I can do this all day

"The worst thing about prison was… the dementors!" - Michael Scott

[wormsnitches-deactivated2025082]

Play Date—Chapter Three.🦌˖➴🪽٠࣪⭑ˎˊ˗°

.°˖⋆ ℧ 𓃗 .°˖⋆ modernau!arthur morgan x fem!reader .°˖⋆ ℧ 𓃗 .°˖⋆

summary: after a turn of events that occurred last night, arthur might just finally give in, inviting you to his home—just you and him, and him and you alone.

warnings: nsfw (18+ mdni), smut, age gap, teeny dry-humping, oral (f!receiving), unprotected p in v sex, sideways/spooning, slight hair pulling, finger sucking.

word count: 28.4k (yikes, longest *no pun intended* chapter so far)

taglist (comment if you'd like to be tagged!): @wienerfest @starlight-and-whiskey @melielikeli @pressgforgoodgirl @arianmock13-blog @addy737382 @phoenixalley @rope-and-ride-me-cowboah @openupthedoorarchive @photo1030 @chaoticgoodstuff @irissfoot @vickylamborghini @mieriella @puppipills @jasterslegacy @monkeystuff0831 @immasimp4oldman @keymellow @starmaniii @mayayasstuff @elyselovesjackmarston @butterysalt @cowboyzlovers @impossible2cache @inkybyl @arthurmorganswifexx @eternalsams @strawberryblossom29 @twola @clementinesmascara

── .✦ series playlist; join now!

You were useless all day.

The first half of your morning was spent sprawled in bed, staring at the ceiling one moment and curling into your pillow the next, clutching it so tightly that your knuckles ached. Every time you closed your eyes, last night came flooding back in vivid flashes—hot, consuming, and way too good to forget.

Your body remembered it all. The weight of his hands pinning you down like they owned you. The warmth of his mouth finding places on your skin you didn’t even realize were begging for attention. The way his voice, usually measured and calm, had dipped into something rough and guttural, like he’d torn that sound out from the very pit of himself just for you.

Even now, hours later, you could still feel him. 

The ghost of his touch lingered along your hips, branding you there in some invisible ink that wouldn’t wash away. It wasn’t just physical—it was a sensation lodged deep in your bones, like your body had decided to memorize every second.

It wasn’t just lust, either. Oh, no, no no. This was something else. Heat threaded with danger, temptation wound so tight it hummed under your skin. You knew what it could cost you: your job, his trust, that delicate balance you’d been careful to keep. But the moment had already happened. The line had been crossed, trampled over, burned to ash. All signs of professionalism thrown out an imaginary window.

That knowledge should have sobered you. Instead, it had made you further squirm in your bed just thinking about it—pressing your thighs together under the sheets later in the morning, chewing the inside of your cheek as the memory flickered behind your eyes like a forbidden movie reel.

The second half of the day was spent at your mom’s place, which at least managed to pull you halfway out of your fog. The walk up the narrow, creaky stairs to her second-floor apartment was like a ritual you’d repeated so many times it was muscle memory, your feet finding the familiar spots where the boards groaned under your weight. 

The moment you stepped inside, her home wrapped itself around you in the same way it always had: the sharp tang of lemon cleaner layered over the faint, lingering sweetness of something she must have baked earlier in the week—maybe her cinnamon coffee cake, the one she always swore was “just for the ladies at work” even though she knew you’d sneak a piece. It was the smell of childhood and safety, a scent that sank deep into your lungs and anchored you, even when you didn’t want to be anchored.

She greeted you with a half-smile that was both amused and fond, her hair pulled back in a clip and eyes crinkling at the corners the way they always did.

“Well, look who decided to show up,” she teased, before pulling you into one of her quick but fierce hugs—the kind where her arms locked around your shoulders, her chin pressed briefly to your temple, and her perfume (vanilla with the faintest trace of cigarette smoke she swore she’d quit months ago) clung to your sweater.

Her apartment wasn’t the place you’d grown up in; that had been a modest one-story home on the edge of town, with sun-bleached curtains in the kitchen and a front porch that dipped slightly to one side. It wasn’t much, but it had been yours growing up. A place where the linoleum in the bathroom had peeled in one stubborn corner, and the heat banged and hissed in the winter like it was arguing with itself.

For as long as you could remember, it was always just you and your mom; you’d known nothing else. She’d filled every inch of that little house with her warmth and her stubbornness, raising you without help, without apology, teaching you that “family” didn’t have to come in pairs to be whole.

Now, sitting with her in the kitchen, the early afternoon light spilled in through the small square window over the sink, pooling golden and soft on the worn wooden table you’d eaten a thousand meals at. She made tea without asking. Your mother never had to. She set the mug in front of you exactly the way you liked it: two sugars, no milk. Without missing a beat, she turned to the counter, knife in hand, and began slicing thick pieces of leftover banana bread.

“So,” she began, sliding a plate toward you, “how’s babysittin' at the Morgan residence been? You’ve been… I don’t know, quieter about it lately,” Her tone was casual, but you’d lived with her long enough to recognize the way she could lace a question with quiet insistence. “Every time you come here, you’re always feeding me some story about what kind of antic those kids have gotten themselves into, or some new humiliation ritual the little girl put her daddy through,” Her mouth curved into a sly grin as she reached for her tea. “By the way, how is he? Arthur, I mean—” She paused to bite her lip dramatically, letting out a playful groan. “That man is built like a mountain, if you catch my drift. I’d surely like to climb him…”

You nearly choked on your tea.

“Work’s fine,” you said quickly, too quickly, and took a bite of banana bread you couldn’t even taste. You tried to make your voice sound even, detached. “As for Arthur… he’s… fine. Overlooking the site, handling clients, never-ending stacks of paperwork. You know how it is,” You fiddled with the edge of your napkin. “The man's hard to put down. Like he can come home looking tired, which most days he does, and he immediately steps into Dad mode. Cheering his son on at his baseball games. Sitting through Ellie's mini talent shows, clearly enjoying himself and amazed at his kid's unique talent. Even the dog gets a couple loving pats and scratches behind the ears here and there...”

Perhaps you were sharing too much information. Looking up, your mom cocked an eyebrow. Heat reached your cheeks. There was that minor thing about you. You had a tendency of looking too deep into things. A little too deep, one might say. Some might have just said you had a good eye for most things, which was—if you recalled—what your third grade teacher had written to your mother in a student evaluation report.

"Your student has an amazing eye for their surroundings. What an intuitive and compassionate person they're growing up into!"

At eight, you obviously didn't think much of it. All you cared about was a new collection of Sylvanian Families dolls, a reward for doing such a good job at school. But now, with the memory pulled into your mental frame, you couldn't help but feel called out in a way. How you noticed details of others when you were one hundred percent positive no one noticed anything about you.

What you didn’t say—what you could never say—was that your boss’s patience with the kids wasn’t even the thing that undid you. You didn’t tell her how you’d let yourself cross a line that could never be uncrossed, how you’d rutted against his thigh like some needy, wounded creature starved for release. You didn’t admit that the memory of it had haunted you all day, every cell in your body still remembering the way he’d looked at you, the way he’d touched you.

How you craved him...

Your mom gave you a long, knowing look, her eyebrow arching with that uncanny ability she had to make you feel seen—maybe too seen. “Uh-huh. Fine,” She sipped her tea. “All I can say is that Jennifer definitely made a mistake by letting that man go. Mmm-mmm. A man like that doesn’t stay single for long.”

You swallowed hard and forced a laugh that didn’t quite reach your eyes. Quickly, you pivoted the conversation, asking about her week. She lit up, launching into a story about Mrs. Martin at the grocery store and her never-ending parade of ridiculous complaints—this time about the “offensive placement” of the apples. Then she told you about the neighbor’s new dog, a yappy little thing that barked at everything from squirrels to the flutter of a leaf.

You laughed when she did, letting the sound spill naturally into the room, but your mind kept drifting like a balloon tugged by a string—always straining toward somewhere else. Somewhere you didn’t want her to know about. Somewhere that smelled faintly of tobacco and pine soap, where calloused hands had once anchored you in place and made you forget the air between your lungs. 

When she wasn’t looking, you found yourself fiddling with your phone under the table, the pad of your thumb tracing the smooth glass like it could conjure what you wanted most.

You weren’t expecting a message from Arthur—he wasn’t the kind of man who sent casual texts in the middle of the day, but some foolish, restless part of you wanted to see his name light up your screen anyway. Just the thought of it made your stomach tighten in that same electric way it had when his mouth had been on your neck, when his voice had dipped low and rough like it was meant only for you. The quiet hum of your mom’s refrigerator faded in and out under the thudding in your ears.

Your mom noticed your distraction eventually—you caught the flicker of her gaze as she reached for her tea, but she didn’t press. That was her way: to let you keep your secrets folded neatly away until you were ready to unravel them, if you ever did. You’d always loved that about her. Yet, her silence left you feeling oddly exposed, like she could read the shift in you without knowing the details, like she was already bracing for a truth she couldn’t name.

You wrapped both hands around your mug, trying to anchor yourself in the familiar weight and heat, but the kitchen around you—warm light, the worn table, the faint lemon-sugar smell—felt like it belonged to another version of you. The girl who had grown up in that one-story house with the leaning porch and the peeling linoleum. The girl who had known safety in the way her mother’s voice could fill a room. That girl should have felt at home here.

But now… now there was this other pull, heavy and dangerous, humming through your veins like a secret you were ashamed to love.

You felt guilty for how disconnected you were in this moment—for sitting here in the center of something that had always meant comfort and belonging, yet feeling your mind wander down a dirt road that led straight to him.

Every time you blinked, flashes came back in fragments: the scrape of his stubble against your jaw, the weight of his thigh under yours, the sound he’d made when you’d pressed against him like you needed him to breathe. It was like your body had decided to betray you, replaying the memory on a loop while your mom sat across from you, completely unaware.

After exchanging your goodbyes with her, which were always the same routine, you got the usual dose of motherly guilt wrapped in humor. She stood by the door, one hand resting on her hip, tilting her head at you with that sly, knowing smile she’d perfected over the years.

“You never visit me as much as you should,” she chided, her voice light but her eyes soft with something more earnest. “One of these days, I’m just going to get myself a dog… or a cat… or maybe a parrot—something to keep me company since you’re clearly too busy for your poor mother.”

It was the same every time, this playful (but not entirely joking) lament, and you responded the same way you always did—half-smiling, half-rolling your eyes, armed with your well-worn excuse of homework or whatever job you happened to be pulling shifts at. That was the truth, after all—your life was a steady loop of school, work, and the occasional family dinner when your conscience decided to poke you in the ribs.

But this time was different. Now that you’d crossed that impossible, unthinkable line with Arthur, you found yourself in unfamiliar territory—an ache in your chest every time you were away from him. It wasn’t just want; it was a deep, gnawing pull that made you restless in your mother’s kitchen, barely tasting the tea she’d poured for you, your mind already a hundred miles away.

By the time you stepped into your car, you were practically vibrating with impatience. You weren’t just driving home—you were navigating the quiet chaos of your own thoughts, already mentally sorting through your closet, wondering what you could wear that would make him look at you that way again. Something soft and effortless? Something that clung in all the right places? Or should you even bother? Because you knew—no matter what you chose—it would probably end up crumpled on the floor within the hour, his hands replacing fabric, his mouth making you forget your own name.

You couldn’t get there fast enough.

Once your key slid through the lock and you stepped into your apartment, the stillness hit you instantly. Not a single sound—just the quiet hum of the fridge and the faint tick of the wall clock. April wasn’t home. She was probably still stuck at her shift or… off doing whatever she did when she wasn’t here. You didn’t know, and right now, you didn’t care to.

Your feet barely touched the floor before you were heading straight for the bathroom, your mind already racing through everything you needed to do. You didn’t just shower—you attacked the shower. 

Steam filled the room within seconds, and you scrubbed like you were erasing an entire day off your skin. Your loofah glided over every inch, scented body wash lathering up thick and rich. You even took the time to shave—carefully, methodically, making sure your legs were smooth enough to be worthy of slipping between expensive sheets, and perhaps around the shoulders of one man.

You exfoliated, moisturized, ran your hands through your hair until it was silky between your fingers. The water was so hot it left your skin flushed pink, like you’d been caught in some sinful secret already.

When you finally stepped out, you weren’t done.

