rib him for. Dutch in particular, chortling loudly whenever he poorly lied about just where exactly he'd managed to sneak some whiskey from. Any acting jobs needed for cons kept Arthur at the fringe of it, for which he was grateful for.
But it had been something they'd all been hoping he'd shed with age, the nervous and unsubtle expression he got when trying to stumble through a fib.
Yet, how many years on, and still Arthur Morgan was a rotten liar.
It's why, depending on who you ask, he's called a mean son of a bitch. Too honest. Tells it entirely like it is, without any beating around the bushes.
Most of the gang learnt the hard way not to be asking Arthur's opinion on anything, unless you wanted the cold, hard truth.
It's also why Arthur was thanking the heavens no one asked him nothing — 'specially on the matters of the latest lady in Dutch's tent.
After Annabelle, Arthur saw a fine number of ladies file in and out of Dutch's arms. Heard them at night too, through the thin tent walls.
They tended to get picked up as the gang travelled across the Western landscape. Runaway brides and working girls, Arthur had seen them come and he had seen them go.
They were usually nice enough. Too nice for the likes of Dutch, Arthur thought begrudgingly to himself.
They weren't around long. It never took too long for them to catch on, to realise the squalor that came from being on the run. To understand that just as they used Dutch, he was using them back in equal measure.
Except... you.
Arthur couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something about your very nature was different from your predecessors. Maybe it was how genuine you seemed — from the longing looks of seemingly true affection at Dutch, to the eagerness to make yourself work in this new lifestyle.
You put in the work. Rolled up your sleeves. Got your hands dirty when you needed to.
Or maybe, it was because you didn't treat Arthur like the brute he was.
You were nice — a helluva lot nicer than a bunch of thieves deserved. You greeted each and everyone with a smile and when you dished out the pleasantries, asking how their day was going, you listened.
Arthur didn't know why. Maybe there was nothing for you to go back to or maybe you truly did love Dutch; either way, it was undeniable that you fit in with the gang far better than any other of Dutch's girls had.
It’s why he ends up here.
It’s more humid tonight, midges out in flutters, and the landscape of Horseshoe Overlook glittering beneath the brightened stars.
From his tent, Dutch’s gramophone warbles out an older tune, scratchy and romantic all at once. Beyond that, the camp is quiet. Stilled.
The gang, all those who haven't moseyed to the taverns tonight, are sprawled out over camp, keeping to themselves. It’s a decidedly do-nothing sort of night.
Arthur finds himself where he often does after long days of hunting, the licking flames of the fire keeping him warm. Fire’s an old friend. A good keeper of secrets, if you whisper them softly enough.
It keeps one of his now, unspoken, as across the fire his blue eyes watch you keenly. Secretly.
You’re politely asking Dutch to dance.
There’s an apple in Arthur’s palm. His knife cuts through it cleanly, slicing away small, bite sized pieces. When the blade hits his thumb, he presses it harder than he needs—but never enough to break the skin.
The callouses make it too hard to anyway. The sting, however, is a distraction from the wandering of his heart. He takes it readily.
“Another time.” Dutch’s dismissal carries across the camp to Arthur. Your disappointment, less vocal, follows in the silence.
“You said that last time, Dutch.”
You’re trying not to sound put out, but the discouragement sinks into your tone either way.
You make up for it with a gentle smile. Your hand is held out, waiting for Dutch to take it, trying to coax him out of his tent.
Even from afar, Arthur swears he can see your bottom lip pouting, ripe and pink as strawberries - before he remembers that staring ain’t polite.
He studies a wandering beetle instead, tracking a path alongside the campfire, glowing iridescent in the firelight. It's motion that drags his attention back up.
A wave of a hand. Dutch likely hasn’t even turned his head, but his hand waves lazily, dismissing you.
Something steels in Arthur’s spine at the action, his jaw tensing — as if you’re some kinda’ dog to be shooed away, told off for begging for scraps too much.
And he sees it too, the ripple across your face as yet another attempt of yours is shot down.
You give a stilted nod, even though Dutch sure ain't looking. The dirt kicks underfoot as you retreat almost timidly, letting the canvas hide you from view.
You've stepped away from Dutch's tent, but stay rooted in the thoroughfare, as though unsure where you go now. Forlornness rolls off your shoulders, nearly tangible in the night air, rising and falling with your silent sigh.
He’s standing before he realises he’s decided to, muscles groaning in protest from the stiffness that had settled in.
The knife finds its home, sheathed away in its holster strapped to his thigh, the apple banished into the fire. The sweet, acrid smell as it burns wafts up.
Arthur takes a moment to actually think about what he plans to do.
You look awfully pretty tonight. Well, if you asked Arthur, that's the case pretty much all of the time.
You know well how to keep yourself looking proper; a faux pinkness smudged on the apples of your cheeks and staining your lips, your lashes long and spidery, darkened by some powder. Even you fingernails are pristine, a serious feat for anyone at camp.
You're trying. You're really goddamn trying—and Dutch can't even spare you a glance.
Arthur knows a helluva lot what that feels like.
He takes a step forward, then halts. His hand cups over his mouth, checking his breath, relieved at the freshness.
Nonchalant as he can, Arthur removes his hat with one hand and drags his fingers through his hair with the other. It's not too bad. It's probably been too long a while since he's actually properly washed it, not just dunked it in the river, but that's hardly solvable now.
He makes some silent promise to duck into a bathhouse next time he's in town, then hastily stuffs his hat back on.
A nervous hand tucks back any stray strands. In doing so, the scruff on his face scratches at his forearm, wiry and rough. He's unshaven, of course.
Arthur stills his fussing motions with a sigh, suddenly each part of his unkempt appearance standing out to him in a way he normally could ignore.
Fussing was futile, he knew that. It don’t matter. You knew what he looked like, how he lived and—and what he was doing wasn't like that.
No matter what secrets the fire kept, you were Dutch's girl first.
"Mind if I cut in?" Arthur says as a way of greeting.
