kaph wants her blog back 🤧

recent doodles from twt requests

An incomplete list of times charthur got one another hard at an importune moment as a direct result of their highly compatible kinks:

while actively robbing the bank in Rhodes (Arthur was just a little too good at cracking a safe and Charles had to say something about it)

that time Pearson got sick and Arthur made his mom’s chicken-and-dumpling soup for the camp (the noise Charles made after the first bite was borderline pornographic and Arthur had to excuse himself to the wood line)

one time when Arthur spotted, captured, and broke a horse in under five minutes once while they were hunting (if it wasn’t for kidnapped gal who rode screaming past them then the deer in that clearing would have gotten quite the show)

in the aftermath of an impromptu shooting competition (Charles is a graceful loser esp when he’s too busy being blinded with lust to bitch about the five dollars arthur was too flustered to actually collect from him)

immediately after Arthur pulled a bounty off his horse with his lasso (the guy was wanted alive, a fact he regretted after witnessing just how Charles chose to show his admiration for THAT little trick)

while showing Charles some drawings of landmarks for a treasure hunt (there was absolutely no need for Charles to whisper praise all low and smokey in his ear for that one but our Mr. Smith is a menace) ((this one would have been VERY OPPORTUNE if Sean hadn’t tagged along))

when Charles praised Arthur after using dynamite AND his bow while clearing out the Murfee Brood (the corpses were a little off putting but it was the screaming kidnapped girl who was the real mood killer)

they never talk about it, it’s part of the game that they CANNOT talk about it

this usually happens when they’ve spent too much time alone together, like on long hunting trips. they’re both competitive and like to show off so if there’s an audience of one who is also your opponent you can guess how things go

Arthur likes to lead with a sneak attack on Charles’ neck, an effective if standard opening move

Charles almost never makes the first move unless it’s a surprise (like blowing Arthur in the alley behind the saloon in town): he’s an ambush predator

Arthur is the sorest loser but Charles is an unbelievably smug winner, brings it up for days unless Arthur can even the score

Arthur usually wins but only because Charles usually isn’t trying very hard, he’s generally more chill and less insecure

Charles: *Reaches out to help*

Arthur: *Switches all groceries to one arm to hold Charles’ hand*

Arthur gave an exaggerated sigh as he settled himself on top of Charles on the sofa in their camper. He groaned happily as the generator-powered heat seeped into his bones, relieving the chill that had set in while taking Copper out for his evening constitutional. 

The hound in question curled himself happily into his bed by the radiator, tucking his lanky body into a curl of red brown fur, wuffing quietly. 

“Next time I suggest us goin’ huntin’ in Wyoming in March, sock me in the mouth, will ya?” Arthur mumbled into Charles’ collarbone. “Ain’t nothin’ worth this cold, not even dodging the tourist crowd.” 

“Can do,” Charles grumbled, brow furrowing as Arthur jostled him. He wrapped his arms around Arthur's waist anyway, pulling him closer. “Was sleepin’, Arthur.”

Arthur chuckled, laying a loud, wet smooch against the bare skin of Charles’ shoulder as he cuddled up, hands stealing under the small of Charles’ back to tuck into the warm pocket between the man’s heat and the upholstery. 

“Sorry sweetheart,” Arthur said, anything but. He grinned as Charles shifted, drawing Arthur down to settle his head upon Charles’ breast. He scrubbed his beard briefly against the soft, smooth skin of Charles’ muscular pecs, smirking when it earned him a pleased little grunt.

“Just need to rest my head on these here cowboy pillows for a moment,” Arthur said, pressing a nipping kiss to Charles’ sternum. 

“Best in the west,” Charles yawned, arms tightening over Arthur’s waist as they snuggled up, silly little grin kicking up at the corner of his mouth. 

“We should get to bed,” he mumbled, making no indication of breaking from their cuddle long enough to climb up into the camper’s loft. “One more day to bag a black bear before we’re on the road.”

“Sure should,” Arthur agreed, pecking one more kiss to the curve of Charles’ breast. He laid his head down so his ear pressed to the left of Charles’ sternum. Charles’ heartbeat was steady in his ear, never a more soothing sound to be found. 

Warm fingertips wriggled up under Arthur’s flannel, untucking his shirt to pet nonsense patterns against his skin. 

“Your back is gonna hate us in the morning, old man,” Charles teased. 

Arthur just squeezed him tighter, sneaking one hand lower to goose his boyfriend’s ass through the thick sweatpants he wore for bed. He chuckled when Charles’ breath hitched, thick thighs twitching where they spread around Arthur’s abdomen. 

His man was probably still sore from that morning, when he’d cracked one too many jokes at Arthur’s expense and had ended up bent over the sturdy kitchen table for his troubles, hair pulled tight in Arthur’s fist as Arthur railed him from behind. 

It was a lucky thing their chosen campground was so empty, what with how his groaning and the camper’s shaking would have disturbed any neighbors.

“Ain’t so old,” Arthur reminded him, goosing Charles again. He sniggered when he received a pinch to his side in return, then moved his hands back up to tuck up under Charles’ shoulder blades, a quiet promise to behave.

Charles snorted. “Surprised you didn’t strain a hip.” He always had to have the last word, patently, biologically incapable of putting up with Arthur’s bullcrap. 

It was one of the things that had drawn them together those couple of years back, when Charles had transferred into the same US Forest Service branch as Arthur. 

He’d been a quiet, hard worker who somehow managed to fit well into the chaotic group ostensibly managed by Dutch Van Der Linde. But he’s quickly established that he wasn’t there to put up with anyone’s shit, as quickly shown when one of their Public Affairs personnel, an unpleasant and slimy fellow by the name of Micah, had attempted to haze the new hire. 

The sight of that rat flying five, six feet across the ranger station after a failed attempt at sneaking up and cutting Charles’ long braid was one that warmed Arthur’s heart to this day.

Charles Smith didn’t start fights, but he was a hell of a dab hand at finishing ‘em.

It was just one of many things Arthur appreciated about his partner of three years. 

Arthur yawned, breaking from his reverie as the gentle sounds of Charles snoring reverberated through the night air, just audible over the hum of the generator. 

They really should move up to the loft. Jokes aside, Arthur was pushing forty this year—his back wasn’t what it used to be. Sleeping on the couch like college kids would bring hell to pay, come morning. 

Arthur turned his head, chin resting on the soft swell of Charles’ chest as he regarded the other man. 

Charles was always pretty. But he was damn entrancing asleep. His long, dark lashes fanned out in perfect strokes of ink against the warm brown of his high cheekbones, plush mouth falling just a little bit open to bare those sharp canines of his and his pink, clever tongue. 

It’d be a sin to wake him. 

Arthur briefly contemplated the notion of just getting up himself, momentarily weighing the cost of a sore back against the benefit of staying wrapped close in Charles’ arms. 

He settled his head back down against Charles’ heart, sighing happily against his man’s warm skin.