#canadianshack!au

Well, anon, I'm delighted to hear that and equally delighted to inform you that I've added a new chapter to the series, in which Arthur spends a full year sketching Charles' hands and adding a wedding band while he works up the guts to propose.

Also I genuinely love your work, your blog and writing are both absolute delights.

(thank you!!! it means the world to hear that. I paused the zoomie here, but tbh this may end up being part of a full fic. zoomie set in the CanadianShack!AU, the night before Dog Days of Summer)

Turned out, spending a full day teasing a man whose propensity for violence had earned him a $5,000 bounty was something of a misstep. 

Charles oofed as he was bowled over, bracing against the haybale as Arthur’s teeth snapped playfully next to his ear. 

“Eager, huh?” Charles huffed, hands scrambling to unbutton his own suspenders when Arthur dug his teeth into the clothed meat of Charles’ shoulder. They were breaking their rules—Arthur usually played the lap-dog, when they brought this side of him into their bedroom. Obedient, desperate to please, sweet. 

Nothing like the feral animal grinding against Charles’ ass so hard his face was scraping straw.

It was exciting. 

Arthur growled, one of his own hands leaving the death grip he had on Charles’ hips to unbutton his fly. Between the two of them they managed to get his cock out and Chalres’ trousers shucked down to his knees. The scratchy hay itched as Arthur threw his body back against Charles’ own, pinning him firmly from shoulder to thigh.

“Shit,” Charles groaned, legs squeezing tight as Arthur humped between the soft insides of his thighs, smearing precum. “Arthur—“ 

Arthur snarled, low and threatening in Charles’ ear. He scraped his teeth against the thin line of bare skin between Charles’ braid and the high collar of his shirt, punishing. 

“Copper,” Charles amended, turning his head to pant. The dust of the stable was dry and sweet on his tongue, undercut with the musk of horses. “C’mon, already.”

Arthur grinned against his mouthful of Charles’ neck, all slick enamel and hot air spilling against his skin, stirring the fine hairs there. Charles moaned when the wet head of Arthur’s cock bumped against his hole, glancing off. Charles was still tight, puckered too firmly for Arthur to catch against him. The grind sent a dirty thrill through his guts—his back arched, automatic and needy, a silent plea.

Charles wanted Arthur to fuck him. No, not just fuck. Breed. 

Charles managed to wriggle one of his arms out from under his chest, spitting quickly onto his own fingers before reaching between his legs. Arthur’s knees were pressing at the insides of his own, spreading his thighs as far as his trousers, now bunched at Charles’ calves, would allow. 

Arthur huffed, grip tightening in excitement as Charles curved one finger into himself, prodding at the tight skin until it parted. He worked himself, a grainy, brutal prep that would feel awful if it wasn’t for the arousal burning through him like molten iron. 

“Fuck,” Charles huffed, whimpering when Arthur gave him another appreciative bite, right over his spine. The stretch was just bearable, a scraping tease. He couldn’t even get deep inside, the angle Arthur’s weight kept his arm at too shallow. “Fetch that pomade from your saddle bags,” Charles begged. He’d push some inside, slather a handful onto Arthur’s cock—that’d have to be enough. It’d be quick, dirty, probably painful. And still almost more than he could bear. He needed his husband, and he needed him now. 

Arthur hesitated, limbs tightening over Charles, weight bearing down. He whined, plaintive. 

“I won’t move,” Charles promised, freezing. He even stopped prodding at his hole, fingertip caught pulling at his rim, an awful, wonderful stretch. “It’s okay, boy. I’ll stay right here.” 

Arthur gave him a quick, possessive nip to the ear, then got to his feet. Charles worked to catch his breath while he waited, the sound of Arthur rustling through his saddle bag barely making it through the thudding of his own pulse. 

He and Arthur didn’t fuck rough often. It wasn’t wise, so far from medical care and with the dangerous, physically demanding work they did. And they’d never done it with Arthur’s fixation in the mix. The other man was usually less verbal during fucks like this, sure, but never reduced to snarls and growls and needy, desperate whines. 

Much as Charles got hot for Arthur’s dirty talk, something about leaving his man speechless with almost violent need set his blood to boiling. 

Charles’ rim was aching with the stretch by the time Arthur shoved the open tin of pomade into Charles’ free hand. The older man mounted him again immediately, one strong hand going to brace Charles’ shoulder while the other clung to his waist. 

Charles slicked them both quickly, smearing a handful of palm-warmed pomade onto Arthur’s cock where it pressed against his inner thigh before fingering himself roughly with the remainder. The second he withdrew, Arthur’s full weight was back on him, crushing Charles painfully against the haybale. 

“Okay,” Charles wheezed, gripping the edge of the bale for dear life. He licked his lips, tasting the warm salt of sweat. Tears would join soon enough, and he couldn’t wait. Arthur’s tip kissed his rim, barely parting the barely stretched muscle. 

Charles felt a rush of helpless affection, overwhelming the lust roaring through his veins. Even while acting more like a starving coyote than a hound, his man still waited so sweetly on him.