You're not expecting it, given the way you jump at his voice. You twirl around, eyes wide with surprise.
"Mister Morgan." You stammer in your surprise.
He watches as your eyes roam his face, your throat bobbing with a silent swallow, til they land on his outstretched hand. An offer.
You realise what he means a second later, with a polite, "Oh!"
It makes Arthur chuckle. Sincere surprise melts into an unmissable softening of your face as you understand what he's asking. What he's offering.
The slump in your shoulders from glum realisation of Dutch's dismissal lifts. You swallow again, tongue darting out to wet your lips briefly, then meet his eye. There's still a sad downturn to your gaze.
"I don't know if you can call it cutting in," You murmur more quietly. “Not quite.”
Your head dips down toward your shoulder, as though you might look over it, back at Dutch. But you don’t.
For a moment, Arthur does nothing but admire the line of your neck and ache.
“Just the same,” Arthur says. His hand, still held up in offer, inches forward.
Instead of looking back, you tilt your head back up almost shyly and meet his eye again. The intensity of your softened gaze, entirely on him, has Arthur fighting the urge to tip his hat and hide.
You're almost inquisitive, your eyes asking the question you won't dare to voice aloud: Why? Why do this for me?
He’s a rotten liar when he speaks, but sometimes he doesn’t need to talk to give away his secrets. Eyes are the window to the soul, or whatever some poet smarter than Arthur might say.
He only hopes the kindness of the gesture is enough, and you don't look further than that.
After a moment, you've decided apparently. Arthur's rewarded with the bloom of your smile, strawberry pink lips curling up. Your lashes, long and sweeping, are something he wouldn’t mind sketching sometime.
“That would be wonderful, Mister Morgan.”
Arthur is about to tell you, for the umpteenth time, that such formalities are not necessary — when you lay your hand in his, your other resting upon his broad shoulder, and the words disappear from his mouth.
He bites his tongue instead, hard. It has the same effect as the blade against his thumb.
Swallowing those feelings, his hand finds your waist, as gentle as his hands will allow him. The gramophone warbles on.
“I ain’t much of a dancer, m’fraid.” Arthur says, gravel in his voice.
You haven't even begun dancing, arms only poised and waiting, but he already feels the need to warn you. He's thankful he won't step on your toes — he's not that bad — but he's no Dutch. It'll be simple stuff.
You’re still smiling at him and it only grows at his words, as though what he's said is almost amusing.
"Yet, you still offered?" You say, eyes lighter with mischief. You're teasing him. "How gracious."
"Yeah, yeah," Arthur rolls his eyes. He'd prefer the tease to any genuine question about why he was bent on cheering you up. “We gone dance or what?”
In the trees, high up, a soft hoot sounds. Arthur knows he should be leading, he is the man—but somehow he's waiting for your cue.
Then your hands press against him, and slowly, gently, the pair of you ease into a soft sway.
It matches the slower melody of the song whistling from the gramophone. The line of your waist feels warm beneath his fingers — and he focuses hard on not holding you too tightly, eyes firmly on your collarbones.
A respectful place to rest one’s eyes. Especially considering where both your loyalties lie.
A few moments on, the records scratches into a new tune, faster this time. Jaunty piano joins the melody. It’s less romantic, which Arthur tries to take as a blessing.
The dirt scuffs beneath your feet as you break the mold first, taking a step back and forcing Arthur to match it. His eyes finally lift to your face. Your eyes, darker in the night-time, are already on him.
“You leadin’ this dance Mister Morgan or am I?”
His affronted expression must show because your laugh follows after, sweetest sound this side of the Mississippi he swears.
Arthur raises his brows, “Oh, that how it’s gonna be, huh?”
“Uh huh.” You nod, deadly serious. “That it is.”
You’re fighting off your smile, the corners of your lips twitching.
He pretends to sigh loudly, but even so, his hand on your waist tightens and he begins to dance proper.
He leads, you follow.
You keep up aptly, confident in your steps in a way reminiscent of your old life. He wonders whom else you’ve danced with in your life - wonders if you ever expected you’d end up here, dancing with someone like him.
Dancing on the edge of the law in every sense of the words.
He lifts your joined hands, spinning you gently. Your dress flares out, the edges brimmed with a trace of mud, and you smile at him over your shoulder, strawberry lips taunting him.
He wonders idly if they taste of strawberries too.
He chases the thought away with a stern bite of his cheek.
This time, the dance is more of a rock and less of a sway. Arthur does what he can remember, spinning you out, pulling you back in, doing these half-dips that show him a brief maddening flash of your neck, head tilted back. It’s a special, sweetened form of torture.
But it isn’t really.
Because you’re smiling- no, grinning at him, looking so much lighter than you did earlier at Dutch’s dismissal. And, hell, Arthur just might be smiling too.
The song ends, slipping into another, and the fast tempo fades. Another one to sway to starts up, lulling and romantic, dragging over the airwaves.
The fire still crackles behind the two of you. Arthur wonders how long is too long to have you in his arms — ‘specially with Dutch’s tent so nearby.
But your grip doesn’t falter, so Arthur stays.
One more dance, he tells himself. Can be a selfish bastard for one more song.
With less twists and turns, Arthur forces his hands to loosen, softening his grip against you. The pair of you haven’t actually stopped dancing between songs. You’ve only slowed.
Now, you sway. You’re closer than you were before — but not too close.
Close as you’re allowed to be.
Arthur wishes you were you closer. Then, cursing himself, he wishes he wasn’t the stupid, sorry bastard who wants for another man’s woman.
His regret is fleeting. You’re still here before him, still dancing.
He isn’t resting his eyes somewhere safe this time either, letting them roam over your features with an uncharacteristic greed. He lets himself have this, because you do the same.
It’s gotten darker out. The moon is a yolk in the sky and Arthur can see it in the reflection of your eyes.
You look… more content. Heavens knows if, through some absurd twist of fate, that’s because of him. The thought feels outlandish. It makes him hunger for more.
Your hand in his shifts, then your mouth twists.