Moving in your Victoria’s Secret plush white robe with pastel pink stripes, you moved with purpose. Like a woman on a mission. Blow dryer in hand, you coaxed your hair into perfect, glossy waves, letting it fall in shiny ribbons down your back and over your shoulders. You reached for perfume, something soft but lingering, and sprayed it at your wrists, your collarbone, the backs of your knees. Lip balm so your lips weren’t chapped. You didn’t even want to think about how much time had passed.

You sat down at your vanity, the warm light casting a soft glow across your bare collarbones as you sifted through the small collection of makeup you owned. Your hands moved almost automatically, but there was still a careful slowness to each step—like you were trying to stretch out the ritual, give yourself more time to breathe. First, concealer. You dabbed it gently beneath your eyes, erasing the faint purplish crescents that spoke of too many nights spent overthinking instead of sleeping. Then came foundation, brushed and pressed until your skin looked smoother than you knew it really was. You leaned in close to the mirror, lashes curling under your fingers before a few coats of mascara made them fan out in inky sweeps.

Your eyeliner took the longest—there was something almost meditative about dragging that line as close to your lashes as possible, flicking it upward in a tiny wing that you hoped read as sultry instead of “trying too hard.” A sweep of neutral shadow. A careful dab of blush that made your cheekbones look a little higher. You considered a red lip, then thought better of it—Arthur struck you as the kind of man who’d end up with lipstick on his collar and pretend not to notice. Instead, you went for a soft pink gloss, just enough shine to make your lips look… inviting.

By the time you stood and shimmied out of your robe, your hair still settled perfectly into the glossy waves you’d coaxed out with the blow dryer, the scent of your shampoo—something sweet and warm, like honey and almond—still clinging to the strands.

You padded barefoot over to your bed, scanning the small pile of possible outfits you’d thrown together earlier. Dresses, skirts, a pair of jeans that somehow felt too casual for what you were walking into. None of them seemed right.

Your mind kept wandering—to Arthur, to the image of him in that worn gray Henley he always seemed to wear when he was off the clock, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, maybe a faint smudge of grease or sawdust on his skin from fixing something around the house. You knew exactly how his weekends went when the kids were with Jen—quiet, bordering on lonely. He’d tinker around the garage or sit on the couch with a beer, flipping aimlessly through channels until he landed on some old Western or baseball game. Dinner, if he bothered, would be a grilled cheese or whatever leftovers hadn’t gone bad. You doubted he ever lit the stove for himself unless it was for Will and Ellie. 

That thought had your stomach tightening—not just from guilt, but from this protective warmth that had started creeping in weeks ago. You liked knowing he ate well when you were around. You liked making sure the man had more in his fridge than half a bottle of ketchup and some string cheese. And now here you were, in your underwear, about to go to him for entirely different reasons, but still thinking about whether he’d had dinner.

You pulled the bra straps up over your shoulders, hooking them in place before smoothing the cups over your chest. They fit fine, better than fine, but staring at yourself in the mirror now felt… ridiculous. You tried adjusting the straps, pushing your breasts together a little, tilting your head just so—searching for some movie-version of sexy. For a second, you almost found it. But then you caught your own eye in the glass, and the seriousness of your own expression made you snort under your breath. You pressed your lips together, half-embarrassed, half-amused, shaking your head at yourself.

You turned back to the bed, the outfit decision still looming. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wondered if Arthur was sprawled out on his couch right now, beer bottle in hand, completely unaware of the effort you were pouring into looking like someone he’d want to ruin tonight.

You settled on a white cami top, the thin straps brushing against your shoulders while the soft fabric clung to the curve of your chest in a way that made it look more innocent than it felt. The red gingham shorts with ruffle trims rested high on your thighs, the playful pattern and delicate frills disguising just how much bare skin they left exposed when you moved. Your ballet flats were simple, worn in, and unassuming—something you’d had for years, the kind of shoes no one could accuse of trying too hard, even though you knew the whole outfit together was walking a fine line.

It was modest enough, technically, but every hem and seam seemed to cling in all the wrong—right—places, like the fabric itself was in on your dirty little secret. You pulled a cardigan over it, the soft knit sliding over your arms as though you were covering yourself in some flimsy shield of respectability, something to soothe the prickling guilt that had been creeping in since you started getting dressed. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but it made you feel a little less like you were walking into temptation on purpose.

You glanced around for your purse, fingers brushing over the cluttered top of your dresser, avoiding the mirror because you knew if you looked at yourself too long you’d start imagining how Arthur might look at you instead. Nothing too bold—no flashy bag, no statement jewelry. Just you, as you’d always been, or at least how you wanted to appear. 

Even if, deep down, you knew you were walking straight toward the man who could—and most likely would—ruin you. The thought wasn’t frightening so much as it was intoxicating, an electric hum beneath your skin that had you moving faster, eager to leave.

You texted him, your thumbs moving with a hesitance that almost made you delete the message twice before sending. It was simple, almost too simple, but you didn’t trust yourself to say more without sounding nervous.

You: On my way. Should I come in through the back?

Your phone screen stayed lit, that little “delivered” mark almost taunting you while you waited for his reply. A dozen possible responses you imagined from him—something smug, something to make you blush—flitted through your head before the screen finally lit up again.

Arthur: Front’s fine. I left the porch light on.

That was it. No teasing quip about sneaking in like you were doing something wrong. No drawn-out instructions about what he’d do to you once you got there. Just short, direct, and quietly loaded with something you couldn’t name.

Your heart fluttered, the kind of flutter that made your breath catch in your throat. He hadn’t added anything else. No winking emojis, no sly follow-up, no “can’t wait to see you.” Just… waiting. And somehow, that was worse—in the best way. The porch light being left on felt deliberate, intimate. 

Like a beacon in the dark meant only for you.

─────── ౨ৎ ─────────౨ৎ ────────

Arthur had been up since six, same as most mornings.

He didn’t like waking up early—hell no—but his life wasn’t exactly about what he liked anymore. It was about the two kids who thought nothing of barging into his space at ungodly hours. Sure enough, that morning started with Will stomping into his bedroom like a baby elephant, socks nowhere in sight, hair sticking up in gravity-defying angles.

“Dad! I can’t find my lucky socks!” he’d declared with the same urgency most people reserved for reporting a house fire.

That was how Arthur’s day began: in boxer briefs and a rumpled old T-shirt, his eyes still half-glued shut, shuffling barefoot down the hall. He crouched by the laundry basket wedged in the corner, pawing through a heap of clean-but-unfolded clothes until—victory—there they were, the damn socks. He handed them over with a grunt, only for Will’s face to light up like Arthur had just pulled a sword from a stone.

“Thanks, Dad,” Will said, already hopping on one foot to put them on. "You're the best."

Arthur couldn’t stop the small smirk that tugged at his mouth. With love, he shot back, “You need a haircut, kid,” giving a pointed look at the way Will’s lopsided mop of hair leaned heavily toward the left side of his face, like it was planning its own escape.

Pulling out his phone, he found Jen's number, pressing on the message icon. Arthur hoped sometime tomorrow morning or on Sunday she could take their son to get a much needed trim.

Ellie was next, and though her chaos was quieter, it wasn’t any less involved. He found her in the living room, curled up on the couch in pajamas patterned with tiny foxes, cross-legged and deadly serious as she dragged a plastic comb through her mangy doll’s tangled blonde hair—a doll Arthur had to fix on more than one occasion so its head wouldn’t fall off and have the other girls in her class shrieking. The furrow of her brows could’ve rivaled a heart surgeon mid-operation.

Leaning down, Arthur pressed a kiss into her soft, warm hair, and asked in a voice still rough from sleep, “Good morning, my angel girl. Pancakes or cereal?”

Her answer: “Pancakes,” came without hesitation. And that was that. He was firing up the griddle before the coffee had even kicked in, flipping batter onto the pan with a practiced hand.

Larry, their three year-old old lab retriever/pit mix with graying fur around his muzzle, followed Arthur from counter to stove like a slow-moving shadow, his nails clicking softly against the floorboards. Larry had that eternal look of weary tolerance, as if he’d lived through enough of this household’s shenanigans to know the drill. 

When Arthur turned around and caught Ellie giggling at the sight of an uncomfortable Larry now wearing a neon-pink tutu, an obvious addition courtesy of her playtime, he shook his head.

“This house is a zoo,” he muttered, pouring another pancake.

But the truth was, Arthur loved it. The noise, the mess, the weird little traditions that made no sense to anyone but them—this was the heartbeat of his life, the reason he dragged himself out of bed even when the world felt heavy. When all he wanted to do was wallow in self deprecation.

By seven-thirty, the morning madness was at full speed.

Both kids were fed, dressed, and standing in the hallway, locked in a fierce argument over who got to carry the “good” lunchbox—an Avengers-themed one that had apparently achieved mythical status in their minds. Arthur leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and played referee.

“Alright, enough. Ellie takes the lunchbox today and Will gets it first thing Monday morning,” he said in that low, steady dad voice—the one that got attention without raising volume.

He’d learned over the years that parenting meant picking your battles, and this one wasn’t worth any hair pulling, name calling and the occasional shin kicking. They’d take turns. Problem solved.

Five minutes later, he was herding them toward the front door, backpacks slung over small shoulders, lunchboxes in hand. The walk to the car was a blur of half-zipped sweaters, forgotten water bottles, and Will insisting they were going to be late, even though they had ten minutes to spare.

Drop-off at the school was its own kind of circus: SUVs pulling in at awkward angles, brake lights flaring as parents half-parked, half-idled in whatever space they could wedge into. Doors swung open while parents leaned halfway out of windows, calling after their kids with last-minute reminders about jackets, lunch boxes, and homework folders. The air smelled faintly of exhaust and syrupy breakfast bars, sticky little hands clutching water bottles or dangling lunchboxes as they shuffled toward the main entrance in clusters.

Arthur parked in his usual spot, engine idling low, and got out. He walked around to the passenger side to open the door for Will and then Ellie's door, crouching down to their height in the brisk morning air. He pulled them each in for a quick hug, kissing the tops of their heads like he’d done every drop-off since they were old enough to walk through those school doors alone. 

“Be good,” he said, the words warm but edged with the weight of habit. “Have a fun weekend with your mama… and Kerry—” he added, almost as an afterthought, “—if he’s there.” His voice carried a polite neutrality that didn’t match the way his jaw flexed.

Arthur still felt some type of way about his ex-wife's boyfriend. Always had. Sure, the man was practically moved in by now, two years into dating Jen, but that didn’t erase the quiet, stubborn reservation Arthur held. He remembered when Jen had first told him about Kerry, how she’d called him “a good guy” in that careful tone that implied she’d already been seeing him for a while. Turns out, the man was a computer programmer with an aptitude for hiking and agriculture.

Fuckin’ dweeb.

Arthur could still picture the first time they met, sizing him up in the doorway—broad belt buckle, pearl-snap shirt, boots polished but clearly bought new, and that mustache he had going on. He recognized the pattern instantly. Jen certainly had a type, even if she wouldn’t admit it. But familiarity didn’t make it any easier to swallow. Still, Arthur appreciated that she told him before bringing her new boyfriend into the kids’ lives.

That counted for something. 

The real storm had come when she’d told him she was ready for Kerry to meet Will and Ellie. Arthur felt his blood rush up, signifying his discomfort. He had pushed back hard, telling her it was too soon, that it wasn’t right—hell, the divorce was not finalized yet and the kids, bless them, were still reeling from the moment their parents pulled them into the living room to announce that they were separating.

Annoyed, Jen had accused him of being unreasonable, and maybe she wasn’t wrong. She’d reminded him that one day, he’d start dating again too and... wouldn’t he want the same courtesy?

The truth was, he hadn’t thought about it. Why would he? The woman he’d built a life with—his wife, soon-to-be/now ex-wife… the mother of his kids—didn’t want him anymore. Arthur figured if she didn’t… well, who in their right mind would? The thought had burrowed into him back then and never quite left, like a pestering itch that flared up when he least expected it.

“Love you, Dad!” Will called, already halfway up the steps. "See you soon."

Little running footsteps approached his way and before he could process what was happening, Ellie attacked with a big hug, little arms wrapped around his waist. "Love you so much, daddy."

Running a hand through her light brown curls, Arthur felt his throat get caught in a knot. "Oh, you," he said softly. Ellie was definitely his most sensible child. It was no surprise she took the divorce harder than her brother, who had his fair share of emotions. "C'mon, you gotta get to your class, or else Ms. Lena is gonna come out and get you in trouble. Wouldn't want that now, would ya? Y'know the rules, little lady."

