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A = Aftercare. (What they’re like after sex.)
Arthur is exhausted afterwards, because he doesn’t stop until he’s brought you over the peak, several times, doesn’t rest until you’re keening from the smallest touch, until both of you are satiated and blissed out from the euphoria.
Takes great care in cleaning you up, from tenderly running a clean, wet cloth to wipe the sweat from your face and torso to licking the inside of your thighs clean from your release (he never lets his cum drip out, gingerly pushes it back inside you with calloused digits - initially, you whine from the oversensitivity, but his tongue traces lazy patterns below your navel, his beard scratches your skin just right and there isn’t so much as a whisper of pain or discomfort).
When he’s done, he’ll climb into bed with you and take you in his arms, either tethering his arms around your waist and tucking your head under his chin or gingerly pulling your worn-out body atop his, draping you over him like a gorgeous blanket, indulging in the feel of your whole body against his, daring anyone or anything to pry you out of his arms.
B = Body Part. (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s.)
Arthur isn’t a particularly proud man - self-deprecation is this man’s language - but if he had to choose, he’d say his shoulders.
Before you’d gotten together, when he was pining for you and didn’t know what to do about it, you’d mentioned that you loved his shoulders, that they were broad, strong, chiseled.
Sexy.
(He was a blushing mess for the rest of the day, ducking his head down so his hat shielded his pink cheeks from view, but keeping the smile off his face was a challenge.)
Arthur can’t choose only one thing about you, because he loves everything about you.
Your neck. The elegant slope of your throat, where he’d leave marks that’d last for days, that are unspoken proof to anyone and everyone that you are taken.
Your hands. How they feel when they’re laced with his, when they’re trailing across his body like it’s something to be revered, when they’re tangling in his hair to bring him in for a kiss.
Your lips. When you bite your bottom lip when you’re lost in thought, when you lick them subconsciously when your mind drifts to what you two’d be doing later that night, when they’re plump, red, plush after he’s kissed you breathless.
Your eyes. Pools of emerald that are so expressive that you could have conversations without saying a single word. Depths of jade that captivate him with a single glance. Orbs of olive that are nearly swallowed whole by the black of your pupils when you’re in the throes of passion.
Your legs. How toned they are from the lifestyle you two lead, how they stretch on for miles, how much strength lies inside them when you kick the living shit out of anyone who gets on your nerves, how they wrap around his hips when you need him closer, deeper inside you, how they tangle with his as you fall asleep.
C = Cum. (Anything to do with cum, basically…)
Always inside you.
Arthur Morgan is a possessive man, so when he fills you to the brim with his seed, he doesn’t pull out until you’ve milked him of every last drop.
Even after his cock slides out, his fingers trail down your stomach, pushing in any stray rivulets.
You choke at the feeling, delicious but too much, too much, t o o m u c h , whimpering as his calloused digits glide inside your slick flesh.
He soothes this with kisses to your navel, your hips, your thighs, murmuring praise against your skin.
“So good for me, darlin’… So damn perfect… Don’t want a drop goin’ to waste, do we?”
•
The first time you’d gone down on him and he was reaching his peak, his fingers weakly tugged at your hair to try and ease you off, choked warnings falling from his mouth, but you didn’t budge.
No, you knew exactly what he was trying to say, trying to do (ever the gentleman), so you melded your fingers to the curve of his hips, hummed around him and swallowed him down to the root.
He came with a shout, the salty, musky taste of him flooding your tongue, the head of his cock twitching at the back of your throat.
Arthur nearly came again when you moaned around his dick, indulging in the sensation and flavor.
You didn’t pull off until you’d wrung him dry.
When his blood stopped rushing through his ears, when his thoughts returned to something relatively coherent, when his soul returned to his body—
He’s hauling you up by the scruff of your neck, dragging you into an absolutely filthy kiss that has him groaning into your mouth.
“You’re gonna be the death of me, baby girl.”
D = Dirty Secret. (Self-explanatory, no?)
Two words.
Breeding.
Kink.
The idea of you filled with his seed, to the point where it leaks down your thighs because there was just too much, doing this every day, every night until you’re round with his child - your child - is one that he thinks about more often than he’d admit.