“May I ask you a question, Mister Morgan?”
“I believe you just did.” Arthur informs you.
You huff a laugh, eyes rolling a little bit. He still sees your smile. “That ain’t what I meant and you know it.”
“Alright,” Arthur drawls the word out. “Only if you quit calling me such formalities.”
You huff again at his gruff command, but this time it’s with a flustered frill to it. Your eyes dart away, then back up to his face.
“Fine.” You say, relenting. “Arthur.”
It sends a fire up his spine to hear his name from your lips. He prays you don’t notice the subtle flex of his fingers against your ribs.
“Yea'?”
“Why did you offer to dance with me tonight?”
It’s commendable how he manages not to falter in his motions—likely something learned from years of having to think on his feet. His feet keep drifting, his movements still swaying.
But there’s nothing to stop the fluster that crawls up his neck.
Nothing as daunting as the question he can’t answer.
Dipping his head slightly to hide behind the brim of his hat, Arthur chooses a truth.
“My ma told me once,” He says, voice raspier in its quietness. “That it’s real impolite to leave a lady waiting.”
He lifts his head again, meeting your interested gaze. He tips his hat towards Dutch’s tent.
“Dutch’s other girls,” Arthur murmurs, before realising how much of a misstep it may to bring them up.
He clears his throat. “I, well, forgive me for bringing them up, but they had a lot of demands you see.”
Something sweeps over your face, a hint of melancholy, but it’s gone just as fast as it appeared.
You don’t look over at Dutch’s tent, only adjust the hand resting on Arthur’s shoulder.
“What I’m tryna’ say is that—“ A sigh heaves out of his mouth, looking back at the jumbled answer he’d just given. “Hell, I don’t even know what I’m tryna’ say."
"You don’t want for as much as they did," He says more quietly. "You wanted a dance.”
It’s as simple as that.
For a moment, his words linger between you, strung up by his honesty. Arthur can’t even remember when he looked away, just that he knew that answer was too much. Too much truth.
He clears his throat, eyes tracing the line your collarbones once more.
The quirk of your mouth draws his gaze up.
His long-winded answer seems to have tickled you because your grin is back, mischief hiding behind it.
“So,” you begin, eyes bright. “It’s because you’re a gentleman then?”
“Now, hold on,” Arthur’s already protesting before you’ve finished your sentence, “‘cos I ain’t never said any such words such as gentlemen—”
Your laugh curls around his words, cutting them off.
“Relax, cowboy, I’m teasing ya. Ain’t a gentleman.” You say, nodding along - but still smiling, like you’re hiding another tease.
“Right,” says Arthur, nodding awkwardly.
Your mischief melts away into something more intent, a curious emotion that pulls your brows together an inch.
“But you’re… you’re something, Mister Morgan.”
The way you say it with a small shrug, coming from your sweet mouth, it sounds like a compliment.
Even if it’s back to that formal title you give him. No one else at camps calls him that so frequently. He’s about to remind you again when—
“Y’know, sometimes, I wonder…” You say, voice lower, quieter.
You look up at him, through your long lashes, then away again.
“Wonder what it might’ve been like had I met you first.”
And ain’t that a damn thought?
It hasn’t crossed Arthur’s mind, mainly because, well, he ain’t ever seem to find himself in the situations Dutch did.
Coy looks. Charming words. Hazy evenings. An in-direct kiss shared through a sip from the same bottle.
Opportunities for women seemed to fall into Dutch’s lap. For Arthur? Not quite so plentiful.
Besides, the truth of the matter remained you wouldn’t be here, in Arthur's life, if it weren’t for Dutch.
Namely because Arthur couldn’t- wouldn’t ask what Dutch did of you. Uprooting your life, playing hooky with the law? To survive it, it needed to be a choice. Your choice.
Hell knows, there’s enough blood on his hands without dragging someone else into his sins.
“If I met you,” He waves your joined hands idly. “On my own, ‘fore Dutch,” His murmur is gravel. “I’d probably be robbin’ you. You sayin' you'd want that?”
Besides a distraction, it’s supposed to be some reminder of just what kind of man Arthur Morgan is. Thief, killer, outlaw—he bears the weight of them all. Certainly not a gentleman.
It doesn’t work — instead you preen up at him, as though he’s said something funny.
“Well, that’d be a mighty unwise decision, Mister Morgan, given how dirt-poor I am.”
“Arthur.” He reminds you gruffly, averting his eyes.
Because, like looking at the sun, it’s easier to focus on that and look away, than it is to face you head-on. Your easiness around him, that smile that’s just for him; Arthur can feel his sharp corners softening for you.
“Arthur,” You echo him, your voice almost, almost on the edge of fond. Your smile is back to teasing. “‘Sides, I know you’re lyin’. You’d never rob from anyone who don’t deserve it.”
Arthur’s pretty sure it ain’t normal to be feeling his heartbeat in every fingertip - nor should his it be walloping like he’s caught in a shoot out. This close to him, you’re gunpowder.
The whisper of your voice —had I met you first— the nearness of your body, the knowledge that you saw the good he tried to put back in the world, the noticing.
It all melds together, becoming something that feels dangerously close to a flicker of a spark.
His eyes betray him, a glance at the glow within Dutch’s tent, just a few steps away.
It’s hope for something he’s not allowed to have.
It’s a sullen, chilled thing. The sudden reminder of just whose bed you’ll be warming tonight sinks its teeth in with a fierce bite on Arthur’s heart.
This moment, your question; it doesn’t change a thing. You’re Dutch’s girl first.
But despite that, Arthur can admit that — beneath the warm moonlight, your hand cradled in his, your pretty eyes on his — it is awfully easy to imagine if that weren’t true.
He still hasn’t answered you. A myriad of responses stay trapped behind his teeth, none of them the right one. None that don’t want to trace back to the damn question you had asked.
… had I met you first …
Arthur’s gaze finds the plump of your bottom lip, strawberry-pink, and his blood sings for what your mouth might feel against his.