Pouting, Ellie pulled away. "Okay," her lip wobbled, only slightly. "I-I'll miss you, daddy."

He crouched down, a calloused palm smoothing over her little freckled cheek. "I'll miss you too, bug. Just remember after school you're going to spend time with your mama, who loves you with all her heart..."

The problem wasn't necessarily visiting her mother every weekend as she's done for the past two years now.

For Ellie, she got visibly upset knowing she was leaving her dad alone for two days. At home, where she spent many hours scribbling away at coloring books, or frankly, whatever she could get her hands on. Ellie was perceptive—a kindness stored in her little heart, which made her even more special in the eyes of her mother and father. Every Friday morning, before she would leave, Ellie placed a drawing with a note of some kind on the kitchen table for Arthur to find.

Today, she left it on his nightstand.

Her little words, despite the various grammar mistakes, were enough to make one's heart curl with such adoration. Arthur couldn't count on his fingers how many times he choked up. Ellie—his sweet Ellie Marie—supplied an unquantifiable love, alongside her older brother, a love that no one could ever come between. He was proud to be their dad, to hold such privilege in raising kind, empathetic and ingenious beings.

Wrapping his arms around, he gave one last, final hug to his daughter. "You have a good day now, ya hear me?" Arthur said once he pulled away, standing on his feet again. "Give it your best. Never stop asking questions, my Ellie-belly. And remember: spend it well with mom, okay? She an' I love you and Will more than you could ever know."

The seven year-old's lip wobbled, but she managed to nod in understandment. "Okay..."

"Better get going now, 'fore the bell rings and then we both get in trouble," He replied, eyes scanning the last remnants of cars dropping off children.

Ellie was about to make her way towards the school, until she decided to turn once more. Arthur's expression dropped. Christ, he internally thought. He was hoping Ellie wasn't going to make him grab her hand, take her inside the car, and just drive them back to their house, opting to skip school just for today.

Granted he had that one thing to look forward to tonight, later on when the house remained still and quiet. You. But if Ellie was having second thoughts, he knew his chances were going to be limited now.

You could still invite her over. Nothing has to happen. Ellie won't mind...she loves her, his inner thoughts tell him.

Or....maybe once she goes to bed, you and her can be alone. YEAHHHHHHHH.....you take her to your room. Lay her down gently like the angelic doll she is, undress her slowly like you've always thought of, and then you can finally get to fu—

For christ's sake, old man! His other inner thought, his main voice of reasoning, chastised.

Already plottin' like some depraved sick fuck. For all you know, she could easily stand your ass up. What would she want with you, you no good miserable sack of shi—

Arthur snapped at his inner thoughts going at it in his head when he saw Ellie holding her right hand up. She extended her thumb, index finger, and pinky finger while keeping her middle and ring fingers tucked against her palm, adding slight movement as her palm gently moved back and forth. Arthur felt his heart leap at the sudden action. Feeling a clog in his throat, a small smile formed on his lips as he, too, copied Ellie's actions, mouthing an 'I love you' alongside it.

Then, just as quick, the seven year-old turned back and ran towards the school, seemingly content.

It was a hobby Ellie had picked up over the summer—sign language. However, in her eyes, Ellie saw and treated it differently. She was determined to learn another language, dragging Arthur to the local library. Arthur didn't mind, he was happy his children kept busy with all sorts of hands-on activities, and were not glued all day to an iPad screen.

Learning a new language meant a lot to Ellie, and she wanted her parents and Will to be involved, so they, too, put in the effort to learn, and exchanged gestures and phrases. It made for a fun bonding experience with her family, reminiscing about that tight-knit feeling she missed when Arthur and Jen were still together.

Arthur stood there on the curb, the warm sun seeping through his T-shirt, and watched as his little girl vanished into the sea of backpacks, light-up sneakers, and high-pitched giggles. He stayed until Ellie was completely out of sight, until there was nothing left to look at but the school doors swinging shut.

Only then did he turn to leave, shoulders tightening as the morning finally felt too quiet.

The rest of the day was quieter, though not exactly relaxing. Arthur moved through it with that steady, methodical pace he carried when there was no one else around to set the rhythm. He hit the store first, tossing the reusable bags into the cart and making his way down the aisles with a mental checklist. He stocked up on groceries for when the kids came back late Sunday afternoon—5:00 p.m. sharp, no exceptions. 

If there was one thing he and Jen still agreed on, it was being on time. She was meticulous about it, to the point where she’d once driven across town in a rain storm just to make a drop-off exactly when she said she would, despite Arthur not minding any delays, but the court was serious and once their joint custody agreement had been settled, Jen didn’t want to jeopardize anything. Especially for him. She knew how much of a good dad Arthur was.

He grabbed the usual staples: milk, apples, peaches, various other fruits and vegetables, cereal, the specific brand of chunky peanut butter Ellie liked, and the yogurt Will swore made him “run faster” at recess.

Then he reached for things that didn’t fit their routine at all—things meant for you. A rotisserie chicken still warm from the deli case, crisp green lettuce, bright tomatoes, a sweet white onion, garlic bulbs that filled the air with their sharp, earthy bite, a packet of dried guajillo chilis, and a small can of chipotle in adobo sauce. He added a stack of tostadas to the cart last, glancing at them with a faint smile. He’d already decided—he was going to cook for you tonight. He didn’t plan meals often, especially when the kids were with Jen. Arthur purely lived off scraps. 

Back home, he rolled up his sleeves and tackled the leaky kitchen faucet that had been taunting him for a week. The steady drip-drip-drip had been background noise for days, but now that the house was empty, it seemed louder, echoing off the walls like it knew it had his full attention. After a few stubborn twists with the wrench and some muttered curses, the dripping stopped, replaced by a quiet satisfaction that settled in his chest.

Larry came next. The energetic, wild lab-pit stood by the door with his leash in his mouth, tail swishing slow but steady. Arthur hooked it onto his collar and stepped outside into the crisp afternoon air, planning for a calm loop around the block. But Larry had other ideas. The “walk” turned into a half-trot, half-drag situation, the dog tugging him toward every fire hydrant, lamppost, and patch of grass worth sniffing. 

Arthur kept insisting, “Easy, boy,” but Larry only threw him a sidelong look that said ‘I’ll walk where I damn well please.’

He’d always claimed to you that the dog was for the kids, not him. Said he didn’t want the responsibility, didn’t need another thing to worry about. Yet, he remembered to fill Larry’s bowl, clean up after him, take him on walks, hosed him down when got a bit too crazy and decided to roll around in someone’s front yard that may or may not have been soiled in cow manure. He even mildly rough-housed with the creature, who would roll on his back, demanding rubs on the belly.

Watching Larry pause to sniff a stubborn dandelion growing through the sidewalk crack, Arthur knew better. Deep down, he loved the mutt. But those words would never come out of his mouth so easily. At least not without a fight.

Somewhere between unloading the groceries and wiping his hands on a dish towel, his mind slipped to tonight. To you. He thought about the way your face would look in the low light of his kitchen, the sound of your laugh when something if his cooking went slightly off, the way you always seemed both at ease and on edge around him. 

It still didn’t make sense to him. 

How someone like you could look at someone like him that way, like he was something worth lingering over. He wasn’t blind; he saw himself every morning in the bathroom mirror under the harsh light, the reflection unflinching. The little patch of skin overlapping his basketball shorts wasn’t really little anymore—not huge, but enough to peek over his belt when he sat down, the product of too many Friday nights spent with a greasy paper bag of takeout on the counter and a cold Miller Lite sweating in his hand.

He wasn’t sloppy, but he wasn’t the man he’d been ten years ago, either. Arthur always told himself it was “just a dad thing,” part of the conduct, but he still caught himself sucking in his stomach without thinking when he passed a mirror.

It wasn’t just that, though. His hair had developed a habit of staying a week too long past needing a trim, curling a little at the nape in a way that made him look more tired than rugged. The permanent crease between his brows had stopped fading even when he wasn’t frowning, as if the stress had etched itself there for good. His shoulders were still broad, but softer now, the edges of old muscle blurred under the weight of time and routine. He could still lift a heavy box or wrangle both kids at once, but he wasn’t the man in his twenties who could carry an engine block across a shop floor without thinking twice.

Arthur had always been hard on himself, maybe harder than anyone else could be. It wasn’t just noticing the flaws—it was the way he turned them into proof, stacking them in his head like evidence against the idea that he could still be wanted. A voice in the back of his mind was always quick to remind him of what he wasn’t anymore, and it was a voice he’d grown far too used to hearing.

Maybe it really did start during the pandemic. Back then, some of his buddies had joked about “the quarantine fifteen,” trading half-hearted laughs over beers and video calls. But for Arthur, it was more than a few extra pounds—it was the slow, steady unraveling of something he couldn’t quite put back together. That was when the cracks had started showing in his marriage to Jen.

They’d held on for two and a half more years after that, holding the pieces in place for the sake of the kids, for the sake of habit, maybe even for the ghost of the love they’d once had. But the writing had been there, plain as day, and they both knew it.

Even so, when it finally ended, there was no screaming match, no venom. They split like two people who had simply run out of road. Time apart had even made them kinder to each other. Arthur had come to understand something important: Jen had given him Will and Ellie, two of the best things that had ever happened to him. Nothing—not the divorce, not the nights he spent staring at the ceiling wondering what he could have done differently—would ever make him regret that.

He thought about that as he stood in the shower later that afternoon, steam curling thick and heavy around him until the mirror across the room blurred into a ghostly shape. Maybe you were crazy. 

Oh yeah, you definitely were. 

Or maybe—against all logic—you really did see something in him that he couldn’t see in himself. The thought unsettled him more than it flattered him. He remembered, in some idle corner of conversation, you once mentioning that you’d been raised mostly by your mother, that it had always been just the two of you. No mention of your father, not once. 

Lathering shampoo into his hair, he wondered if that had anything to do with your sudden pull toward him. The realization made him grimace. Jesus. Was he really about to chalk up your attraction to him as some half-baked lack-of-a-father-figure theory? God, that sounded awful, even in his own head. He let the thought wash down the drain with the soap. 

Whatever the reason, he wanted to look decent tonight.

He trimmed his wiry beard with more care than he had in months, leaning toward the mirror so he could catch the uneven patches and clean up the lines along his jaw. Not the half-assed trim he usually did when he was rushing to get out the door—this time he took his time, and it actually looked good.

Cleaner. More intentional.

He reached for the good cologne, the one in the glass bottle that Jen had bought him years ago for an anniversary. The scent was woodsy with a faint spice, familiar enough to comfort him but still sharp enough to make him feel like he’d stepped up his game. He pulled on a fresh charcoal henley that still had some stretch in the fabric and jeans that didn’t have frayed pockets or faded paint streaks from that summer he’d tried (and failed) to refinish the deck. He even dragged a comb through his hair instead of just smashing it into place with his palm.

The change in the mirror was subtle, but he noticed.

As the sun dipped low, spilling gold through the blinds, he moved through the house in a quiet loop of tidying—picking up stray toys before they murdered his bare feet, stacking Ellie’s glitter-coated art projects neatly on the counter, pushing Will’s half-built Lego ship further back so it wouldn’t get destroyed. He straightened the couch cushions and tossed the folded blanket over the backrest, a small part of him pretending this was just routine, even though deep down he knew he was doing it for you. 

Not to impress you exactly… but maybe to make the place feel a little more like the kind of home you’d want to walk into. The porch light clicked on automatically as the sky deepened to blue, casting a warm glow over the steps like it was quietly waiting for you, too.

Since the beginning of this day, Arthur felt this pull in his chest—something strong, profound. He wasn’t sure if the pull he felt was more excitement or trouble, but either way…

He wasn’t fighting it.

─────── ౨ৎ ─────────౨ৎ ────────

Your car crept down his street, the familiar curve of it pulling something tight in your stomach. You eased over to the curb, slipping into a parking spot just a few houses away. The engine gave a low grumble before falling silent when you killed the ignition.

The world outside seemed to hush with it.

You flipped down the sun visor and opened the little mirror, catching your reflection in the dim streetlight glow. Your hair still looked smooth, but you ran your fingers through the waves anyway, fussing with them like it might somehow buy you courage, or time. You dabbed at your lip gloss, pressing your lips together to make it shine just right. The absurdity of it wasn’t lost on you—sitting in your car like a lovesick teenager about to sneak into trouble she’d never recover from. About to sneak into her boss’s home when no one else was around.

