Multifandom Loser 🧡

“Unh, yeah,” Charles groans as he pushes deeply into your cunt, “Like that, sweetheart.” You wince as Charles’ cock hollows you out, stretching the sticky, pink veil that frames your entrance. Charles takes you from behind, the arch of your back angling just right so that his cock reaches *that* spot so easily.

You feel two fingers tap your chin upwards and are met with Arthur’s cock; thick, throbbing, and crowned with an unruly bush of hair that runs down from a stream in the middle of his stomach. “Mind if I fuck that pretty mouth of your’s, darlin’?” Arthur asks while Charles continues the deep work into your cunt. You nod shyly before Arthur glides the tip of his cock into your mouth and over your tongue.

Charles eases his cock into you as far as it could go as you suck the tip of Arthur’s cock, tasting the pre-cum that pearled at the end. As you rock back and forth fucking yourself onto Charles’ thick cock with one guiding hand on your hips, Arthur entangles a guiding hand into your hair as he fucks your face.

You are completely full of outlaw cock as Charles takes you from behind while Arthur uses your mouth for his pleasure.

Each thrust from Charles’ cock is then counteracted by Arthur’s cock sliding into the back of your mouth, damn near your throat. Just when you think you have run out of stamina for those two, Charles would deliver a playful slap onto your bottom to perk you up.

“Mmm, she likes that,” Arthur mewls while he watches his cock slide in and out of your mouth, “Felt a dribble fall from her mouth. Dirty lil’ thing.”

Charles chuckles before slapping your bottom again, causing a stream of arousal to leak from both your cunt and your mouth. “Yeah, she likes that,” Charles groans, “Felt her quiver around my cock.”

They continue using you up before Charles’ rhythm begins to falter; a sign that he was about to cum. He thrusts a few more times before pulling out to send a load onto your ass with a low groan.

As he gathers himself, he tells Arthur, “Looks like it’s your turn, partner.” Arthur looks down at your deliciously helpless eyes as you suck his cock like an absolute slut. Charles shuffles out of the tent after he is dressed, and Arthur pulls out.

Before you could get too comfortable on the bedroll, Arthur gently pushes you down into the prone position. “Still feelin’ up for the challenge?” he asks while pumping his cock.

You smirk into the bedroll as you say, “Of course.”

You shimmy your bottom a little more upwards so that Arthur could have more access to your cunt. He immerses himself on top of you, one trunk of an arm on either side of you. He slides his cock into the sweet spot of your entrance before slamming inside of you. You squeal before he shushs you gently in your ear from behind.

“Little lady likes it from behind, huh?” Arthur teases as he breathes a low groan into your ear, “You suck a mean cock too.” His hips slam into the meat of your ass as he fills your needy cunt to the brim. You catch glimpses of his arms and the veins popping from his muscles as he sustains his own body weight above you.

“Arthur, I-,” you whimper, “Not sure how much longer I can take.”

You feel his thrusts become more calculated and passionate, he then says, “Wanna finish for me, angel? Don’t want you to feel left out.” You breathe out an acceptance before riding out your high together with Arthur. He slams into you a few more times, each with a tired but satisfied groan into your ear.

You feel him hit the back of your cunt and explode into you as you climax. Your spends mix together into a creamy, sticky messy.

Arthur takes a moment to savor the moment before kissing your shoulders and back, thanking you for such a unique experience.

the first time she cried, john laughed.

it surprised him—how sharp and small the sound was, how it cut clean through the room. he remembers looking at you, eyes wide, breath caught between a laugh and something like fear.