Instead, when the song winds down to its end, Arthur takes his cue.
He draws his hands back gingerly and nods to you, letting himself hide behind his hat. He gives an awkward grunt, one hand reaching up to brush along his jaw nervously.
“Well," He says, meeting your eyes. "I better not keep ya too long."
He means dancing, but it's almost a truth in itself. You're nodding gently, as if convincing yourself to agree with him. At your sides, nearly hidden in the folds of your dress, he sees the subtle flex of your hands. You’re nervous, he notes.
"Y'know, you aren't nearly as terrible at dancing as you think," You say steadily, despite your fidgeting hands.
Then, you peer down at your shoes with a hrm, as though checking for something. You twist your feet in the dirt, left then right.
Nodding affirmatively, you look back up at Arthur, grin, and say resolutely, "Yep. See? Not trodden on even once."
Arthur roll his eyes, 'cos even he ain't a big enough buffoon to mess that up.
"Really, you're too kind," He mutters, on the side of sarcastic.
Still, something skitters along his nerves being on the receiving end of your grin. He knows the memory of it will trail him all the way back to his home beside the fire. He wonders if it'll follow him into his dreams tonight.
In the back of his mind, Arthur can already see the first few lines of the sketch he'll be drawing tonight. Charcoal on paper, imbued with lovesickness.
You open your mouth to retort back—but whatever you're going to say is squashed at Dutch's sudden voice, loudly calling your name.
"Where are ya, woman?" It's one of his less than friendly tones. "Don't tell me you're caught in a sulk again!"
There's a rustling from within Dutch's tent and abruptly, you and Arthur take a step back from each other.
Which is absurd, Arthur rationalises silently, given how you and him— how it weren't like that. It was just a dance. You're Dutch's girl, he knows this.
"Comin'!" You call out, head turned towards the tent.
But you don't move just yet. Your head still faces away, moonlight caressing the line of your neck. From this angle, Arthur can see the furrow of your brow, the pursing of your lips, deep in thought.
He should go. He should've gone two damn songs ago. He's been selfish enough for one night and—
—you turn to him and all thoughts evaporate.
Because you're stepping forward, face set, like you might lose the courage to do what you'll do next.
Which is to raise of your tiptoes, cradle your hand along the scruff of his jaw, and press a delicate kiss to his cheek.
It's gone so fast, he might've imagined it.
You're stepping back as quickly as you had moved forward, hands back at your sides, fidgeting. The skin of his cheek where your lips have touched ebbs a concerning warmth. He knows his surprise will be betrayed in his blue eyes.
"Thank you, Mister Morgan," You whisper.
And, for the first time, Arthur sees it for what it is now; the formality that puts the distance back between you two.
"For the dance. You're a wonderful partner."
There's a weight in your words, tinged with some kind of want he can't begin to puzzle out. He doesn't get time to either way because then, with a ruffle of your dress, you're disappearing around the canvas of the tent wall.
The night around Arthur settles back in. The ambience of critters and firelight no longer dim with you gone from sight.
He sighs, hands resting on his gun-belt as he turns to head back to his post, fireside and lonesome. It's almost alarming how entirely removed that dance had felt — as though the pair of you were worlds away.
With a shake of his head to clear it, Arthur takes stock of camp, with a feigned disinterest. Had anyone seen you two? A quick-glance reveals that no-one else was made privy to the moment just shared.
No. No, there was no moment. No lingering, no wanting, he scolds himself. Just a dance - just because you asked.
Reaching the campfire, Arthur grunts as he climbs down to his previous seat in the dirt.
The apple in the flames is nothing but ashes now. He stares at it, watching the embers claim the once-flesh, turning it into nothing but dust in the wind.
His blue eyes lift.
The silhouette of you taunts him through your canvas walls. Then the lantern light dims, taking your shadow with it.
Arthur returns his weary, longing gaze to the fire before him. Flames take the unspoken secret of tonight, burying it within the embers. He won't be able to sleep tonight— not so close to Dutch's tent at least.
For now, he just watches the flames from beneath the brim of his hat.
The fire burns on—and so does he, just much more quietly.
⚬──────────✧──────────⚬
i love besotted lovesick men and i love women getting the luv they deserve <3 i hope u did enjoy the bittersweetness and pls do let me know if you'd like a second part/if you had any ideas for it!! you know me, i'm a sucker for a happy ending tehe :D
tagging my shawty bae @illyrianbitch bcos i'm legally required to bug her whenever i can ! mwah! then also tagging some peeps who showed interest sorry if i have misread the vibes LMAO @cassievanlauritzen @stottlemorgan @everlongingheart ok luv u bye <3
i understand the lack of motivation so well 😞 you’ll always have people here for your writing in any case! what other fandoms are you interested in?
i’ll bsfr i haven’t seen any new media apart from wednesday (i’ve been rewatching the second season for 2 months straight. very normal!) the only other thing i’m looking forward to watching is interview with the vampire s3. need to see my favorite girl haunting everybody
i don’t even think i’m going to stop writing out of disinterest, it is quite literally the stark polarity in interaction but i knew it was going to happen. people move onto the new thing so fast but i really thought isaac would be one of those characters where he would be loved beyond the season he appeared in 😭
-started innocently, with you ragebaiting gomez by telling him you wouldn’t mind too see what else issac can do,
-then you started to notice the constant burning feeling someone was staring at you,
-you begin to realise its issac.
- taking advantage of this was easy for you, asking him for answers with a hand on his shoulder or placing a kiss on his cheek after he fumbles to give it to you,
-intentionally pushing your bare thigh against his leg as you sat with everyone in the quad,
-you watch as his jaw tightens and he stares at the wooden table like it personally offended him.
-most is the same, you endlessly teasing him and him having to get himself off in the shower, cum running down his shaft as he sighed and put his head under,
-at night, when gomez snuck in late giggling with morticia, issac just stared at the wall with wide eyes, trying to distract himself by the thought of you.