Except who else could really say they, too, did a thing like that?

God, this was shameful. A deep, quiet shame that prickled beneath your skin and made you shift in your seat. But at the same time? You didn’t care. Not really. You’d wanted this for so long—thought about it in stolen moments, in dreams, in every reckless “what if” that bloomed in your mind, and now it was happening. Right now.

You only hoped that whatever you were walking into would match the fevered fantasies you’d been hoarding like a secret. 

No—if you were being honest, you hoped it would surpass them.

Your gaze drifted toward his house. It looked the same as it had every other time you’d seen it—quiet, steady, unpretentious. The siding held that pale, neutral shade that didn’t try to impress but somehow still felt welcoming, like it had soaked in years of sun and weather without complaint. The porch light spilled its buttery glow across the steps in a way that made the shadows look softer, less intimidating. 

In the windows, the curtains were drawn but imperfect, edges gapping just enough to catch slivers of golden light spilling from the kitchen. Behind one of them, a figure moved with quiet, deliberate purpose. Arthur. There was something about seeing him like that—not speaking, not aware you were watching—just existing in his own world, in his own rhythm, that made your heart thud harder, heavy against your ribs like it was trying to break free.

The cool night air filled your lungs and made your skin prickle, grounding you just enough to move. Your hand found the car’s door handle, fingers curling tight before you stepped out. The air felt even colder against your cheeks, contrasting the warmth still humming in your face. Behind you, the car beeped softly as you locked it, the sound small but oddly final, like the moment before a stage curtain lifts. Your ballet flats clicked against the pavement, each step impossibly loud in your ears, matching the drumbeat of your pulse as you closed the space between you and the porch.

Up close, the porch told its own quiet story. It was lived-in but not sloppy, the kind of space that carried traces of the people who used it every day. A small couch rested against the wall, its cushions slouched and broken in from a hundred lazy summer nights—a moment of peace, sleepy kids curled against their dad, maybe even Arthur’s own rare moments of stillness. Will’s baseball bat lay forgotten across one cushion, an artifact from an earlier game or practice, its handle worn smooth by small hands.

In front of it, a coffee table sat mid-chaos, a puzzle box splayed open on top. Tiny cardboard pieces were scattered in small, organized clusters, mid-progress, waiting for their next moment of attention. Every detail was so specific, so unselfconsciously him, that it made your heart do little flips in fondness. 

You stopped at the base of the steps, the worn wood stretching upward like a small but significant threshold. You drew in one more deep breath, as if the air could steady your racing thoughts, could fortify whatever nerve you had left. Then you climbed, each step sending a little hum of anticipation through you, until you were standing directly before the door.

Here goes nothing.

Lifting your hand, your fingers hovered for a beat, caught between hesitation and action. Then, with a small push of will, you pressed the doorbell. 

Inside, the chime rang out—muted by walls yet somehow sharp enough to pierce right through your composure. You imagined the sound reaching him, imagined the shift in his expression as he realized it was you. Somewhere in there, Arthur was already moving toward you, his footsteps closing the distance. Your pulse spiked, your breath caught tight in your throat, and you stood frozen in that perfect, suspended moment—right before the door would swing open and change everything.

The moment the door swung open, the air between you shifted—at first subtle, the way a room feels just before a summer storm breaks, a faint tightening in you that you couldn’t name. Then it settled into something heavier, denser, like the air itself had decided to press in closer, demanding you both notice it.

Arthur filled the doorway, one palm braced casually—though nothing about his stance felt casual—against the frame. His gaze swept over you slow enough that you felt every pass of it, no attempt at masking or softening the way his eyes tracked your figure. The movement was deliberate, unhurried, and yet it carried an edge, as if he was assessing something he didn’t entirely trust himself to touch, despite the fact that you could still feel the ghost of his rough and hardened hands on you.

His jaw flexed once, the motion subtle but impossible to miss, a slow tightening that made the muscle tick like he was grinding down on a thought too dangerous to speak. His blue eyes—clear as glass yet holding that deep, unreadable pull you could never quite get to the bottom of—stayed fixed on you, unmoving. There was focus there, but also weight, like he was letting you feel exactly how much space you occupied in his head in that moment. You liked knowing that.

He held your stare for what felt stretched and elastic, seconds bending until they almost snapped. Maybe it had been a blink, maybe it had been an eternity, but either way your skin was buzzing, heat creeping from your chest up the line of your throat. You didn’t look away. Instead, you let your own gaze travel over him with the same intent, the same unwillingness to pretend.

His shirt, a simple henley in a deepened shade, clung in ways that left nothing to imagination as you saw peaks of his collarbone and the hair on the skin there, skimming over the solid breadth of his shoulders, the faint swell of his chest when he breathed in.

His forearms—always, always your undoing—were bare to the elbow, skin warm-toned and golden from the sun, every fine hair catching in the porch light like threads of copper. Veins traced their way over muscle that moved with quiet strength, the kind that came from years of use, not vanity.

The denim he wore didn’t help; it pulled just enough across the thickness of his thighs to leave your mouth dry, your thoughts scattering into places you were sure you’ve wandered into before. On instinct, your legs crossed a little, feeling that small pulse in your core. 

In your eyes, Arthur Morgan could do no wrong. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” he muttered finally, his voice low and gravelly, the kind that seemed to start somewhere deep in his chest before dragging itself upward, scraping over every syllable on the way out. The words weren’t loud, but they carried a weight that sank straight into you, settling low.

“Hi,” you breathed back, your lips curling at the corners in a small, involuntary smile. 

You could see the faint tension in him—the way his shoulders stayed a fraction too squared, his chin lifting like he needed the extra inch of height to steady himself, or else he’d immediately pounce on you.

His weight shifted from one foot to the other, not enough to be obvious to anyone else, but enough for you to catch. It wasn’t the kind of nervousness that kept people at arm’s length. Rather this was the kind that tugged you in, that made you want to close the space, to brush against him, and bring his lips to yours, until that quiet restraint broke. 

And God help you, the fact that it was Arthur made it even worse—you found it maddeningly, achingly endearing. More than ever, you wanted to run up to him, curl your arms around his neck, and kiss him. A kiss, in your opinion, he blatantly deserved. 

He stepped aside slowly, his shoulder angling just enough to open the doorway. The movement changed the air entirely—charged it, thickened it—like crossing this invisible line meant stepping into something you wouldn’t be able to step back from. 

“Come on in,” he said, and though the words were simple, there was a thread under them that made your stomach flip.

This was it. The threshold. One small step that carried every ounce of consequence you could imagine. 

It was thrilling in the way leaning over a ledge was thrilling—your toes curling over the edge, your heart pounding against your ribs, some part of you knowing you’d jump even if you told yourself you wouldn’t. You knew, with a certainty that should have been terrifying, that if you crossed, you weren’t leaving the same. You’d be different.

He’d make sure of that.

Brushing past him, your arm grazing his, and even through the fabric of your cardigan sleeve, the contact lit something up in you. Your pulse skipped and then doubled back, faster now. Behind you, he closed the door with a kind of unhurried finality.

The wood met the frame with a low, solid thunk, followed by the clean, distinct click of the lock sliding into place. Somehow, in the quiet of his house, the sound carried too much meaning, echoing in your ears.

Then it hit you—the scent. Warm, savory, layered with spice. There was depth to it, a faint smokiness that clung in the air like it had been building for hours. Your head turned instinctively toward the kitchen, and there it was: a pan on the stove, steam rising in delicate curls, catching the low amber light. 

Oh. 

He was cooking. For you.

"Really glad you made it."

When you looked back, you didn’t even have to meet his eyes to feel it—Arthur’s gaze was on you, steady and unblinking, heavy in the way that made your skin heat. And when you did catch him, he didn’t look away. If anything, his stare deepened, like he was trying to take in more of you, to map you, to commit every detail to memory.

His eyes flickered, darting up to meet yours, then dipping lower again—not shy exactly, but not reckless either. Controlled and intentional. There was heat in it, yes, but also a certain kind of care, like whatever he was thinking about you in that moment was meant to be kept safe, tucked away where only he could touch it.

"Well," you began, shifting from one foot to another, another smile plastered on your face. "Between you and I, I'm glad to be here."

His eyes continued taking you in, and there was something about it that you liked. The feeling....knowing you were wanted by a man as gorgeous as he was. You turned away, blushing softly.

“You look real pretty,” Arthur said finally, his voice dropping quieter this time—almost reluctant.

Then, before you could even brace yourself, it happened fast—so fast you could have missed it if you blinked. His lips brushed softly against your cheek, a fleeting kiss that left the skin tingling and warm long after he pulled away. The heat spread inside you, stirring something deeper when his big palm pressed gently against the small of your back, steady and grounding, as if he was marking the space you occupied.

You bit your lip, your mind swirling with a thousand impulses. How long could you stand being this close, this exposed, without losing control? The urge to grab his hand and drag him to the couch, to replay every stolen moment from last night, clawed at you. But then there was that other part—you hoped it wasn’t just his thigh you were hoping to get off to, that whatever this was ran deeper than that.

“Are you… cooking?” The question hung between you, teasing, curious, like you were daring him to admit he’d gone a little out of his comfort zone for you.

A faint flush blossomed across his cheeks, coloring his weathered skin just enough to catch your eye. “Yeah. Hope you like chicken tinga.”

You smiled, intrigued. “Can’t say I’ve had it before. What is it?”

He gestured with a slow sweep of his hand, inviting you to follow him into the kitchen. You stepped inside, feeling the warmth of the room close around you—cozy, lived-in, the kind of place where you could picture him standing in the morning, mug of coffee in hand, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The warmth wrapped around you, mingling with the soft hum of the stove.

Arthur reached for the pot on the burner and lifted the lid, releasing a curl of steam that carried the rich, smoky scent straight to your nose. Inside, shredded chicken swam in a vibrant orange-red sauce, flecked with tender bits of onion and spices that promised layers of flavor. The aroma was intoxicating—comforting and bold all at once, just like him.

“It’s a Mexican dish,” Arthur began, his tone shifting into that comfortable cadence he used when he was telling you something he knew well. “One of my guys at the site—Armando—his wife made a big pot of it one day. Shredded chicken in a sauce made from tomatoes, chipotle chilis in adobo, garlic, sliced onions… has that smoky, deep flavor.”

As he spoke, you found yourself watching not just his hands as they stirred the pot, but his face—the way his mouth shaped the words, the warmth in his eyes when he mentioned this employee.

“Armando’s a good man,” Arthur went on. “Hard worker. Does what he needs to take care of his family. Guys like him are dependable—the backbone of the job. Wouldn’t be much without ‘em.”

You listened with genuine interest, nodding slightly, filing away the fact that Arthur didn’t just manage his workers—he respected them. Reaching up into the cabinet, Arthur pulled down two plates with a practiced ease that belied the quiet purposefulness behind every motion. 

“This is usually served on tostadas,” he explained, “with a layer of refried beans, then you top it with avocado slices, crumbled cheese, Mexican sour cream, maybe some salsa.” His voice was steady, but there was a softness underneath—as if he were sharing something personal, a small window into his world and those around him.

He glanced over at you, and for a brief second, his expression softened into something almost sheepish, like he wasn’t sure if he was doing it right. “Don’t have all that stuff, though,” he added with a shrug, “just some lettuce I chopped earlier.”

Your chest tightened, warmth blooming in the hollow beneath your ribs. “You really… made me dinner?” The words came out slower, as if you were savoring the surprise.

“Seemed like the least I could do,” he said simply, still not quite meeting your eyes right away.

That small admission made something coil low and slow inside your stomach—a knot of heat that wasn’t just about the food, or the gesture itself, but the fact that it had come from him. The quiet care in that act—the way he’d taken time for you despite everything—hit harder than you’d expected. God, were you ever so turned on by him. It wasn’t just the physical pull; it was the tenderness beneath the rough edges, the way kindness felt almost reckless coming from someone like Arthur.

“Where’d you learn how to make this?” you asked, leaning a little closer, curiosity threading through your tone.