“she sounds mad already,” he murmured, voice rough with wonder.

the midwife placed her in his arms a moment later, and john went stiff as a board. he barely dared breathe. she was warm. too light. he remembers thinking she felt like she might disappear if he didn’t hold her just right.

her cry softened when you spoke.

john noticed that before anything else.

later—much later—he would remember how her eyes opened just a crack, unfocused but dark. your eyes. not his. yours.

he never said it out loud, but the thought rooted itself deep and stubborn: she was going to look like you.

those are the memories that come back now, uninvited, as he stands in a room that’s gone quiet in a way it never should.

she hadn’t cried much after that first day.

john had noticed. how she slept too reminded him of jack when jack was sick, not when jack was new. too small. too still. too quiet.

he remembers holding her one night, pacing slow while you slept, counting her breaths like if he kept track of them, they’d keep coming.

jack had been loud. hungry. demanding. alive.

this baby felt fragile in a way that scared him more than gunfire ever had.

now, standing by the empty crib, john feels something cold settle in his gut.

maybe it was always meant to go this way.

the thought makes him sick with guilt the second it forms.

he sits by you when the room clears, memories pressing in around the edges. the first cry. the weight in his arms. the flash of your eyes looking back at him through something so small.

“i should’ve known,” he says quietly, not looking at you. “shoulda seen it.”

his hand finds yours again. grounding. real.

he stays because that’s what john does when everything else fails.

and months later, when he’s able to say her name—when he finally admits she was here, that she mattered—it doesn’t undo the loss.

but it lets him remember her without flinching.

that’s as close to peace as he ever gets.

arthur realizes something is wrong before he even opens the door.

the place is too quiet. not the peaceful kind. the kind that follows something violent once it’s finished.

his hand rests near his gun as he pushes inside.

the smell hits him second.

blood, old and metallic, soaked into the floorboards. overturned furniture. a chair split where it hit the wall.

“Isaac?” he calls, sharp.

he moves fast, heart slamming, already knowing and still refusing to accept it.

isaac had been walking last time arthur saw him. clumsy, stubborn little steps, laughter bubbling up every time he almost fell. toddling after arthur, grabbing at his coat, determined to be part of whatever was happening.

“look at him,” you’d said once, smiling soft. “he thinks you hung the moon.”

arthur remembers scoffing, uncomfortable with the weight of it. remembers lifting isaac anyway, settling him against his hip.

he finds you on the floor.

there’s no mistaking what happened. no illness. no accident.

someone wanted money. someone decided a woman and a child weren’t worth sparing.

arthur staggers. drops to his knees beside you, hands shaking too hard to touch at first.

“no,” he breathes. “no no no…”

his vision blurs. his chest feels like it’s being crushed inward.

he sees flashes he doesn’t want—

you laughing, hair loose, isaac tugging at the hem of his shirt. the three of you at the small table, sharing food that wasn’t enough but felt like everything. isaac asleep on his chest, warm and heavy, completely trusting.

arthur presses a hand to the floor slick with dried blood.

“i was supposed to protect you,” he whispers.

the rage comes later.

first comes the burial. slow. careful. he digs until his hands are wrecked, every blister earned. he lays you down like a promise broken. places isaac with you, small fingers curled like he’s just sleeping.

arthur stands there afterward, empty and shaking, hat in his hands.

then he asks questions.

not kindly.

he tracks down the men responsible, one by one. the right names surface eventually. money exchanged hands. a few dollars was all it took.

arthur kills them.

quickly. efficiently. without speeches.

and when it’s done, when the blood dries and the gun smoke clears, the hollow in his chest is still there.

revenge doesn’t bring back warmth. doesn’t quiet the memories.

arthur rides away knowing one thing for certain:

“This is — harder — than it looks." You pout, your dampened brow drawn with focus. The warm rasp of Arthur's laugh, layered like a full-bodied bourbon with notes of smug mockery, makes desire war with indignation in your core. But the feel of him as you ride — so deep as to stipple your vision with stars — favors desire.

“You’re doin’ good, sugar. Real good.” He soothes, roughened palms making plush indents in the fat of your ass as he spreads you, wetting his lips, watching himself vanish and reappear from within your tight, gleaming rim. “Christ, look at’chu…”

You’ve never found yourself in this particular position before, but you can understand the visual appeal — for him. All you have to look at are his well-muscled legs and your own panting, disheveled reflection in the mirror opposite—

You grimace and shut your eyes.