-one day, he just got sick of it. you had come into his dorm “looking for the book gomez stole”, even though that wasn’t true. you were bent over, ass cheeks threatening to reveal themselves as issac tried to work on an equation,
-he sighed, pushed his chair out and walked over to you.
-“oh- fuck, right ther- fuck!” you gasped out, hands clawing at his back, his head was stuffed in the crook of your neck, pressing soft kisses on the soft skin beneath your ear.
-his hips pushed into yours, his cock was more on the longer side so it kissed your cervix every few thrusts, your legs wrapped around his waist, the white sheet hanging just above his ass.
-he moved his head, watching your face, the ways your eyes clamped shut and your swollen lips parted, when he pushed his hips in harder how you whimpered pathetically.
-the next day, gomez was confused by the flushed looks you both exchanged, something about it didn’t sit right with him, morticia tried to tell him it was nothing but he wouldn’t listen.
content warning: smut, edging/denial, cumplay, fluff, brat taming, handjobs, teasing, restraints, implied safewords (none used but there’s intermittent check-ins), subspace
word count: 4.4k
notes: consent so enthusiastic you’d think he has something wrong with him (he does). please remember to like, reblog and comment. interaction as a whole in the isaac fandom is waning, so make sure to interact with fics/art/headcanons. any content you want to see more of.
preview: You fix him with a deadpan stare. “Way to make it sound completely sexless. Extreme turn on. We can’t ever just have sex like normal people?”
In most circumstances the mass of the imposing edifice would have sufficed, its familiarity lending a gravity Isaac seemed to be fond of. This was his laboratory, the one place where he’d become inured to the utilitarian austerity. But tonight the clock tower strikes you as too impersonal, brumal in the marrow. Farcical, really: you’re projecting your own unease onto him, imagining his detachment as an echo of your own discomfort. He chose the venue, after all. A test of endurance, he’d elusively called it; his comfort irrelevant, yours negotiable… he has a way of talking you into things.
“Out of all the places, you choose this. It feels so…” You shake your head, rummaging through your internal lexicon, languorously blowing air out through your lips when you come up empty.
“Clinical?” Isaac supplies unhelpfully. “Well. That was the intention. Comfort is a variable to be introduced later. I just want to see how much this body can take as it is with no other factors involved.”
You fix him with a deadpan stare. “Way to make it sound completely sexless. Extreme turn on. We can’t ever just have sex like normal people?”
This amuses him greatly, he scoffs out a laugh, mirth glittering in his eyes as he steps closer to you. “The irony isn’t lost on you, I hope.”
“Excuse you. My ideas are hot,” you retort with mock indignation, draping your hands at the nape of his neck, fingers teasing the soft curls there. He tilts his head, not conscientiously, but enough to bare the column of his throat, that pale expanse so often guarded and clothed, now a knowing vulnerability. “And they don’t involve you pinned to a cold table like a frog in science class.”
“I have a feeling…” his voice dips into a lower octave, “you’ll enjoy it more than you know. Have I ever led you astray?”
“Only all the time.” You sigh with exaggerated resignation, stealing a page from his repertoire of melodrama. Then, softening, you tilt your head, lips curling into a smile both mischievous and conciliatory. “Wouldn’t it be better if you were comfortable, though?”
His eyes are blown stygian-black, swallowing the brown when you pull back just far enough to look at his face. He drags air in through his open mouth, shallow, greedy little pulls, breaths you can hear even with the tower’s droning hum.
“Sounds good, huh? Don’t you want that?” you coax, pulling him closer.
He blinks, the haziness clearing for a moment and then he laughs. “Ah, nice try. Almost had me too.”
You groan, forehead dramatically pressing into his chest. “This is such a tedious way to say you have a kink.”
Isaac smiles, dimples punctuating the angles of his face, arms curling around you in a hold that is tender, knowing, and completely undenying of your accusation. “And you’re still going to indulge me.”
You roll your eyes with the affectation of an exasperated lover, like you weren’t already familiar with this. “You’re ridiculous.”
When he pulls away to lie down supine on the surface, the movement is almost routine. His body tenses only momentarily at the glacial bite of the slab beneath him, pallid skin leeching warmth on contact. He arranges himself with the composure of someone rehearsing compliance. He is betrayed by the manicly fervent glint in his eyes and the anomalous rise and fall of his chest. “Ridiculous — and flat on my back, waiting.”
You trail your fingers over the expanse of one of his arms, charting the tendons, bones and veins before the restraints snap shut. “You’ll last five minutes before you start complaining.”
“Then, you’ll just have to keep me still, won’t you?” He lifts his hand to check the restraints are secure and then humming satisfactorily when he is pleased.
“Yeah,” you agree, planting your whole palm against his face and nudging until his head tips back onto the surface. “I guess I will.”
“Heavy-handed,” he notes in a breathless muffled sound, lips open against your hand.
You shift your hand to look at him. “Don’t sound too excited,” you say, the words come out low and teasing. You move your hand deliberately, letting your palm explore the planes of his body tracing a familiar map, each brush over his chest, the slight dip of his stomach, sending faint shivers through him. Your fingers linger, pressing just enough to feel the tremor beneath.
His eyes follow your hand, dark and alert, tracking each motion, betraying the taut line of anticipation coiled along his spine. You notice the slight tilt of his head, the subtle arch of his chest, the way his fingers flex slightly at his sides, preparing to resist but eventually surrendering to your attention.
“Enough with the build-up,” he snaps impetuously.
“You’ll take what I give you.” You parry without hesitation, brows raising. “Now. Repeat that back to me.”
His breath comes out in a rush. For half a second you believe he’ll acquiesce to your request, and the anticipation ferments, only for him to shut his mouth with stubborn deliberation.
“Isaac.” Your warning lingers.
He grins up at you. An intentional provocation.
It’s enough to engender a modicum of irritation; you tongue the inside of your cheek and allow the feeling to gather heat. Then you try on his expression, a simulacrum of his smile, only yours has teeth. Sharper, meaner, it courts as much as it threatens.