“Armando and his wife, of course,” Arthur said with a faint smile, pulling a bag of tostadas from the pantry and setting it on the counter. “Good people. Salt of the Earth types,” He paused for a moment, his eyes softening as he remembered. “Tilly, our receptionist, plans the Christmas party every year. Armando and his family always come. Their kids are good sports with Will and Ellie, putting up with Ellie’s… whatever game she’s got going on. I tell ya: that kid’s always full of wild ideas. At least I know I’m doing something right.”

You laughed softly at the image, the chaos of Ellie’s imagination mingling with the steadiness of the kids next door. You leaned against the counter, watching him move with that quiet, deliberate rhythm as he began plating the food.

The rich, warm aroma wrapped around you both, filling the space with something more than just scent

After he plated the food, the smoky heat of chipotle mingling with the savory pull of slow-cooked chicken until it felt like the scent alone could make you weak, you reached for your plate. Your fingers brushed his—barely, but with an unmistakable, intended pause that let you feel the dry, calloused heat of his skin. That single second stretched too long, lodged somewhere between accident and intention, before you broke it, clutching the plate and trailing after him toward the table.

The muted thump of your footsteps against the worn wooden floor sounded almost indecently loud in the hush of his house. Each soft creak of the boards seemed to shout that you were here, with him, alone—no distractions, no one else’s eyes, no buffer against the slow, charged air curling between you.

Arthur placed his plate at the head of the table, his shoulders rolling back as he straightened. His gaze flicked to you, slow and steady, and when he spoke, his voice carried that low, unhurried rasp—casual on the surface, but with a faint grit beneath it that slid over you like sandpaper. “What’ll you have to drink? Got water, lemonade… beer. ‘Course, there’s a bottle of wine, perhaps.”

Wine. The word hung there, thick and heavy, not just an offer but a temptation, and it made something deep in your chest tighten. Your mouth curved into the faintest smirk before you said, almost too evenly, “I’m definitely not passing up on wine.”

His own mouth tilted in response, not into a grin exactly, but into something smaller—sharper. Knowing. Without a word, he turned toward the cabinet, his movements as deliberate as they were slow. You could see the flex of his forearm as he reached for a glass, the subtle shift of muscle under his shirt, as if he knew you were watching and wanted to give you something to watch.

He bent at the waist to pull a bottle from the fridge, the cool glass catching the low kitchen light like a lure. Beads of condensation clung to it, then slid lazily downward, tracing the curve of the bottle in a way that made your throat feel dry. He set it on the counter beside a beer—his, of course—before curling his fingers around the corkscrew. The muted pop of the cork leaving the bottle cracked through the air with an intimacy that didn’t belong in a quiet kitchen, and you felt your pulse stumble at the sound.

You stood there, plate in hand, unable to stop your eyes from following the slow, easy roll of his broad shoulders, the way the fabric of his worn shirt shifted and stretched over them with every subtle movement. Your gaze traced the line of his back down to the solid breadth of his frame, where his forearms flexed and corded with each twist and turn as he worked. His veins rose faintly beneath sun-bronzed skin every time his grip tightened on the wine bottle. He wasn’t doing anything remotely flashy, just pouring wine into a glass with the unhurried precision of a man who never rushed anything unless he had to. 

Still, your stomach tightened and twisted as though you were standing on the edge of something precarious and alluring, as though one step forward might send you tumbling into whatever this was building between the two of you.

Your eyes wandered lower, inevitably stopping at the slight swell of his belly, that soft stretch of him that you’d shamelessly come to adore. You’d thought about kissing him there before, more than once, in those late-night fantasies when your apartment was quiet and the only sound was your own uneven breathing. Nights when you’d slip your hand down into your panties, fingers parting the wet ache between your folds while your mind lingered on the feel of him beneath your lips, the taste of him, the weight of him above you.

You could tell he was self-conscious about it—about his size in general—but to you, it wasn’t something to hide. 

It was something to worship.

When you first met him back in late May, sitting at a table at the café for your interview, the first thing you noticed—the first thing anyone must notice—was his sheer size. 

Arthur wasn’t fat, not even close, but he was big in every sense of the word: broad through the chest and shoulders, built like a man who’d spent his life working with his hands, moving heavy things without complaint. And tall—so tall that his shoulders seemed to hunch a little, as though his body was forever trying to apologize for taking up so much space in a room.

That unassuming, almost shy posture only made him sexier to you, because when he straightened, when he squared those shoulders and looked down at you, there was no mistaking the quiet strength in him. The height difference between you was obvious—not drastic enough to be comical, but enough that he had to tilt his head slightly to meet your gaze, and you had to look up just enough for it to feel intimate.

He glanced back at you then, catching your eyes for a second too long, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’d caught you in the middle of a thought you shouldn’t be having. Then he handed you the glass, his large, calloused fingers brushing against yours.

“Don’t go thinkin’ I keep wine in here often,” he said, his voice low and textured, rough in a way that seemed to carry something else beneath it—something private, something unspoken.

That brief touch lingered, the single point of contact sending a slow, deliberate shiver up your arm. You wrapped your fingers around the stem of the glass, willing your hand not to tremble, and murmured, “Guess I’ll have to feel special, then.”

A sound left him—half a chuckle, half an exhale—like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or say something heavier, something more. He turned back toward the table, his beer in hand, and sank into his chair with that unhurried way he had. 

“Special,” Arthur repeated under his breath, almost to himself, as though he was rolling the word around in his mouth to see how it tasted, what it might mean if he really said it out loud.

You followed him to the table, setting your plate down and taking the seat across from him. Your knees nearly grazed beneath the narrow stretch of wood between you, that almost-touch pulling the air taut in the space you shared. For a moment, neither of you spoke, both aware that this wasn’t just dinner—it never had been. The air was warm, almost stifling, thick with the kind of unspoken tension that felt like it could break open at any second and change everything.

The rest of dinner went relatively well. 

Better than you expected, considering you’d half-anticipated awkward silences and half-hearted small talk. The food was good, the air was warm, and somehow the quiet between you didn’t feel like a void you needed to fill, but a comfortable lull, like the pause before turning a page.

You thought you knew most about Arthur already. After all, you were his employee, practically part of the furniture in his day-to-day life, but as the two of you dug into your crunchy tostadas, little truths about him began slipping out, things you’d never imagined hearing firsthand. 

He admitted, with a sheepish tilt of his mouth, that he once tried making pancakes without baking powder and ended up serving what he called “flour frisbees” to the kids. He confessed that he hates folding fitted sheets and usually just balls them up in the linen closet like a criminal hiding evidence. He mentioned that when he’s alone in the truck, he listens to old The Chicks songs—specifically “Cowboy Take Me Away”—loud enough to rattle the windows, and that sometimes, if it’s been a rough day, he’ll swing by the river after dark just to sit and think. There was the fact—delivered without shame—that he still can’t make coffee without forgetting to either add too much water or not enough, which explained why the coffee at his house always tasted faintly like regret.

After you finished eating, the conversation didn’t die down; it kept rolling forward, like the two of you were improvising without a script, tossing out stories and half-formed thoughts just to see where they landed. It was easy, shockingly so, like skipping rocks across a lake and being pleasantly surprised when they bounced more than twice.

You, too, told him a couple things about yourself that he wouldn’t have expected, little snippets you didn’t usually share unless you were with someone you trusted—things that felt oddly easy to hand over to him in the warm lamplight of his kitchen. You could have easily given yourself to him—there was no doubt about it. 

You mentioned your roommate, April, who was reserved but a massive sci-fi nerd, with a habit of marathon-watching obscure space documentaries, and her constant rotation of men that made your apartment feel like a constant collage of inside jokes and weird moments. You told him about the finance bro she was with a couple days ago, and how he could only talk about himself and his job when he and April were in the middle of having sex. On cue, the older man would chuckle, but also listen intently, clearly hooked on what you were saying.

Arthur’s eyes shimmered with genuine interest, the way someone looks when they’re not just politely listening but actually drinking in every word, his elbow braced on the table while his fist rested casually against his cheek, giving you his full attention.

He liked the way you lit up without even realizing it, how your voice got a shade brighter and quicker when you were talking about something you loved, that subtle energy of excitement spilling out in the way you gestured with your hands or tilted your head just so. To him, it was almost better than whatever you were actually saying—watching you get animated over a favorite book, a professor you harbored deep respect for because they were damn good at their job, or the quiet satisfaction of late-night coffee runs when the city felt almost yours alone.

The corners of his mouth tugged upward every time you smiled, that sweet, unguarded smile that felt like a glimpse into something soft and unspoiled, sitting perfectly on that angelic face of yours he couldn’t seem to get enough of.

In hindsight, you realized that you’d never thought Arthur was this easy to talk to. Usually, your conversations with him were functional, built out of necessity rather than desire: updates about Ellie’s homework, Will’s baseball schedule, whether the dishwasher was acting up again. It was the kind of talk that became habit, the background hum of life with kids involved, not the kind of conversation that sparked just because you wanted to know what was on his mind.

Instead of all those afternoons you’d spent quietly drooling over him when he moved around the house, watching the way his broad shoulders flexed when he carried in groceries, or the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck when it got too long, a little detail you absolutely loved. You realized you could have gotten this version of Arthur if you’d just tried. The one who wasn’t rushing between chores, who wasn’t barking for someone to put on their shoes, who wasn’t already halfway to exhaustion before dinner even hit the table.

But then you wondered: would you really have gotten it if it wasn’t with the idea of being….close to one another? Intimate? This calm, unworried Arthur only seemed to exist because tonight it was just the two of you. No echo of bounding footsteps on the stairs, no constant shouting from playtime from the playroom, no interruptions that pulled him back into Dad Mode before you could get a full sentence out of him.

Even Larry’s absence was noticeable, the silence made stranger without the occasional jingle of his collar or his nails tapping across the floor.

When you asked about the dog, Arthur had given you that look—half amused, half pretending to be suspicious—and asked if you were planning to replace him with Larry. The faux offense in his voice made you laugh, but his answer carried a surprise.

Turns out, Larry was also spending the weekend at Jen’s with the kids—his first time at her house, which was apparently a big enough deal to mention. Jen and Kerry had just gotten a new dog, Lois, noticing the way Arthur tried not to roll his eyes at the mention of Jen's boyfriend, and the kids were dead set on introducing Larry to Lois, as if it were a diplomatic summit between world leaders.

So now, Arthur was really alone. 

The kind of alone that had edges to it. The kind of alone where the quiet felt like it belonged to the both of you, at least for tonight. 

God…

Three hours had slipped by almost without you noticing, and now the clock read ten p.m., the once-simmering evening light outside having dissolved into a velvet darkness that hugged the windows. 

Somewhere between your laughter and his quiet, knowing glances, the two of you had migrated from the kitchen to the couch, the shift so natural you barely remembered the moment it happened.

Arthur had been stubborn—gentlemanly stubborn—about not letting you lift a single finger when it came to clearing the plates, and while you had made a show of rolling your eyes and muttering that you were perfectly capable, the truth was you weren’t annoyed in the least. It was the way he did it—quiet, capable, like it was the most natural thing in the world to take care of you—that made something warm curl in your stomach to the depths of your aching core.

Now, the two of you were deep in conversation again, voices low in the cozy space, as though you were afraid to disturb the cocoon you’d accidentally built together. It felt endless, this back-and-forth of stories, teasing, and real conversation, like you were both hooked on the sound of each other’s voices and the way your laughter seemed to linger in the air.

You didn’t want it to stop. Not this. Not the way his attention stayed wholly on you when you spoke, or how his expression softened like you were the only thing worth focusing on. Not the way you felt… seen. Like he wasn’t just hearing you—he was getting you.

Your back rested lazily against the arm of the couch, legs stretched out and displayed without thinking about it. Arthur had, with that sly sort of confidence, reached for your feet without asking, pulling them gently into his lap. His big, warm hands were wrapped around them, thumbs pressing slow, careful circles against your arches. It wasn’t just a foot massage. Not really. It was done on purpose, unhurried… like he knew exactly what he was doing, and exactly what it was doing to you.

You watched his hands—those broad, work-worn hands that could haul lumber or twist steel into place…..hands you so desperately wanted wrapped around your throat….move with such tenderness it almost didn’t seem fair.

The calluses brushed over your skin in a way that had your breath catching, your body leaning imperceptibly closer. And when you glanced up at him, you caught him looking—not in a casual way, but in a way that burned.

Arthur nursed his third beer, his thumb idly tapping the glass bottle, while you—after draining your wine glass—had switched to a beer yourself. You were a lightweight, so the warmth in your cheeks was part alcohol, part… something else entirely.