Though, this dirty little secret is partially sexual and possessive, it’s also partially sweet because something that Arthur wants more than anything is domesticity.
With the lifestyle he leads - that both of you lead - that’s taken up more than half of his life, he didn’t think that settling down would ever be an option.
But with you?
He will go to the ends of the earth to have a life - a real life - with you.
He wants a house, where you can sink your roots in and thrive.
He wants a family, children to raise with the love of his life.
He wants a life where you don’t have to worry about the bounties on either of your heads, about people coming after you with the intent to kill, about you getting involved in volatile situations because you have this infuriating (albeit sexy) penchant for seeking out danger, just for the sake of the thrill.
(The extra cash for your endeavors didn’t hurt, either.)
When you do get pregnant? You’d best b e l i e v e he will not let you go on any dangerous jobs.
Half of you is fuming because, “I’m pregnant, not an invalid.”
Half of you is warmed by his concern, his protective instinct, his adoration for you and your unborn child.
(This little kink ends-up with you two having three sons - each of them three years apart.
Tears of joy slipped through his stoic exterior when he held each of your boys for the first time.
Arthur never thought he’d have a child - let alone three beautiful boys with the person who’d stolen his heart all those years ago, who said ‘yes’ before he’d reached for the ring, who convinced him that he wasn’t a greedy outlaw without a legacy, but a good man with a heart of gold who deserved to be happy.
He’s never been happier.)
E = Experience. (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)
He’s had his fair share of sexual encounters, so he is more than well-seasoned in the bedroom.
Regarding intimacy, he really only had one serious relationship before you, and seeing as how that didn’t work out…
He’s terrified of losing you.
But you’re quick to balm his worries, kissing every inch of his face, slinging your arms around his shoulders, his arms fastened around your waist, as you promise, “God himself couldn’t tear me away from you, Arthur Morgan.”
These words always evoke a similar reaction - a choked noise leaving his throat, something between a laugh and a sob - before he’s crushing you to his chest, sealing this vow with a deep, passionate kiss, murmuring sweet, loving things against your mouth between sips of air.
F = Favourite Position. (Goes without saying.)
Tie between cowgirl and missionary.
Cowgirl because he needs to see you. He wants to memorize every last detail of your face. There isn’t a lovelier sight in this world than you breaking apart above him with his name spilling from your lips like a delicious sin, than you bouncing on his cock, than you grinding down against his pelvis, to the point where his fingers bore into the vulnerable flesh of your hips, so he can meet you thrust-for-thrust.
Missionary because he knows you’re safe when you’re beneath him, you’re protected from the horrors outside, you’re shielded from the ugly world, Arthur will die before he lets anything happen to you—
Loves feeling your nails rake down his back, your legs draped around his hips, watching his dick sink inside you.
“Look at that, baby girl. So tight. So fuckin’ perfect. You take me so well… Like you’re made just for me.”
G = Goofy. (Are they more serious in the moment or are they humorous?)
Definitely serious. Whether you’re fucking or making love, Arthur treats sex like a religious experience.
There might be a bit of light teasing at the beginning, but by the time you’re stripped bare and clutching one other like you need each other more than food, water, air — a switch is flipped inside him.
Sex with you is something that Arthur treasures more than life itself, and he needs to make sure you know that, that you know how much he craves you, that you know how much he loves you.
H = Hair. (How well-groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes?)
Has a happy trail, that’s the identical shade of honey of his hair, tracing down his navel and down to his cock.
He‘d never been one for grooming (aside from his hair and beard), but he doesn’t want a fucking forest in his boxers, especially not when you two are intimate.
When he goes into town and decides to stay the night at a hotel, he’ll do a bit of trimming after a bath.
•
The first time he did so was nothing short of perfect timing because when he made his way to your shared room, where you’d finished tying up a few loose ends in town, you’d noticed his wet hair and fresh clothes and just had to have him debauched beneath you.
When he’s spread out across the sheets of the bed and you’re unbuttoning his trousers with dexterous fingers, easing his boxers down with a hungry glint in your eyes, you pause at the sight.
Before you’re licking your lips, a coy smile taking hold of your mouth as your eyes flicker up to his face.