His falters. What he meant as a smirk curdles, a fissure of doubt cleaving the expression. An eyebrow twitches before he gathers himself. Too late.
Your palm glissades lower, brushing over his abdomen, and you feel the tiniest jolt beneath your touch, a shiver that runs through him despite every effort at composure. You pause, just long enough to let him feel the weight of your deliberate presence.
Isaac inhales sharply, chest rising with a rhythm that quickens in the faintest increments, and you notice the micro-movements he cannot conceal: the twitch of muscle beneath your fingers, the faint curl of his lips, the way his eyes darken with focus and desire. You press a little more insistently against his stomach, hand steady, not forceful, but enough to command attention, and feel the muscle contract, and then the abrupt twitch below, graceless and undeniable, knocks the breath out of you.
You take his dribbling cock in your hand. At once his body locks, shoulders snapping tight as if he’s bracing against some unseen strike. His breath catches, shallow, truncated, before he forces it back into the rhythm of his clockwork heart. The tension runs through him in rigid lines, from the hard plane of his abdomen to the clamp of his thighs against the metal surface.
You begin to move your hand. For a while he manages it, breath rising in neat surges, chest taut as he tries to stay even. But the carefully constructed mask wavers: a ripple quivers beneath your palm, his stomach contracting against the touch, his breathing edging louder, more uneven. You keep your pace measured, cruelly steady, the slick sound of it rising in the brief hush between his breaths. His throat bobs, words swallowing themselves down. .
The pulse in him grows frantic; your hand glides over the spill, each pass slicker, lazier, indulgent. You’re in no rush and neither is he, but his body doesn’t seem to register that when he jerks under your hand, a tremor runs through his thighs. You press your thumb to the leaking head and he flinches, jaw tightening as though he’s holding himself back from speech. When you draw your hand down again, he exhales on a sound perilously close to a groan.
His composure buckles by degrees: the arch of his back collapses, his breaths turn guttural. He’s coming apart, body caught between wanting to retreat and wanting more of what’s undoing him. You drag it out slowly, until his hips start to move without permission, small, involuntary thrusts seeking your hand.
When you start to pick up on the fact that he’s close, his abdomen seizing, mouth open on a soundless curse, you release him. The sudden absence makes him shudder.
It takes him a moment to reconstitute himself, to retrieve his breath from wherever it scattered. With a final exhale, he turns to look at you, a fervent glint in his eye that makes him look a little crazed and feverish.
A breathless demand: “Again.”
“That was fast,” you comment, eyes as dark as his own.
“It was,” he concedes, gaze skittering from one of your eyes to the other, appraising, pausing only long enough to deem the verdict satisfactory. “Restraint on my part is unnecessary. You’re taking care of that.”
You hum.
Then you start again. A hand carefully circles around the length of him, and this time you can feel the throbbing more insistent, the veins protruding.
“So pretty,” you whisper.
“Yeah?” His voice fractures under the strain, coming out wrecked.
Your eyes lift, meeting his, and your free hand drifts to sweep the curls from his brow, fingers tracing a path that is at once tender and inquisitive, wandering across the contours of his face. “Yeah. Even prettier when you come. Not gonna keep me waiting too long, will you?”
“I-“ He opens his mouth to speak, hesitating: the articulation of his desire momentarily suspended by that internal clock that governs him, a man perpetually mediating between impulse and restraint. Finally, with a careful, almost reluctant exhalation, he yields with a compromise: “Let’s get this out of the way first.” The faintest quiver betrays the friction between what he wants and what he’s personally conducted.
He lifts his hips, a subtle elevation, as though in this minute shift he might summon some hidden cadence from the unrelenting pumps of your hand. You do not falter, do not temper the fluid insistence of your rhythm; it pulses on inexorably. His breath deepens and presses warmly against your skin, a living current that stirs the nerve-endings in exquisite awareness, while his torso twists with a sinuous, hypnotic grace into your hold, every curve and taut line of muscle revealed in sharp relief. You feel the gentle quiver along his arms, the faint shiver undulating beneath the skin, the delicate pulse of blood and life beneath the surface.
It endears you so much: this lack of composure under your hand, the way his body opens itself up to you and then seems to pull itself back. Fingers twitch, muscles coil and uncoil with a subtle insistence, and his chest rises unevenly, proof of how exquisitely short-lived his fortitude really is. “You have a very low tolerance,” you comment fondly.
“When it comes to you…” The pause is unnecessary, but then again, much of his syntax comes with emphasis and flourish. “I’m not surprised.”
You press your lips to the side of his face, lingering over the mole that resides there as if it were a secret you had been entrusted with, a small geography of him you carry in your mouth. Then your mouth finds his, soft and unhurried, a kiss offering of closeness so quiet it almost trembles.
He meets you with astonishing gentleness, lips cloud-soft against yours, as if afraid to disturb the fragile intimacy. When you pull back, even slightly, there is an instinctive tilt of his head, a brush of his lips toward yours, chasing the warmth you left behind before you twist your hand at the head of his length, spreading the streak of translucent fluid across it and his mouth falls open.
“You’re being so good,” your voice dips into a reverential tone before you open your mouth, almost mockingly, as a parody of his own, brows creasing in faux sympathy.
“I’ll take what you give me,” he finally concedes breathlessly, leaning up for contact.
Your eyes soften, voice lowering into that insinuating register that is almost an amalgamation of compassion and threat. His defiant postulating isn’t for show, it’s in the marrow of him but you, you’ve learned the infrastructure, the way it bends and collapses, and you know where to press until he turns pliant. “You were always going to.”
The words fall between you, preordained. Silence convenes around them. You watch the minute disturbances and let them crest and ebb before you move. The brief frown that ghosts across your face dissolves as you read the tension along his body, gauging his disposition and allowing the silence for the word to leave his mouth, until you find no misgivings, no hesitation that he’s unwilling to take whatever you offer.
“Keeping that big mouth of yours shut was never going to convince me otherwise,” you say at last, almost tenderly. “It only taught me where to listen.”