He’d leaned back slightly, one arm hooked lazily over the couch, body angled toward you as he spoke about his work—about the contracting site he ran. His voice was low and rich, words rolling off his tongue like they were meant to be savored, and you found yourself staring at his mouth more than listening to the technical bits.

Then he told you another story—this one involving one of his good friends, John—a name you’ve heard of once or twice, and some harebrained stunt that had gone spectacularly wrong. The way Arthur told it, with that slow, deliberate rhythm and dry humor, made you laugh so hard you had to press your hand to your mouth. His grin in response—crooked, devilish—made the air between you tighten in a way you could feel.

The tension remained a quiet thing, not spoken, but it thrummed there under every word, every brush of his thumbs against your skin. His gaze would linger a second too long, drop briefly to your lips, and then return to your eyes like nothing happened. But you felt it—you felt it—this magnetic pull that had you leaning closer, that made you imagine what it would feel like if he abandoned that beer entirely just to pull you into his lap.

Somewhere along you telling him a story—the one about that night in your apartment when April tried to fix the broken Wi-Fi router while you attempted to “assist” by holding a flashlight, which somehow ended with April sprawled on the kitchen floor, the router dangling from its cord, and you all laughing so hard you had to clutch your stomach. Arthur’s eyes never left you. You could tell he was drinking you in, the way your voice lifted when you hit the punchline, the way your smile broke wide and unrestrained when you were reliving that shit show of a day.

Your own hands animated in the air, mimicking April’s “dramatic fall,” and Arthur chuckled— low and warm. “Ya talk with your hands when you get excited,” he murmured, almost like he was saying it to himself, not for your benefit. His gaze didn’t falter once, his eyes shimmering in that dim, cozy lamplight. “Kinda adorable, darlin’.”

His thumb pressed into a certain spot on your foot as his strong hands worked the knots out from his earlier massage. The sensation shot up your leg like electricity, and you let out a low, involuntary moan before you could bite it back.

Arthur froze. The sound seemed to hang between you like a secret you weren’t supposed to hear. His fingers stilled, the slow shift of his eyes dragging upward until they locked on yours. His jaw flexed subtly.

He didn’t say anything at first, and the weight of that pause was unbearable. A small smirk formed on your lips, content where this was finally heading into. 

It was now or never.

You tilted your head, heart thudding. Why was he playing this long game? Was he scared? Or worse: was this some test? Because you were certain, certain, he wanted you just as badly as you wanted him. Hell, maybe more. After all, he had come clean to you literally not that long ago. And you were certain he wanted to fuck you. Why else had he invited you here, alone, knowing Will and Ellie were with their mother for the weekend?

The stars couldn’t have aligned more perfectly.

Just as you opened your mouth to bridge the gap, his grip on your feet loosened and he let them drop gently  beside him onto the couch. “S’gettin’ late,” he said, scratching the back of his neck like the words were an itch he didn’t want to say out loud.

The disappointment was instant, sharp and hot in your chest. Was he really suggesting you go home now? After all this? You watched him lean forward, collecting his beer bottle like he was going to stand. That damn couch had already seen plenty, and you weren’t about to let this be another night of nothing.

Before he could even plant his feet, you moved—a slow, purposeful push of your bare foot against his thigh, guiding him back into the cushions. His brows shot up, but you didn’t stop.

Your teal-painted toes trailed higher, rubbing against the front of his jeans until you felt the warmth beneath the outline of him.

Arthur’s body went still, but his reaction betrayed him—the slow bob of his Adam’s apple, the way his lips parted just slightly, and that subtle tightening of his cock beneath denim that told you everything.

“You really gonna send me home, Arthur?” your voice was low, a dangerous whisper, eyes locked on his.

He huffed a slow breath through his nose, his hand hovering like he didn’t know whether to pull you closer or push you away. “Darlin’…”

“Hmm?” you teased, your foot rubbing in slow, deliberate circles over his growing and hardening cock. “You’ve been workin’ me up all night.”

His eyes narrowed, but not in anger—more like he was wrestling with himself, his gaze darkening as he glanced down at your foot and back to your face. “You keep doin’ that,” his voice dropped, gravelly, “and I ain’t gonna be able to stop.”

“That’s the idea,” you murmured, lips curving into a slow, mischievous smile.

Arthur’s jaw clenched again, and this time his hand shot out, catching your ankle, holding you there, his grip firm but not rough. “You’re playin’ with fire, angel.”

You leaned forward, matching his intensity. “Guess we’ll see who burns first.”

With a low, feral growl that vibrated through his chest, Arthur suddenly leaned into you, closing the space between your bodies so fast you barely had time to inhale before his solid frame was flush with yours, heat radiating from him. His lips crashed onto yours with the kind of force that spoke of hunger kept caged too long, the bristle of his mustache brushing against your upper lip as his hands braced you in place. 

You smirked against his mouth—because of course you did—and kissed him back with a fierce, unyielding tenacity that matched him beat for beat. Your arms slid around his broad back, pulling him closer, fingers threading through the soft strands of his light brown hair, tugging just enough to make him groan into you.

Without a shred of warning, his tongue pressed past your lips, taking what it wanted, demanding space inside your mouth. You didn’t just let him—you welcomed it—closing your lips around his tongue to suck gently before retreating, leaving him tasting of you and panting.

The air between you was thick, your breath mingling, and when his gaze darted down, catching sight of a sliver of exposed skin on your neck, he wasted no time. Arthur dipped his head and claimed it, licking along the curve of your throat before sucking hard enough to make you shiver, then nipping with sharp teeth that had you gasping his name like it was half a scold, half a prayer.

That only made you pull him closer, grip him tighter as your nails dug into his shirt. You arched yourself into him until there was barely any air left between you. But you weren’t here for some clothed, frustrated grind against the couch. Oh no—your mind was fixed on something far more indulgent.

As if reading the thought but refusing to stand down, Arthur pressed forward again, rutting against you with slow, willful pressure—denim scraping against the thin gingham fabric of your shorts, the friction almost maddening.

His palms slid down the length of your sides with rough warmth before settling on your hips, pulling you flush against him. That’s when you felt him. All of him. Hard, thick, unmistakable against your stomach, the size and weight of it startling enough to draw an involuntary gasp from your lips. Arthur's hardened cock was practically poking into the center of your core as he continued soft thrusting himself into you. 

Arthur’s answering smirk was downright sinful. He bent, mouth brushing your ear, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous drawl that felt like it could melt steel. “You feel that? That’s what you do to me, sweetheart. Every damn time you walk into this house wearin’ those leggings and shorts, all shy and sweet, actin’ like you don’t know what you’re doin’ to me.”

Your nails dragged lightly down the sculpted planes of his back before one hand slipped lower, cupping him over the rough fabric of his jeans. The heat there was staggering, the twitch of his pulsing cock under your palm making your lips part in something close to awe.

“Mmh… seems like I’ve been doin’ a lot to you,” you teased, voice dipping into a sultry whisper. “And maybe… it’s time I did something about it.”

You let go of him entirely, watching the confusion, the flash of hunger in his eyes before straightening up. “I want to give myself to you, Arthur,” you said, steady and certain, the words rolling off your tongue without hesitation.

For a split second, he just stared, caught off guard by your boldness, like he was recalibrating everything he thought he knew about you. “Honey—”

You were quick to cut him off, placing a hand on his cheek, “I mean it, Arthur. I want you to want me—and not feel shame about it the next day. I want you to give yourself this…me. Completely….all of it for your taking,” Smirking, you leaned closer, lips inching over his ear as you whispered, “But mostly, I want to see your face when I finally get to take your cock in my mouth.”

His eyes slightly widened at your words, the flicker of surprise mingling with the unmistakable spark of something far more primal. What a fucking minx you were, the kind of tease who knew exactly which carefully chosen words could curl around a man’s brain and squeeze until all rational thought leaked out.

You weren’t just being flirtatious—you were weaponizing it, and judging by the heat in his gaze, it was working.

Then you stepped forward, your smaller fingers slipping into his much larger, rougher hand, the warm, calloused pads of his palm dwarfing yours. The contact alone felt charged, a silent promise between you, and without needing to be told twice, he rose from the couch in one smooth, easy motion, towering over you as his grip instinctively tightened, like he was anchoring himself to you.

You turned toward the stairs, leading the way, and he followed without a shred of hesitation, though there was a new, almost imperceptible swagger to his gait now—a looseness in his shoulders, a roll in his step that betrayed how your little display had lit something inside him. His gaze was unwavering, drawn magnetically to the hypnotic sway of your hips with each slow step upward, the fabric of your shorts pulling just so.

Every few steps, you looked over your shoulder, flashing him that soft, knowing smile, like you were checking if he was still there—or maybe taunting him to keep up.

He was. Oh, he was.

The temptation was etched in every line of his face, the twitch in his jaw, the way his tongue ran over the inside of his cheek as if that tiny movement could keep him from blurting out exactly what he wanted to do to you. His restraint was palpable, like a dam threatening to burst—he resisted the urge to reach out, to grab you by the waist, to pull you flush against him and let the tension snap right there on the staircase.

Instead, he let you lead, his boots falling heavily, rhythmically, on each step, perfectly in sync with the pounding in your chest. His mind, however, was anything but still—it was already painting the scene of what he’d do once that bedroom door clicked shut.

Arthur was wantonly staring at your ass in those red gingham shorts, the ruffled trim bouncing with every step, each sway sending his imagination spiraling deeper. That sweet smile you tossed over your shoulder—soft but oh-so-dangerous—only twisted the knife. Your hands, still molded together, never let go, the steady connection a tether between fantasy and reality.

For a fleeting, dizzying moment, he realized this wasn’t just some idle daydream. No—this was something pulled straight from his deepest, most shameless fantasies… and it was finally happening, step by slow, torturous step.

Upon opening the door to his room, Arthur was immediately met with the exact same sight he’d seen just hours before, back when he was hurriedly straightening up in anticipation of your arrival—but now, it felt different, charged. 

The neatly made bed, draped in his well-worn flannel sheets, looked almost too inviting, the faint creases in the fabric promising the comfort and warmth he always sank into at the end of the day. The familiar scent of cedar and soap still lingered in the air, wrapping around the both of you like an invisible embrace, grounding the room in him. The lamplight spilled across the space in a warm, golden hue, catching in the slight dust motes that drifted lazily, as if time itself had slowed to watch.

It wasn’t spotless—far from it—but its particular brand of disarray spoke of a life lived here: a half-folded shirt on the dresser, a few books stacked haphazardly on the nightstand, a leather belt coiled on the chair by the window. 

But now, as the two of you stepped inside, it felt smaller to him—almost claustrophobic—not because of the space itself, but because of the weight in the air. The walls seemed to lean in subtly, as though the room were shrinking, drawing you closer together whether you wanted it or not. It no longer felt like just his bedroom; the second your presence filled it, it seemed to shift ownership entirely, becoming something shared, claimed by the unspoken anticipation threading between you.

You moved first, your steps slow but assured, that quiet confidence threading through every inch of you. It was casual enough to feign nonchalance, yet intentional enough to remind him you weren’t wandering—you were claiming. The air seemed to bend around you as you crossed the room, each step like you knew exactly how to command it, as though the very atmosphere had become yours to mold.

Every sway of your body, every glance you threw toward him felt deliberate, like you owned not just the space but him in it. 

“Sit,” you murmured, tilting your head toward the bed in a way that left no room for debate. 

Arthur obeyed, lowering himself onto the foot of the mattress, his broad shoulders tense, his hands loosely resting on his thighs like he was afraid to grip anything too tightly.

Your eyes raked over him slowly, taking in the sight of this rugged man who suddenly looked almost out of place in his own bedroom, as if you had become the one in control here. The flicker in his gaze told you he could feel it too—that something was shifting. You liked it, relished in it almost.

Arthur swallowed hard, his voice low and gruff. “Darlin’, I’m liable to forget how to breathe. You keep givin’ me those eyes…” 

There was a faint smirk on his lips, but his eyes betrayed something else—something bubbling inside him, a mixture of want and restraint. He tried to push it down, keep a grip on that gentlemanly composure of his, but every second in your presence chipped away at it. You stepped closer, until your knees brushed against his. 

“Maybe I don’t want you to breathe,” you teased, your tone feather-light but charged, the words settling heavily in the space between you. 

