Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10620210.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Tombstone_(1993)
  Relationship:
      Doc_Holliday/Original_Female_Character
  Character:
      Wyatt_Earp, Doc_Holliday, Virgil_Earp, Morgan_Earp
  Additional Tags:
      this_is_so_self_indulgent, i_needed_a_little_doc_in_my_life, Praise_Kink,
      simply_porn, great_googly_moogly, Daddy_Kink, also_Sugar_Daddy, ha_ha_I'm
      trash
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-04-14 Chapters: 2/? Words: 1693
****** burn me down ******
by Teaandchips
Summary
     it's the caress that kills her. calloused fingers that have pulled
     the trigger on many a man, rest at her thighs; slowly sweeping upward
     until he can feel the heat of her.
     "Come on, darlin'... say please."
***** Chapter 1 *****
She's a melting mess within his grip, just as wild as a rodeo calf and sweeter
than cane. Her wide hips are undulating in some sinful, fluid dance. 
His fingertips tease the little bundle of nerves before sliding two into her, a
chuckle like dark satin winds around her skin and makes her keen. 
"You tempting, sultry wildcat," he's breathing this like a curse. "Luring me
into all kinds of mischief, I'd be inclined to be angry if you weren't so damn
sweet." 
His smooth lips are along the slope of her neck, panting against her freckled
skin; watching her pitch and roll against the friction of his fingers. 
"Please, Doc..." It's gone past her usual conniving sweetness, this is
desperation, this is begging. 
"Would you like me to stop, darlin'?" He's smiling at her, kneeling beside her
as she hisses at him. "Siren." He teases softly. 
"I want it, Doc. Please, I want -" 
"Oh, come on and say it."
"I want you in me. I need it.. please," his eyes flutter shut as she speaks.
The silky drawl of his roughening as he curses under his breathe. A hand moves
to cup her cheek, thumb stroking over her cheekbone. "I'll be a good girl for
you. I'll do anything you ask. I just -" he shushes her gently. 
His thumb shifting to trace her kiss bitten bottom lip, "I know you will,
darlin'." She can tell her pleas are reaching him by the darkness of his velvet
voice.
"Who's my good girl?" Her reaction is immediate, delicate hands gripping his
shoulders desperately.
"I am."
"That you are, my irresistible flower." He's shifting her over his lap, her
thick thighs bracketing his. Her forehead leans against his as he undoes the
clasp of his trousers. "Sent by the Devil himself to tempt me, never could
resist a dark haired little girl askin' for my attentions. The begging helps."
He's smiling at her and she smiles brightly back. She's drunk off the
sensations, her plush lips parting into a silent scream when he finally coaxed
her down. 
"Good," she breathes. He's making a sound like a panther, warm and purring, his
smooth lips playing at the line of her jaw.
She's riding him like a wild stallion, her hips doing that sinuous roll he so
adores. Her arms are around his neck, hands in his hair, messing the swirls of
it. He's biting at the slope of her neck, sucking a mark where it can be seen.
The attention is too much, her head shaking as if declining some heady offer
he's made her. 
"You're right on the edge, darlin'. Fall. I'll catch you," his voice is magic
against her skin. Muscles clenching down around him, head tipping back with
pretty little face full of bliss. 
Rough hands hold her down, finding his release within her. Such a spoiled
little thing she is, shuddering around him and purring at the sensation of his
release filling her up. They share a smile, her pretty lips meeting his
languidly. His hand strokes over her mahogany ringlets, curling one around his
index. 
"Did I wear you out, old man?" She's arching a brow at him, the little devil.
He purrs at her, "not even close, darlin'."
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     I stole you away to make you mine,
     and we'll be lost, lost, forever to time
She's never seen without him, always dolled up in some exquisite dress or
another; looking for all the world like work of art. 
He's the painter, working her carefully with his caress. A calloused finger
twining a perfectly sculpted ringlet, a mark of his breath whispering against
her skin. 
Wyatt thinks him a sinner, and he knows it. Such a young girl, barely
seventeen. Then again, Wyatt was always the responsible one... at first glance
anyway. 
As fate would have it, the oak himself is just as sweet on her as Holliday is.
She had this way about her that would make a man fall to his knees. 
She's resting on his lap, head leaning back against his breastbone. He's got an
arm about her corseted waist, steely gaze on his cards. Her gloved little
fingers shift upward to run along his jaw, he blows out a breath; throwing down
his hand. Winning, as always. 
"You're playin' with fire, darlin', I ought to let you be burned." 
"You like it," she breathes. They match eyes and he sees in her all the sin of
Persephone. What a Hades he'd make. 
"You know I do," he counters; drawing her up to kiss her. He sucks carefully at
her bottom lip, even biting it briefly. She gasps as if pricked, fingers coming
up to her plush lower lip. 
He tilts his head at her, a smile curling his smooth lips. "Bring it back, I'll
make it better." It's drawled, the same voice that coaxed her into his arms
that first night they met. 