He grits his teeth when you tighten your fingers slightly, a sound too soft to be a growl catching in his throat. Heat gathers where your skin meets his. The clocktower plocks somewhere above, its pendulum steady, while the rest of the room collapses into a narrow corridor of sensation. You feel his cock pulse against your palm, the tick fast and insistent. The moonlight pools in the hollow of his collarbone, and for a moment you can’t tell whether the tremor that passes between you belongs to him or to you.
You lean forward, a slow line of saliva slips from your mouth and over the head of his cock. His eyes flutter open, half-lidded; they’re glassy with effort, trying to keep the world in focus through a lens that keeps fogging. He tilts his head up to look at you properly, a quiet groan slipping past his lips when you rotate your grip slowly, deliberately, letting your fingers trace a spiraling path that coils through him like molten silk.
A sudden wave overtakes him, and his foot slams down, bracing itself onto the cold metal, the sharp impact sending a ripple through every coiled sinew and muscle. His knee bends instinctively, thigh arching and folding and a shiver runs along the line of his torso, quivering beneath your hand. Heat pulses from him in thick waves, glistening across skin.
“C’mon. C’mon—fuck me!” he snarls out, half out of his mind, lifting his hips to thrust himself into your hand.
Your body feels hot all over, something molten coalescing in your core, a thick, undulating heat. He thrashes against the restraints. The veins in his neck protrude, his muscles straining. His head jerks from side to side, his face contorts. You pin his hips to the table, and speed up, teasing the precipice of release, then withdraw, releasing him.
“No!” he shouts, skull striking the hard surface with a dull echo.
Your mouth is too dry to even summon a laugh, tongue pressed thick against the roof of your mouth as the heat pooling low in your body hums like restrained electricity. His hips jerk frantically and your eyebrows shoot up in a flash of startled recognition before your fingers splay on his hip, nails digging into the cadaverous planes of his skin, pressing just enough to impede the relentless writhing.
“Stop,” he gasps, the decadent sting of pain making him delirious. “Stop, that won’t do anything.”
The plea fractures on a gasp; his whole body jerks, then folds into stillness. For a moment he seems not to know where he is.
You realize the pain is accelerating the impending release and let go. The heat between you disperses into the air, sharp and metallic, the room itself seeming to breathe again after holding its lungs too long. There’s a lapse of silence save for Isaac’s labored breaths, eyes closed as he tries to regain his composure. he exhales shakily, eyelids fluttering.
You observe the incremental recalibrations of his body: a swallow convulsing the slender column of his neck, fingers flexing as if slowly regaining dominion over them, the chest’s fitful rise rehearsing the idea of calm. The rigidity ebbs from him, molecule by molecule, and color returns in waves, a slow marbling of vitality across pallor.
Only then does he turn his head, eyes fluttering open with a wild lucidity, febrile and manic still flickering behind them.
“Again,” he says hoarsely. “Let’s go again.”
You scoff, a disbelieving laugh spilling from your lips, cadenced like wind rattling the eaves of a long-abandoned building, eyes tracing the minute convulsions of his frame. Only when you have adjudicated every quake, every quiver of sinew and pulse, do you incline your head with a slow, deliberate nod of amused assent. “Alright.”
Your hand’s descent acts as an invocation, and a strangled sound absconds from him, curling upward into the vaulted air. His teeth seize upon his lower lip while the body beneath your gaze stiffens and yields in oscillation, a reticent liturgy of restraint and want.
His wrists strain against the leather, the motion taut and convulsive, as though some private storm were gathering in the sinews. The straps bite into his skin, embossing it with the raw, reddened crescents.
“You’re hurting yourself,” you murmur, the words less reprimand than observation, your voice slipping into the charged quiet between you. It hangs there, tremulous, like light caught in dust motes.
He doesn’t answer. He scarcely registered it. The breath saws through his throat, his body vibrating with a fervor that seems to reject the very idea of containment.
“Isaac.” You intone his name as a command, each syllable measured, sovereign, with an authority that brooks no argument. “You need to calm down.” Your palm rises, deliberate, and settles against the curve of his jaw, warmth grounding whatever it is that coils through him like a restless current. He inclines toward it, leaning into it, searching for the tether of your presence. “Breathe.”
He listens with a shaky exhale, lips trembling, perspiration accumulating on his brow, tension unspooling.
“That’s it. Look at that, you’re doing good,” you praise fondly. “Keep holding on, we’re going again.”
He wets his lips.
The skin on the length of his cock moves under the glide of your hand, and he shudders, an involuntary spasm that travels up his spine and radiates to the tips of his fingers and toes. Each deliberate glide is a spark and he is helpless against it, body coiling and uncoiling like a living thing that has forgotten all purpose except this one sensation. His chest heaves with shallow, uneven breaths catching in his throat, and his lips part in wordless gasps that flutter like butterfly wings, half sounds, half moans, as though even language cannot contain what wracks him.
His hands grasp at the air, at the slab beneath him, at nothing at all, fingers curling and unclenching in a rhythm dictated entirely by the tidal wave rolling through his body. The veins along the shaft pulse insistently under your palm, slick and vibrant, each beat of his heart is a need that reverberates into your own awareness. He thrashes subtly, hips twitching in futile, half-conscious attempts to chase the impossible high that slides down his spine in molten waves. Every brush of your thumb, every teasing pressure, drives him deeper into the chaos of his own release, until his mind is a haze, fogged and delirious.
A low, guttural sound escapes him, rough and ragged, spilling from his throat in defiance of all composure. His eyes half-roll, glassy and unfocused, and he cannot think, cannot form a sentence, cannot do anything except feel, feel, feel, as your hand orchestrates the tremors that run through him in unrelenting succession. The world collapses, until it is only you, only him, only the relentless, consuming flood of sensation that leaves him shaking, undone in your grip.
You let go.
The sob that falls from his lips is nothing short of mirific, raw and unguarded, spilling from him in a tremulous cascade of sound that makes your chest ache with a strange, avaricious fondness.