It was true: you did want to smother him. With what? Anything at this point. Your thighs, your legs, your mouth, your hands, your pussy. 

His breath caught—just for a second—but in that brief pause, it was like the whole air between you thickened. Without another word, you moved with deliberate slowness, sliding yourself onto his lap, your knees sinking into either side of his thighs until you were straddling him completely. The shift wasn’t rushed; it was drawn-out, almost teasing, your weight settling against him in a way that made every inch of your body press into his.

He could feel the warmth of you seeping through the layers of your clothes, and every subtle roll of your hips as you adjusted sent a ripple of heat straight to his core. His hands twitched at his sides—an involuntary reaction—as though his body was begging to grab hold of you, to anchor you to him, but he held back, the restraint in his stillness almost painful to witness.

You leaned in then, closing the final space between you until your lips brushed his in the barest ghost of a kiss. It was feather-light at first, barely there, but enough to pull the faint bitterness of his beer onto your tongue, the taste mixing with the familiar warmth of him. His beard tickled against your upper lip, a prickling reminder that you were kissing Arthur, and that he was so very real beneath you. You felt him inhale sharply, a sharp intake of breath that shivered through his chest when your mouth lingered against his just a heartbeat too long—long enough to tip it from innocent to charged.

You could never get enough of kissing him, never get enough of this man whose mouth felt like home and danger in equal measure.

When your hips shifted forward, pressing down with slow intent, the movement drew a soft sigh straight from his mouth into yours, his breath catching again as the hard line straining in his pants aligned perfectly with your aching entrance.

“Arthur,” you whispered against his lips, your voice barely audible but thick with want, “you know you can touch me, right?”

He hesitated—just for a fraction of a moment—but in that hesitation was the weight of his restraint, the struggle to keep himself from consuming you whole. His large hand lifted from his side, slow as if it weighed a hundred pounds, his fingers trembling just slightly before they found their place over your left breast through the thin, soft fabric of your top.

The contrast between his rough, work-worn palm and the delicate mound beneath it sent a shiver rushing down your spine, pulling a quiet sigh from you. That sound hit him like a punch—like it burrowed straight into his chest and lodged there, making it hard to breathe. He was slow with it, deliberate, as though every movement was something sacred.

His thumb grazed lightly over your nipple, circling once, a barely-there touch like he was testing the edges of his own self-control, unsure how much more he could take before that restraint shattered entirely.

Before he could sink further into it, you gently caught his wrist, pushing his hand away—not out of rejection, but with purpose. “Sit back,” you told him, your tone low and sure.

He leaned back slightly, his spine straightening, his eyes fixed on you like you were the only thing in the world worth looking at.

“Enjoy it,” you said softly, almost a purr. “I’ll take care of you.”

Arthur’s chest rose and fell a little quicker now, and when you slid gracefully off his lap and sank to your knees between his legs, he swore under his breath. The sound of his belt buckle clinking under your fingers made his pulse slam in his ears.

Your palms smoothed up and down the thick muscle of his thighs, kneading gently, your thumbs pressing in slow circles that had him fighting the urge to groan. And when your hands finally stilled at his belt, Arthur swore he felt his cock twitch in his jeans, the pressure almost unbearable now.

He wanted to finally feel your mouth on him—God, he had wanted it for longer than he’d ever admit out loud. Yet here you were, sinking gracefully onto your knees in front of him, every subtle movement calculated in an antagonizing pace, the kind of slowness that makes a man’s pulse pound in his ears. The sight alone should’ve undone him; you were here, eyes locked on his, trying to make him feel good, trying to give him something he had played over in his mind in a hundred different ways late at night.

So why wasn’t it feeling good?

Arthur still couldn’t shake away the feeling of restraint that had been creeping into his chest all night, like a shadow that wouldn’t leave. He stayed where he was, leaning back on his bed. His spine pressed into the mattress as he closed his eyes, trying to drown out whatever was clawing at the edges of his head. One big hand dragged through his hair in slow frustration before he draped that arm over his eyes, hiding himself from your gaze as if that would make him less vulnerable.

He didn’t even bother looking down when he felt the slight jolt of the belt sliding loose around his hips, the clink of the buckle sounding far too loud in the quiet room. Then your fingers went to work on the button of his jeans, and then—slowly, almost teasing—the zipper.

“Fuck…” The word fell from him before he could bite it back, rough and low.

It was almost laughable, if he thought about it: how only yesterday you were laughing with Ellie, passing her a handful of crayons like you belonged there, like you’d always been part of the picture. And now—just one day later—you were between his knees, tugging down his pants with steady hands. Your palm pressed over the heavy, visible outline of his throbbing cock, the heat and hardness of him fighting against the thin barrier of his boxers. You rubbed slow, firm enough to make him twitch, and his breath hitched despite himself.

“Arthur…” you murmured, sweet and coaxing, your tone walking that line between comfort and temptation. “Let me just let me make you feel good.”

Your hand skimmed lower, dragging along his length until your fingertips brushed the edge of his waistband. You looked up at him from your knees, your full lips parting in a faint, almost innocent smile that didn’t match the heat in your eyes.

“Sweetheart…” His voice cracked, torn between wanting to stop you and wanting to pull you closer.

You leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to the thick ridge beneath the cotton, letting your mouth linger there so he could feel the warmth of your breath seep through. His thighs tensed, every muscle in his body screaming at him to give in.

“Gonna be good for me, Arthur?” you whispered, your lips grazing the fabric with each word.

Oh, abso-fucking-lutely. At this point, Arthur would do anything you wanted. 

He swore he felt his cock twitch again, a sharp, desperate pulse that made his fingers curl into the sheets. Your hand finally curled over the waistband, ready to tug it down, your knuckles brushing against bare skin—and Arthur’s chest rose sharply, the air leaving him in a shaky exhale.

He wondered if your mouth would feel heavenly like it did in his dreams. How your plump, rosy lips looked wrapped around the swollen head, savoring it with all you had. Your hand wrapped around his base, moving up and down at a gentle pace. The way you’d try to take him into the deep crevices of your throat and that’s when his hand came in, latching onto your hair as he pushed you down until you were practically making a mess. Saliva coating your mouth, dribbling down your chin, to your throat. Awarding you with a sensually-charged kiss—hand still gripping your scalp—that was more tongue and teeth clashing before ultimately pushing you down to his needy cock again, your mouth automatically welcoming him again.

His hips would buck up, his cock basically pistoning all the way into the back of your throat. Your hands—nails—would be clutching the life out of his meaty, hairy thighs, all sorts of filthy and obscene noises filling the room as he continued his fast thrusts. Wet chokes escaping from your throat, sounding like music to his ears as your eyes began to heavily water. 

That sounded amazing. More than amazing….he could die with your mouth around his cock and still think he was being received at the pearly gates of Heaven. 

Except that wasn’t the case and he felt a fire building in his lower stomach. He wasn’t sure if it was from how fucking turned on and hard he was. Or perhaps it was the fact that his morality was sneaking up on him, knocking on some kind of inner door in his consciousness, reminding him he shouldn’t indulge in this.

That he was not worthy….to have you. 

Arthur’s body suddenly tensed as you moved closer, and before you could fully react, he gently pushed you back, his large hand firm but careful against your shoulder. His fingers lingered there for a moment, as if the touch itself was reluctant to pull away. He shifted quickly, fumbling to pull his boxers back up, then tugged his jeans over his hips with hurried, uneven movements that betrayed his own surprise at the sudden stop. 

Standing up, he reached behind him to wrestle with the stubborn belt, trying to settle it back in place, his back turned to you as if hoping the motion would distract both of you from what just happened.

You froze, your heart thudding hard in your chest, a wave of conflicting emotions crashing over you—confusion, frustration, desire, and an unexpected stab of rejection. You blinked, searching his face for answers as he avoided your gaze, not meeting your eyes even once, his movements clipped and distant.

“What’s wrong?” you asked softly, voice catching on the vulnerability in your throat. When he didn’t answer right away, you continued, “Arthur…?”

He gave a quick, dismissive shake of his head, his voice low and clipped. “Nothin’. Don’t worry about it.” But he didn’t look at you, and that silence between his words spoke louder than any reassurance ever could.

Your chest tightened with an aching pull, a tug at the core of you, like all the heat and anticipation that had been building suddenly slammed against an invisible wall. After all this—after all the slow teasing, the tenderness, the silent promises—he was refusing this? Refusing the one thing you had so desperately wanted to give, the one thing you’d convinced yourself he deserved? You swallowed hard, eyes narrowing with quiet desperation.

“Are…you sure?” You further questioned. 

Arthur remained gazing at the floor, fingers working through his belt, though it was already buckled. “Oh, yeah. Totally.”

It sounded like sarcasm, which you couldn’t help but feel some kind of indirect, underlying mock channeled by him. Bullshit. 

“Is… is that your thing?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper, testing the strange distance between you. “Like, edging? Is that what you want? Is that what you like?” You were basically pleading for answers. 

At last, Arthur paused and finally looked up, eyes wide with a flicker of surprise and confusion, as if the question caught him completely off guard. “What’s my thing?” he repeated, brows furrowed in disbelief.

You took a breath, trying to steady yourself. “If… edging’s your thing. You know, the whole slow build, the wait—”

“It ain’t nothing like that,” Arthur cut you off, shaking his head quickly. “You shouldn’t be worryin’ ’bout that.” His tone was quick, a little too defensive, like he was trying to barricade himself behind words he didn’t quite believe.

He stepped forward, reaching for your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze and then brushing a soft kiss to your forehead, that same kiss meant to soothe, to cheer you up, but all it did was fan the restless fire burning inside you. Because you weren’t soothed. You felt even more unsettled, more anxious—like there was a chasm opening between the two of you, and you were falling in slow motion, powerless to stop it.

Does he… not want me anymore? That thought crashed through you, sharp and cold.

Your voice trembled as you pushed, “Is it about…her? About Jen?”

The moment the name left your lips, Arthur froze completely, every muscle locking tight. His eyes darted away, jaw clenching, and his answer came too quickly, too sharply, “No. It ain’t that.” There was something almost brittle in the way he said it, like he was scared to admit the truth even to himself.

You were going mad. Did he not like receiving blowjobs? Would he rather you jerk him off instead? You felt silly thinking about the possibilities, but at the same time they felt endless. How was it that he had confessed to you about wanting to split you open in every possible way and suddenly get cold feet? You felt bad for shaming Arthur in your mind, but you were hot and bothered, and—quite frankly—thinking with your needs and not your head. 

With a reluctant sigh, he offered, “Maybe we should just… get some rest.” The suggestion hung heavy in the room, like a quiet surrender. “We’ll talk more in the morning.” 

Your heart sank. So that was it. He was letting you stay here—alone, with your hopes and this heavy silence—but he didn’t want to touch you, didn’t want you to kiss him the way you had been before, and most definitely didn’t want to take you like you’d imagined.

The pain bled through your voice as you whispered, “Are you sure? I mean, is this really just about being tired?”

He didn’t answer right away, just nodded once, stiff and reluctant. “Yeah… just rest. You can take the guest room.”

Any type of remaining hope vanished the moment he said those words—as if he couldn’t get any lower, you were now watching him add more salt to the wound by inherently redirecting you to a spare room in the house. 

It was all happening so fast that your mind couldn’t quite keep up, the hallway seeming longer than it had minutes ago, every step echoing in your ears like a slow march toward something inevitable. 

You forced a small, tight smile—one that felt brittle at the edges, like it might shatter if you let it linger—while trailing after him into a cluttered room that clearly doubled as a forgotten corner of his life. The walls were lined with boxes stacked haphazardly, corners bowed under the weight, layers of dust catching the faint light and dancing in the still air.

A few objects, long abandoned, sat crooked on top of those stacks—a broken lantern, a yellowed envelope, an old boot missing its pair. In the far corner, as though it had been shoved there for lack of anywhere else to put it, sat a bed. Not grand. Not inviting. Just… functional. Serviceable. Maybe even comfortable enough for someone who wasn’t you. But in that moment, it may as well have been a throne of exile, banishing you to a place where warmth and belonging weren’t allowed to follow.

Your stomach twisted. You felt foolish—entirely, humiliatingly foolish—for letting yourself believe, even for a heartbeat, that Arthur Morgan, this strong, complicated man with eyes that saw far too much, actually wanted you in the way you wanted him. Wanted this. Your chest felt tight, heavy with the realization that maybe you’d misread every glance, every graze of his hand, every smirk that made you think there was more simmering beneath the surface. The thought stung like a cold wind against bare skin. What kind of cruel mind games were this? Or maybe not games at all—maybe this was just your own stupid hope playing tricks on you.