“This for me?”
Arthur barely refrains from burying his face in his hands, embarrassed as all hell, his cheeks burning a fierce shade of crimson.
But then your fingers delicately wrap around the base of his cock, and you’re taking the head in your mouth, swirling your tongue around his leaking slit, hollowing your cheeks to take him in deeper and it takes every ounce of his restraint not to buck-up into the delicious heat of your mouth and howl.
•
Needless to say, Arthur doesn’t pass up the chance for a good trim when the opportunity presents itself.
I = Intimacy. (How are they during the moment, in the romantic aspect?)
Whether you’re fucking or making love, Arthur is passionate, adoring and intense.
Your pleasure comes first - he will not come until he’s brought you over the edge two or three times, so that there isn’t as much as a hint of pain or discomfort when he’s inside you.
Eye contact is a must. If you’re about to come and you close your eyes, he’ll stop what he’s doing, tearing a whine from your throat.
“A-Arthur, what’re you—“
“Eyes open, angel. Wanna see you come. Need to see you come.”
Those words alone could’ve driven you over the edge, but then his hips slam against yours, his cock pounding into you - fast, deep, perfect - and his calloused fingers find your aching bud and your climax washes over you like a tsunami, his name dripping from your lips like molten honey.
You are fucking beautiful when you come.
J = Jack-Off. (Masturbation.)
Rarely does it once you’re together.
Before, he’d fuck up into his fist, spilling across his hand and stomach with the image of you around his cock, your name falling from his lips in a hushed, choked moan.
But when you two get your heads out of your asses and confess, Arthur doesn’t have to imagine anymore, because you’re right there with a mischievous smirk, a glint in your eyes, tongue running along your bottom lip before he’s swallowing a groan and hauling you to the nearest hotel.
K = Kink. (One or more of their kinks.)
Dirty talk.
First, it was receiving, but as his confidence builds with each and every encounter, he loves dishing it out, because you are gorgeous when you blush.
“Are you close, baby girl? Fuck, you’re so tight… So damn beautiful. Gonna fill you up, darlin’. You’ll be feelin’ this for days.”
Bondage.
He prefers ropes to handcuffs, but if push comes to shove, he’ll go as far as his bandana to tie your wrists to the bedpost.
He can tie knots like a fucking boy scout, meaning that the only way those ropes are coming off is if and when he feels like untying or cutting them off.
The fact that you trust him enough to do this - to bare yourself for him, to relinquish all control to him, to be completely at his mercy - is a huge turn-on for him.
There’s a safe-word, of course (Arthur doesn’t start until he asks you what it is, to make sure you remember) - but you haven’t used it once.
Because Arthur knows exactly what he’s doing - with his hands, mouth and cock - edges you to the brink, only to stop as soon as he feels your body tremble with the unmistakable sign of your release about to wash over you.
His cock throbs in his pants, as he bites back curses and swallows his groans at the delicious display before him.
Your hands clenched into tight fists, desperate to touch him, to reach for him, to tangle in his hair.
Your body glistening in the candlelight with a thin sheen of sweat, that tempt him to lick a stripe up from your sternum to your collarbone, moaning as salt and the unmistakable taste of you graces his tongue.
Your chest heaving from the exertion, from being edged to the brink again and again, only for him to wrench out each and every orgasm you thought you’d been denied.
There’s no way in heaven or hell you’d ask him to stop worshipping your body like this.
L = Location. (Favorite places to do the do.)
Anywhere you have complete privacy (abandoned cabins, hotel rooms, wilderness, etc.).
When you’re in camp, you have to stifle the noises that threaten to pierce the quiet night so you don’t wake anyone (they all know you’re sleeping together - Dutch and Hosea long before anyone else - but that doesn’t mean they need to hear you).
But when you and Arthur are able to find somewhere private and secluded?
This man will do anything and everything to make you moan, whine, shout because these noises are nothing short of music to his ears and he won’t stop until your voice is hoarse, raw, wrecked with him.
When both of you meander back to camp the next day, the girls ply you with coffee, bundle you up in blankets, cook fresh stew because they think you’re sick, you must’ve caught a bad cold during your ‘hunting trip’, that’s why your vocal cords are scraped to high heaven.