When the restraints finally click open, your brows lift in mild surprise, the noise startling in the quiet of the tower.
“Really? This whole time you could've just opened them yourself?"
He doesn’t grace that with a reply. The subsequent movement is instinctual — a surge, a lunge; he catches you in his arms, hands clutching, twisting you into his lap, you tumble with a peal of laughter escaping you before you can stop it. The kiss that lands on your mouth is fevered, graceless, so full of need that it startles you before you melt into him.
“Oh,” you croon, pulling back just enough to let your gaze roam over his twitching body. “Baby. Baby, you’re alright. I’ve got you.” Your hand drifts along the taut line of his thigh, a gentle stroke, feeling the muscle contract under your fingers, warmth spreading from the contact like spun silk. Your voice softens, threaded with adoration and amusement. “Been so good holding on, letting me have you like this,” you murmur against his lips.
“I need to come,” he says finally.
Your lips twitch into a wisp of a smile as you begin to draw back, only to feel his grasp harden, a possessive vise that yanks you nearer, hauls you in, as if he could fuse your very flesh into his own. “It’s okay,” you laugh. “Gonna give you what you want. I’m a little hot, gotta lose the shirt.”
There is no balletic flourish, just the brisk yank of fabric over your head, the shirt flung to the floor like a discarded thought. Then you’re on him again, your bare skin pressing into his, an anchor of heat that seems to dissolve his rigid edges until he thaws, molding to the contours of your form. His back is a sweat-slick and feverish constant against the softness of your chest, your legs twining around him with a tender, confident hold, as if you're claiming a space that already feels like home.
“You’re being quiet,” you note.
His curls tickle your neck with the impetus of the movement, shaking his head briefly. “I’m fine.”
“Isaac.”
He’s reticent for a beat. “Overexertion,” he concedes. “Nothing serious. Just mild cognitive dissonance… tired, mostly.”
“You wanna st—”
“No.” He interrupts, clipped, effectively truncating your sentence. “I need to come.”
When your hand slides down his body and grips his cock, the sigh of relief is a quiet hymn to capitulation, His head lolls back, heavy with abandon, and you shift instinctively, rising just enough to offer a cradle for his fall, your body a gilded sanctuary for his unraveling. The heat of it pulses under your fingers, already slick with his precome that smears itself across your palm. “Fuck, you’re a mess already,” you mutter, your breath hot against his ear as you start to stroke, slow at first, letting the wet slide build. His sigh is ragged, a broken sound, and his head drops back again, heavy and helpless.
“Look at this,” you say, dragging your palm back up, letting the slick skin of his cock glide under your touch, the friction teasing out another bead of precome that spills over the tip and rolls down the shaft. It’s leaking nonstop now, a slow, constant dribble that coats him, making every pull of your hand wetter, sloppier, until your fingers are practically slipping through the flood of it. You tighten your hold, dragging down again, feeling the heat and the pulse of him as more precome seeps out, dripping onto your wrist in warm, messy rivulets. “You’re soaking my hand. Can’t even hold it together, can you?” His hips jerk under your touch, a shuddered gasp slipping out as more of his fluids spill over, making the mess worse, trickling down to pool at the base. Your fingers drag it back up, the slickness letting you twist your hand just right until he’s trembling, barely holding on.
His hips twitch, a sharp jerk into your hand, and a choked groan tears out of him. “Don’t—fuck, don’t stop,” he rasps, voice raw and wrecked. Your hand keeps working, dragging slowly along his cock, the skin glistening as precome keeps spilling, soaking everything — your fingers, your palm, even dripping down to wet the inside of your forearm. “Just like that,” he chokes out, barely coherent, his body shuddering with every wet, dragging stroke. “Keep going.”
His body’s trembling now, hips jerking into your hand with desperate little thrusts, and his breath comes in sharp, broken pants. “I’m—I’m close,” he hacks out, voice shredded at the edges that your cunt aches hearing him.
“Then let go,” you coax into his hair, tightening your grip, sliding faster through the wet heat, the squelch loud and obscene with every drag down his length. “Come all over my fuckin’ hand.” Your thumb swipes hard over the tip, smearing the dripping precome back down, and that’s what breaks him. His whole body locks up, a raw moan ripping out of him as he comes, hard and violent, thick ropes of his release flooding out, splattering across your knuckles and spilling over your fingers. It’s a deluge, hot and sticky, pouring out in heavy spurts that coat your hand, dripping down to pool at the base of him and trickling onto his trembling thighs.
His orgasm seems endless, his cock twitching with aftershocks, each pulse pushing out another dribble that seeps into the mess already covering your skin. His eyes are shut tight, face twisted in raw unadulterated pleasure, but yours are wide, blackened with lust, pupils blown as you drink in every inch of body, ruined in its debauchery.
Your hand finally lifts from him, sticky and saturated, but Isaac doesn’t flinch or snap out of it. He lets the residue smear further, letting you trace it over his stomach, careless, indulgent. His chest rises and falls like a fragile drum, shallow breaths catching at odd intervals, and he hums a low, half-lost sound somewhere between a chuckle and a moan.
He lets his head tilt back, curls brushing against you, eyes half-lidded, glassy with haze. “Very… modernist,” he drawls, tone teasing, though the words stumble over the subtle quiver in his lip.
You lean closer, pressing a soft kiss to his temple, letting your hand linger, thumb proprietorially tracing the glinting streaks of him. “Still talking? Must’ve gone easy on you.”
“Mm. That’s debatable,” he breathes, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re—ah—alarmingly efficient.”
You laugh, and his smirk curves into something quieter, but still pointed. His lips part in a satisfied sigh that carries your laughter with it, as if the sound were a balm.
hey guys!! sorry about my inactivity lately, alots been happening lol. hope yall can forgive, once everything in my life has calmed and i have some time i will spoil ya'll! just hang in there, i got lots of new things to try, in the meantime put some thoughts in my inbox and ill get around to seeing them. love you guys.