"Promise?" It's full of an innocence that's fit to make him burst, his eyes
closing with the song of it. 
"I do indeed," his gaze flickers to Wyatt; watching the exchange carefully.
There's something of a smile at his friend's lips, and he knows Wyatt can't
condemn him.
She kisses him delicately, as if he hasn't seen her in bed. Wanton and keening,
dragging her sugary little lips over every inch of him. His fingers are working
hard to ruin her painstakingly maintained whorls. 
"Doc, 's my turn." She parts from him at the sound of Wyatt's voice, doing her
best to look chastised. It's working.
"Sorry, darlin'," comes carefully softened voice. She smiles at him, like he
hung the stars in the sky. 
Doc smiles because she's ever so clever, playing every man she meets to the
tune of her own little song. She's got them all wrapped around her little
fingers. Trouble is, Doc doesn't want to be anywhere else. 
It's not long after they stand that Johnny Ringo enters, dragging his hellfire
gaze across her; pausing at the mark blessing her freckled neck. 
"Johnny Ringo, the fastest pistol since Wild Bill they say. What'd ya think
darlin' should I hate him?" His gaze finds her, and she's schooled her features
into one of solemn patience.  
She's the responsible one, not him.
"Henry," it's whispered into his neck, a warning as clear as the flex of a
wildcat's claws. But he's a stubborn son of a bitch. 
"He reminds me of... me. Now I know it, I hate him." There's the click of a
gun, the pistol in Ringo's hands is aimed unfailingly at his face. 
"You'll have to pardon him," she's deigning Ringo with the sound of her voice
and it burns under his skin. "He's had a bit too much to drink." 
"Nonsense," he murmurs. And she turns a look on him that made him feel very
much the dog punted into the cold. He purrs at her in spite of it, softening
her resolve. 
Ringo holsters his gun, tipping his hat at her none the less. Curly Bill snarls
a laugh, following the other and clasping him on the shoulder. 
"Smart girl," Wyatt breathes. And she warms in Doc's hands under the praise,
smiling brightly. 
"Yes, just a sweet, succulent rose," Doc's giving her that look her does when
he's fit to bite his way along her skin. 
"The very rose who keeps you alive," she murmurs. She flutters her lashes at
him, dragging a hand down the length of his chest to play along his holster.  
He hums at her, head dipping so that his nose brushes her own. She smiles at
him softly, gloved fingers teasing at his neck now. 
"Be a good girl and get your poor lover a drink," he's purring at her again;
watching as she shifts closer with the sound. His thigh pressing between hers
at the motion, making her keen. 
She dallies off, stealing from his grip; his fingertips dragging along her
waist. His gaze never leaves her figure, Wyatt chuckles beside him.
"Pray tell, what is ever so amusing?" His flinty gaze finds his friend, Wyatt
smiles winningly at him.
"Nothin', Doc. Just never seen you so smitten, s'all." 
"Oh, to hell with you, Wyatt." 
Wyatt resumes his laughter, only to be cut when said subject of his affections
bends to hand Wyatt a drink, Doc's still in her hand. There's a pretty amount
of clevage on display, only bolstered with her bending. 
Say what you will, but Wyatt's only a man. 
"Thank you, darlin'." It's gruff, but she still warms to the praise. 
Doc smiles winningly, a mere mimick of Wyatt's earlier actions. His arm taking
her waist when she returns to him. 
"Doc?" 
"Yes, darlin'?" 
"Don't I get a thank you?" She's giving him that pouting face he's so inclined
to recieving. He sets his glass down, ever indulgent. 
His smooth lips trace hers before biting at the line of her jaw, then the slope
of her neck. A little kittenish mew breezing from her pretty lips. His favorite
of her many, intoxicating sounds. 
She's in his favorite of her moods as well, all sweetness and kisses. Buttered
up to the point of satin softness, lavishing him in kisses and nips. 
"Doc, why don't you take 'er home?" It's Wyatt's voice, ever the responsible
figure.
He lifts his head from the bend of her neck, dragging his nose along the slope
of it. "Nonsense, Wyatt. I've not yet begun to defile myself." 
"Not for your sake, for hers." 
Doc leans away to take in her features, all flushed and wanting. Her plush lips
parted in a pretty little 'o', her hands gripping his vest. She's the picture
of need, the very thing attracting the wandering eyes of the many men at 'The
Oriental'. 
He leans, smooth lips brushing her own. "Let's go home, darlin'," he's so damn
sweet on her it's a wonder they both aren't bursting with cavities.
"... please," she breathes. And it causes his eyes to flutter shut, the mere
perfect sound of it. 
He wraps her in his coat, tipping his hat to Wyatt; who's smiling like a great,
big buffoon. He can have this victory all he'd like; after all, Doc isn't the
one denying his affections for the pretty little thing.
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