Totally not because you and Arthur had fucked so hard for so long that you’d lost your voice.
The girls scold both of you for hunting in the middle of the coldest winter in years in the first place.
Meanwhile, Arthur’s by your side, one arm draped around your waist, fighting back a smile behind his mug of coffee, ignoring Dutch’s coy smirk, Hosea’s amused chuckle and John’s unabashed grin.
He does his best not to speak, embracing his stoic facade for the day, because the fact of the matter is, his voice is as wrecked as yours.
Because you’re a firm believer in equivalent exchange, and there is nothing more satisfying than hearing Arthur Morgan, whose voice is already deliciously rough and deep by itself, speak through a raspy, husky drawl as if he’s been gargling gravel for hours.
You’re hiding a smile of your own behind a bowl of stew when John asks Arthur to delve into explicit detail about your little hunting trip.
Before Arthur can answer, Jack comes over to brandish a rabbit he’d nabbed at the edge of camp with the slingshot you’d bought him for his birthday.
Everyone’s attention is diverted long enough for Arthur to chuck a log of firewood at John’s head.
His yelp of pain is drowned out by you choking on a combination of laughter and stew.
M = Motivation. (What turns them on?)
Adrenaline. Just got back from a big job? Nice. You’d better not be too tired because you won’t be sleeping that night.
Near-death experiences, which aren’t all that rare in your line-of-work. Arthur will spend hours over you, reassuring himself that you’re here, you’re okay, you’re alive.
Jealousy. Arthur doesn’t feel worthy of your love, but you make it your life’s goal to prove otherwise, which makes him happier than he’d ever admit.
So if you’re out-and-about and an asshole starts flirting with you?
Arthur will either A.) knock him flat on his ass or B.) coil his arms around you, kissing every inch of skin that’s available to his hungry lips, until you’re a flushed mess, your mouth plump and bruised, murmuring, “Bed. Need a bed. Or not. I’m more than happy to suck you off right here—“
You’ve never been pulled out of a building so fast in your life.
N = NO. (Something they wouldn’t do / turn-offs.)
Would never hurt you. There’s the occasional smack to your ass if you’re being cheeky or crass, but never anything harsh. He’d never forgive himself for inflicting any sort of pain on you. Lord knows both of you have had (and continue to have) enough violence in your lives.
Does not share. You belong to him and him alone, just as he belongs to you. Twines your fingers together when you’re walking through towns. Has a hand around your waist when you walk into a room. Drapes an arm over your shoulders when you’re sitting by the fire.
O = Oral. (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
As much as he loves to receive (the mere thought of you, on your knees, working his trousers open with nimble fingers, those plush lips parting to take his dick in your mouth is enough to get him as hard as steel), Arthur prefers giving.
And he is a fucking master with his tongue.
With your legs over his shoulders, his hands flattened over your hips, pinning you to the wall, cot, bed so he can take his time bringing you to the edge.
Over and over and o v e r .
He’ll never get tired of your taste flooding his tongue. Nothing in this world tastes better than you. He’d trade a lifetime supply of choice liquor for your delicious, addictive, heady flavor any day of the week.
The only way he’ll stop is if you ask him to - by this point, your voice is nothing more than a hoarse, choked whine from stifling your moans and whimpers, so you tug at his hair with trembling fingers, unable to hold back a groan at the sight of his beard coated with your slick, his lips plump and pink, your taste spilling into your mouth when you drag him into a kiss - because he could seriously do this all day, all night and he would not complain, would enjoy every last second of it, would treat every time like it was the first.
P = Pace. (Are they fast or rough? Slow and sensual? Etc.)
Depends on a variety of factors.
Namely, how a job panned out, how close either or both of you came to death’s door, how stressed out he is.
But in all honesty, Arthur much prefers to be slow and sensual. He knows every idiosyncrasy of your body like scripture.
He knows to kiss your scars - a constellation of visceral evidence of the five years you’ve been with the gang, the eighteen years before Hosea and Dutch found you, welcoming you into the family with open arms - to make you shiver.
