I'd like to request Arthur Morgan with a female reader. She gets all giggly when she's nervous. So, when a simple kiss becomes a make out session she can't stop giggling. I think he'd find it cute, but also a bit confused by it.
Anyways, thank you for reading my request!
Arthur shushes you for a third time.
"You tryin' to wake up the whole damn camp, woman?" He chuckles exasperatedly, drawing his head back from the fragrant slope of your neck. His eyes are turquoise glass in the light of the dwindling oil lamp as the shadowy marionettes of your silhouettes mingle on the canvas wall.
"Sorry, sorry..." You murmur on a slow, steadying exhale, lower lip curving under your teeth in a valiant struggle against a smile. He grunts and shifts his weight on the too small cot, propping himself on his elbow beside you, a sinewy arm curled over your middle to keep you from tumbling off the side. You briefly close your eyes, summoning your most serious thoughts, finding him studying you with something like fond bewilderment upon opening them.
The corner of his mustache twitches in a lopsided smirk, his gaze trailing to your cupid's bow. "Good."
He kisses you, tentative at first as if to test your resolve. Then again with warm fervor, a soft rumble of satisfaction in his chest as the welcome press of his tongue parts the seam of your lips. On instinct your legs open in tandem, making room for the thick weight of his thigh to slot between them. You break for air, a throaty sigh on your rum-spiced breath, and Arthur's mouth finds the corner of yours, then the arc of your jaw, then your ear, then--
"Jesus." He scoffs and lifts his head, no malice to be found in the roll of his eyes. "What is wrong wit'chu?"
"I--" You can barely speak, your whole body shaking with the effort of containing yourself.
"Am I ticklin' you or somethin'?"
Cheeks stinging from smiling so hard, you wipe an errant tear with the back of your hand. "I -- yeah, maybe it's that." You giggle again, thumbing his chin scars to feel the rasp of his beard. "It's 'cause you're all whiskery."
"...Y-y'want me to get up an' shave, or...?"
"No, no, no." You laugh and quickly shake your head, settling back down on the cot in a display of good behavior. "I'll be quiet. I promise."
His eyes narrow at you doubtfully. After a beat, he lowers his head ag--
Arthur growls under his breath, and the lines of his face crease at you with such typical seriousness that you have to turn away, your body wracked with silent, uncontrolled laughter. He cracks a smile.
"You're a strange bird, you know that?" He shakes his head. "Actin' like you ain't never been kissed or somethin'."
"I'm just - happy, Arthur." You reply, the corners of your eyes crinkling not with mirth, but affection. "That such a crime?"
He huffs softly, eyes averting, the tips of his ears a dusty pink. "Naw. Reckon it ain't."
You gentle, your palm coming to rest at the back of his head to pull him close. He resists.
"You gonna act right this time?" He furrows his brow at you, as playful as you've ever seen him. "Or am I gonna have to kick y'out and make you go curl up with Uncle by the chicken coop instead?"
Before you can answer, a pebble hits the outside of the tent, square in the shadow of Arthur's head.
"Will you shut the hell up in there? Some of us is tryin' to sleep."
Arthur shoots a glare at the wall. "Yeah, yeah - God forbid you miss out on the beauty rest, Marston. Ain't got no more mirrors left for you to break."
You hear John curse under his breath as he retreats. Arthur lifts his palm from your mouth and gives you a crooked grin.
He turns his head, blows out the oil lamp, and your laughter fills the dark.