Arthur was your first. And you were his first in... well, in longer than a man cared to admit. He took you in a bed of moon-dipped lavender; nervous; gentle; attentive to the point of apology. You cried and laughed and bless him, he didn't run. But you quickly learned that while you wore your shame as a second skin, his was like a shackle, and though your heart sank when he told you he shouldn't, couldn't be with you, it was not with surprise.

The surprise only came when he chose you anyway.

Not over the gang — that, you'd never presume. But despite his burdens he makes time for you, and you both seem to accept the quiet accord that you'll cling to this goodness until its inevitable end. It's all either of you have.

Huffing with effort, stamina drained, you still — as does the headboard, much to the relief of your neighbors, you're sure — and lean your weight on your hands in capitulation to the roaring protest of your thighs.

“Woah now, you ain’t done ‘til I say.” Arthur teases, rendering a light spank to the apple of your rump. And though you can’t see him you just know your whimper makes that maddening, crooked grin of his curve slow above his chin scars. “C’mon, cowgirl — up y’get. Put them pretty hips to work.”

“I — I’m tired, Arthur.” Then, with a bit more honesty, “I’m… not good at this one, I don't think.”

He’s quiet, smoothing his hand over the lingering sting. “Y’need a minute?”

You nod. You slide off, a dull, achy void where his cock belongs. Silently cursing your gracelessness, you shift with limbs like gelatin to lay beside him instead. You don’t meet his eyes, and perhaps with mercy on his mind, he doesn’t insist. Just rolls so his chest is flush against your back, drawing you close with arms fit for hoisting hay bales, hauling his hunt, full of strength to lift grown men as heavy as their crimes over his shoulder — yet for the gnawing pit of your swiftly-spiraling thoughts you can’t fathom why they’d ever bother with holding you.

"Talk." He prompts without ceremony.

You swallow. "S'nothin'."

"Liar." He snorts softly. "I keep tellin' you, princess, you lie about as well as—"

"Oh, fine." You groan, curling away from him on instinct as if recoiling from your own impending truth. "…I kept looking at the mirror."

In the silence you can hear his understanding. He sighs heavily.

“Want you to feel good…” His voice on the shell of your ear is as tender as his touch, big hands cradling your belly, your softened fullness like baker’s dough rising between his fingers. “Wish I could — I don’t know… let you borrow my eyes, or somethin’, if it’d help y’see yourself different. Like how I do.”

Your throat tightens. “Thank you, Arthur. That's kind."

Another wash of air on your neck as he huffs in dismissal. “Shut up. I’m tryin’ to tell you—“ He pauses, lifting his head to better see your face, the lines around his eyes creasing with something like determination. “To hell with me. I wanna hear you say it.”

“Say what?”

“Say you’re pretty.”

You scoff but his hand finds your chin, tilting it back towards him with gentle insistence. “You heard me, woman. C’mon. Let’s hear it.”

“Arthur…”

“Christ alive, just — do what I tell ya.”

You purse your lips, the sentiment false on your tongue as you flatly acquiesce, “…I’m pretty.”

“That’s it.” He murmurs approvingly, pressing a scratchy kiss to your temple. “Again.”

“I don’t—“

His hand slips below your belly, massaging your clit between the calloused valley of his first two fingers. Your voice catches on a breathy sigh. “I’m… pretty…”

“There y’go… now say it like y'mean it...” The soft sounds of him playing in your mess reach your ears as your hips roll to his touch. The phrase doesn’t ring quite so hollow this time and so you repeat it, seeking his praise.

“Now you’re gettin’ the idea.” He rumbles, curving those two fingers inside you with ease. You steal breath with a soft gasp, lips parted, pleasure flourishing outward from his touch like wildflowers set aflame. You reach back, fingers carding through untidy tawny locks as you draw him into your kiss.

"That's right... don't gotta look at no mirror... just me."

And as you stare into his half-lidded eyes, full of tenderness rarer than the gemstones that envy their hue, the only word you can conjure between the heated press of your lips is, "Pretty... pretty... pretty..."

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