He knows to lick and bite your throat and shoulders, leaving behind red and purple marks that wouldn’t fade for days, for you to moan so beautifully that church bells paled in comparison.
He knows to slide his fingers inside your slick heat, stifling a groan as you bite your lip, a choked gasp breaking them apart as he adds a third finger, crooking them to hit the bundle of nerves that has you cursing quietly, a smile carving his face as you murmur, “Just— just like that, baby.”
He knows to grind his palm against your clit, moving in slow, thorough circles, for you to cry out as if you’ve been electrocuted, as your release spills across his hand and fingers.
He knows to slide down your body, leaving searing kisses in his wake, easing his fingers out of you slowly, only to clean up by caging your hips to the bed with his arms and drinking every last drop of your glorious liquid heat.
He knows to nudge the head of his cock inside you when your fingers tighten in his hair, when your kisses evolve from sloppy to frantic, when you’re pushing your hips up to meet his.
He knows the perfect pace - that isn’t too fast that it’s rushed, but isn’t too slow so that it’s torturous (for both of you) - and once you’ve synced your thrusts to match his, Arthur holds out just long enough for you to finish first, for your slick to coat his dick as you choke out his name through a gasp.
When you clench around him that last time, that’s when he lets go, spilling inside you with a wrecked groan, burying his face in your throat.
Q = Quickie. (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)
The only quickies would be oral, which are usually instigated by you.
Arthur is fucking gorgeous, and though you adore the fact that he doesn’t want to treat sex with you as a little game or a simple outlet for frustrations, that he wants to worship every last part of you and take his time breaking you apart…
There are days when you don’t have the privacy for it, moments of reprieve that have you lacing your fingers through his, navigating through towns like you have the streets memorized like the back of your hand, and pulling him into a vacated building to blow off a little steam.
And Arthur is all too happy to return the favor.
R = Risk. (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)
The biggest risk he’d take is semi-public sex (i.e. empty hallway of a boisterous bar, a dark alley in the middle of town, in the forest where anyone could see if they decided to have an impromptu hunting trip).
S = Stamina. (How many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?)
Arthur prioritizes quality over quantity, meaning that he could go for about three or four rounds if he wanted to, but he much prefers to prolong it as much as possible.
If you’re staying in a hotel or find an abandoned cabin in your travels, he can last hours without coming, fixated on seeing how many orgasms he can wrench out of you before you’re begging him to fuck you.
T = Toy. (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)
Absolutely not.
Regardless of whether or not they’re available, Arthur doesn’t want you to feel anything but him.
As previously mentioned, he isn’t a particularly proud man, but one thing he does pride himself on is being the one and only person that can break you apart, piece you back together, make you come harder than any of your partners that you’ve had in the past, with his hands, mouth and cock alone.
U = Unfair. (How much they like to tease.)
He really only tends to tease if you’re acting like a brat, taking stupid risks or teasing him throughout the day.
Seeing as how that basically sums you up as a whole, he can be the utmost tease once you two are alone.
Dragging you to the precipice over and over, with his fingers crooking inside you to hit that bundle of nerves, his tongue circling your clit, his moans vibrating through you…
Only to pull away when he knows you’d been seconds away from coming.
“Art— Arthur, please. I’ll be good. I promise.”
“Hm… I dunno, darlin’. I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson yet.”
He is the king of orgasm denial and you’d be lying if you said, as torturous as it was, you didn’t absolutely fucking love it.
Because when he decides that you’ve behaved, that you’ve earned it, when he takes your clit in his mouth, laving over it with his tongue, teeth grazing just enough for you to finally reach your climax…
You actually black-out for a few seconds.
These are the best orgasms you’ve had, without a doubt.
Ever the gentleman, after he’s cleaned you up (using nothing but his tongue, smirking as you writhe above him, fingers tangled in his hair in that beautiful mix of pain and pleasure), he’ll ask if it was okay, if it was too much, if anything hurt—
You cut him off with a kiss, licking into his mouth, swallowing each other’s moans as your essence floods your tongue.
“Perfect, baby. ‘S perfect. You’re perfect. Fuck… Keep doing this whenever I misbehave, and I’ll never learn my lesson,” you laugh, breathless.
Arthur would scowl at you, but before he gets the chance, you’re sinking down the expanse of his body, deft fingers unbuttoning his trousers with a graceful fluidity that has his rock-hard dick throb at the display.
“Get comfy, cowboy. You know I’d never leave you high and dry... For too long.”
Karma’s just as torturously delicious as he imagined.
V = Volume. (How loud are they? What sounds do they make?)
When you’re in camp, he isn’t loud whatsoever. Years of traveling, living in a tent, practically always on-the-move, he learned to keep quiet.
He does grunt, moan, groan in your ear, cursing softly whenever you clench around him, growling if you tease him for a bit too long.
Even when you two are somewhere private, he isn’t particularly loud, but he is a talkative lover - asking what you need, telling you what he‘ll do to you, moaning in your ear about how good you feel around him.
You could get off on his voice alone, but you aren’t sure if you oughta tell him that.
(Doesn’t matter. You murmured it once - once - when you were drunk, and he decided that it was a theory that had to be tested. The next day, your theory became a fact. You’ve never seen Arthur that smug/amazed/flustered - “Christ, darlin’ - you weren’t kiddin’,” - but it’s a look you could get used to.)
W = Wild Card. (Random headcanon.)
He’s a switch.
Didn’t think he’d ever see himself being submissive in a relationship, but with you?
He trusts you, completely and absolutely.
Enjoys being tied up as much as he loves tying you up, possibly more so, because when you’re the one who’s holding the reins?
He’s never been harder in his life than when he’s relinquished all power and control - happily so - to you.
+
Once more.
Two words.
Daddy. Kink.
One wouldn’t think so because he’s constantly scoffing at himself in the mirror - about being old and ugly.
To which you nearly beat him upside the head with the nearest available object because, “I‘m trying to rattle those loose screws back into place in your thick skull because you can’t see how gorgeous you are.”
But one night, when the two of you sneaked off into the forest in the middle of the night for a bit of privacy, he pushes you up against a tree and starts off slow, thorough, borderline agonizing.
It’s when you whimper, “Daddy, please.”
He stops.
He stares down at you, because he couldn’t have heard that right.
There isn’t as much as a morsel of shame or regret for what spilled from your lips, staring up at him with dark, lust-blown eyes and plush lips.
“I’ll be good for you, Daddy. I’ll be so good. Please— please let me come.”
That’s all it takes.
All of the teasing, all of his patience, all of his self-restraint shatters as a growl echoes deep in his chest, reverberating between both of you, to the point that you can feel the vibrations of the predatory sound in your bone marrow, before he hoists your legs around his waist and fucks you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to do so.
He doesn’t ask you to call him ‘Daddy’, but when you do?
The blood in his veins scalds with want, lust, need.
“How could I refuse my baby girl?”
X = X-Ray. (What’s going on in those pants?)
8 inches, thick, curved.
Y = Yearning. (How high is their sex drive?)
Arthur has a healthy sex drive, enjoys having sex at least twice a day.
Right before the crack of dawn, while everyone else in the camp is still asleep, a slow, languorous sex where you exchange lazy kisses to any and every inch of available skin, grinding against each other, before he’s rolling you over onto your back, looming above you with lusting, adoring pale baby blues.
His fingers trail down your navel, moaning quietly when your slick coats his fingers.
He doesn’t waste a second, draping your legs around his hips, and easing his cock inside you like you have all the time in the world.
When molten heat pools at the base of his spine, his hand drops to your sex and works at your clit in tight, precise, delicious circles.
Your climaxes wash over you like a delicious storm, intense and satisfying, and you stay in each other’s arms until you hear the chatter of the rest of the gang waking up.
Right before bed, where you two are tearing at each other’s clothes, exchanging wet, heated kisses that stoke the flame of lust in his belly, to which he’ll hoist you onto his lap, biting into the flesh of your neck and shoulders to stifle his groans as you ride him.
Z = Zzz… (How quickly do they fall asleep afterwards?)
He doesn’t sleep until he feels your breath even out against his throat, until your muscles are lax and your face is nestled in the juncture of his neck and shoulder.
When he does fall asleep though?
He’s never slept better in his 35 years on this earth when he’s holding the love of his life in his arms.