The ache only grew sharper, sinking its teeth in, when Arthur reappeared moments later. He was holding a small, folded bundle of clothes—an old, soft t-shirt with its fabric thinned from years of wear and a pair of worn basketball shorts whose elastic had been stretched just enough to make them look lived-in. His boots were quiet against the wooden floor as he stepped toward you, and when his eyes found yours, there was a flicker of tenderness there. A softness that almost made you falter. But it wasn’t enough.

Not enough to bridge the distance you suddenly felt stretching between you like a canyon.

He bent down, setting the clothes neatly at the edge of the bed, the gesture careful, almost ceremonial—as if he were making an offering. Then he leaned down, close enough that you could smell that faint mix of cedar and soap clinging to him, and pressed a kiss to your forehead. It was so gentle, so maddeningly careful, that it felt less like affection and more like something protective—almost fatherly. The nerve of this man!

“Goodnight, alright?” he murmured, his voice quiet, smoothed over at the edges but with a distance in it you couldn’t ignore.

And just like that, he turned away. 

The sound of his boots retreating was softer this time, but the click of the door shutting behind him was sharp—final. It was the sound of something fragile giving way, breaking in a place you weren’t sure could be put back together.

The prick.

─────── ౨ৎ ─────────౨ৎ ────────

It felt like an eternity as you tossed and turned on the bed in the guest room, the sheets tangling around your legs like they were mocking your inability to find any real rest.

The mattress dipped unevenly in places, and every time you shifted, the springs gave a faint, complaining squeak that seemed almost too loud in the stillness of the house. 

Looking up toward the nightstand, you caught the faint, muted glow of red coming from a small, cheap-looking digital clock—its blocky numbers blinking back at you in quiet accusation. 12:25 a.m. The late hour only made the tension in your chest coil tighter, your mind refusing to shut down.

You remained under the duvet, the warmth stifling rather than comforting, dressed in nothing but your white cami top and a pair of white lace panties—clearly not bothering to slip into the borrowed clothes Arthur had handed you earlier. His clothes. An old, soft t-shirt and basketball shorts that smelled faintly of him, now lying untouched on the chair in the corner like some cruel joke. He’d given them to you with careful hands but without meeting your eyes, muttering a quiet “goodnight” before retreating as though the air between you had suddenly become too much for him to breathe. 

Goodnight, my ass, you thought bitterly.

You were still pissed—no, more than pissed. You were wound so tight with frustration you swore it was buzzing in your veins. Sexual frustration wasn’t even the half of it; Arthur Morgan had given you blue balls, and not the casual, brush-it-off kind either. This was the deep, aching kind that gnawed at you, the kind where you could still feel the ghost of his hands on you, the scrape of his beard against your skin, the weight of him so close before he’d pulled away.

You clutched the pillow to your chest like it might fill the space he’d left, but it was useless. It didn’t smell like him, didn’t radiate that steady heat you craved. 

All you wanted—desperately, stupidly, and willingly—was him.

The need was maddening, pooling low in your belly and pulsing in a way that had your thighs pressing together beneath the covers. Why had he pulled away? Why wasn’t he speaking to you properly? Why was this strong, infuriating man suddenly so… confusing?

Your brain was trying to reason with you, telling you maybe there was a good reason, maybe he was holding back for something bigger, but your body didn’t give a damn about logic. Your body remembered the way his voice had dropped, the way his touch had felt reverent and hungry all at once, the way every nerve had lit up when his mouth lingered on yours.

You still harbored guilt, knowing you were thinking with your aching pussy and not properly with your head, but the truth was, you didn’t care—not entirely. Not when the memory of him was still painted across your skin in phantom touches, not when your lips still tingled from his kiss. And yet, you couldn’t shake the sting of being left here, alone in a bed that wasn’t his, with the sound of the door clicking shut behind him still echoing in your head like the punchline to a joke you didn’t get.

Having endured enough of staring at the same four walls and letting your thoughts stew in that cramped guest room, you finally pushed yourself up, bare skin meeting the cool air that lingered in the space. You didn’t even know where you were going—you were making it up as you went, like your body had decided for you before your mind could catch up.

The second your bare feet touched the wooden floorboards, they complained with a soft creak, the sound carrying in the quiet like you were committing some small, forbidden act. Your fingers found the cool metal of the doorknob, and you twisted it slowly, the click almost deafening in the stillness.

You cracked the door just enough to peek through, your breath shallow as if you were expecting to be caught. Maybe he was still awake. The thought stirred something hot and reckless in your chest, your pulse picking up. But when your gaze swept over the hallway, you realized the house had fallen into complete stillness, the kind of quiet that felt almost suspended, like the air itself was holding its breath.

Glancing over your right shoulder, your eyes found his door. No warm light spilling out from beneath it, no shadows moving inside—just darkness. You told yourself he was asleep, of course he was; he’d said he was tired, despite you calling his bluff. But some dangerous part of you wondered—what if he was lying there as restless as you were, staring at the ceiling, thinking about you? The thought lingered like smoke in your mind until you shook it away, trying not to give yourself false hope.

You padded across the hall and slipped into the bathroom opposite your room, the motion instinctive, though you weren’t entirely sure why you’d chosen here. Your hand found the light switch and flicked it on, only to wince and squint as the sudden brightness assaulted your eyes, a sharp contrast to the oppressive dark you’d just come from.

The mirror greeted you with your own reflection—hair slightly mussed from tossing and turning, white tank top clinging in places it shouldn’t, lace panties just visible where the hem lifted. You stood there for a moment, taking yourself in, the faint shadows under your eyes giving away your frustration and lack of sleep.

With nothing better to do, you leaned over the sink, twisting the knobs until warm water began to spill out, the steady stream filling the quiet room with a low hiss. You weren’t even sure why—washing your hands, maybe, or just needing something to fill the silence. You opened the cabinet, finding a cup that held a gray-ish blue toothbrush, alongside a green and purple one. Arthur, Will, and Ellie—in toothbrush form.

Your eyes wandered over the clutter by the soap dish, and that’s when you noticed it. 

A small picture frame propped at the corner of the counter.

It wasn’t a photograph, but a sketch—ink and pencil lines capturing a familiar silhouette. Your brows knit as you lifted it closer. The house. Every detail was there: the slant of the roof, the porch railing, even the slight lean in the chimney.

Your eyes trailed to the bottom right corner, where neat, slanted handwriting declared in dark ink:

“To new beginnings!”

—Yours Always, Jennifer.

Looking up from the frame, you weren’t sure why the sudden rush of discomfort hit you like a splash of cold water to the chest. It was sharp, quick, and left you oddly hollow inside. 

Jen was, by all means, a good and generous person, at least from what you had remembered encountering. She was the sort of woman who could offer you a cup of coffee and a genuine smile without a trace of malice. And yet, the knowledge that you were standing here, in the middle of a house she had once likely called home—a space where she had probably laughed, fought, cried, and raised her children with him—rubbed against your nerves like grit in a wound.

It wasn’t just that she had once lived here; it was that you could almost feel her presence lingering in the walls, like an echo you couldn’t unhear. The ghost of family photos that might hung in some spaces throughout the house, the faint scent of a life that didn’t belong to you.

In your head, you began to string together the cruel little theory that perhaps you finally understood why Arthur had pulled away from you tonight. Perchance… there would always be a part of him tied to Jen—bound to her in a way that went beyond the legality of divorce or the distance of years—and perhaps, in some corner of her heart, she was tied to him still.

Your brain started its merciless overthinking, chewing at the thought until it turned bitter. No matter what you gave him, no matter what he gave you, there was a history there you couldn’t compete with. That was the truth you didn’t want to admit.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d remembered that tonight.

Placing the frame back down exactly where you found it, you noticed your hand tremble faintly before you let go. You stayed there for a beat, staring at the countertop, before your knees gave a little and you slid down until you were sitting on the bathroom floor, your back pressing against the cold cabinet doors. A knot formed in your throat so tight it was suddenly hard to swallow.

You went out of your way to get ready for him tonight—took your time, picked what you wore, imagined how his hands might touch you. You thought he wanted you. He’d invited you here, after all. You thought this night was the night—finally, finally—after all the lingering stares, the slow-burning tension, and the spoken confessions that had left you raw.

You thought your feelings had been matched, clearly, without hesitation.

You thought.

And that was your problem. You thought. You assumed. You let your heart sprint ahead and drag you along with it, only for reality to trip you halfway there. Now, here you were: pathetically sniffling quietly in his bathroom like a dumb, naïve girl who had misread the whole damn script.

A soft, almost hesitant knock on the bathroom door made you freeze in place, your breath catching before you could even think of moving.

Shit.

You and your fucking moments. 

Pushing away one last stray tear with the back of your hand, you heard the quiet click of the bathroom door handle turning. The door eased open just a fraction before Arthur’s head appeared in the narrow gap, his blue eyes scanning the dim light inside. He stepped in further, and your stomach knotted tighter—not because of what you were feeling before, but because of him.

Shirtless, the soft shadows of the hallway light sculpted the lines of his chest and shoulders, muscles shifting beneath skin as he moved. His chest was dusted with hair that tapered down into a trail across his stomach, disappearing into the dark navy boxers—the very same ones you’d tried tugging down earlier before he’d stopped you. Damn him. 

Damn him for looking like that now, for making it impossible to ignore the warmth pooling low in your belly.

You suddenly felt raw, as if he could see straight through your skin, all the way to the tangle of thoughts and embarrassment you’d been drowning in. Sitting there on the bathroom floor, you felt small, exposed, ridiculous. Why this moment had unraveled into such a mess, you didn’t fully know—but Arthur’s expression wasn’t smug or distant. It was concern, genuine and heavy.

His gaze raked over you slowly, almost cautiously, like he was checking for damage.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was low, careful, like one wrong word might break you entirely.

“I’m fine,” you lied, your voice thinner than you intended. You tried not to crumble further. “Just… overthinking, I guess.”

His brows furrowed, and he stepped closer, bare feet brushing the edge of the bath mat. “Overthinkin’ about what?”

You swallowed, your throat still tight. “About this… about us. I don’t even know what I’m doing here anymore.” Your hands fidgeted in your lap as you tried to put it into words, your eyes avoiding his. “I thought you wanted me here. I thought tonight was—” you cut yourself off, shaking your head. “That’s my problem, right? I think too much.”

Arthur’s jaw worked for a moment, like he was chewing over what to say. Finally, he crouched down, resting his forearms loosely on his knees so he could be closer to your eye level. “I do want you here. More than anything, I do,” he said, his tone steady but weighted. “But… I felt guilty.”

You blinked at him. “Guilty?”

He nodded once, slowly. “Felt like… maybe I was takin’ advantage of you. Like maybe you think I’m somethin’ better than I am. Truth is… I don’t deserve to have you.”

The words knocked the air out of you. Your lips parted slightly, but no reply came at first. He’d moved closer while he spoke, his presence filling the small bathroom until your knees brushed.

“That’s not—” you started, shaking your head. “That’s not for you to decide, Arthur.”

For a moment, the two of you sat in silence, close enough to feel the faint warmth of each other’s breath. Your heart pounded in your ears. You looked at him fully, locking onto those piercing blues.

“Do you want me, Arthur? Really want me?”

The look in his eye was near incredulous, but he remained his composure. Arthur’s gaze further trailed down to your body, finally taking notice in your clothes. You were in what you showed up in—minus any shorts. That was enough for him.

His answer came without hesitation, without any room for doubt.

“Yes.”

Something in you loosened at that, and you leaned forward just slightly, your hands searching for his. When your fingers found his rough palms, they closed around them, warm and grounding.

He shifted, his hands finding your hips with an easy certainty, thumbs brushing up and down the curve of your sides. Your foreheads pressed together, and he drew in a long, deliberate breath like he was anchoring himself to the moment.

“You sure about this?” he murmured, his voice low and intimate.

You bit your lip, looking up at him from under your lashes. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

Then your lips met, not tentative this time, but certain—pressing together with all the tension that had been building all night. His mouth was warm, his pace unhurried at first, savoring the shape of you, the way you moved against him. Your hands cupped his face, fingers brushing his stubble, pulling him closer.

This kiss… it wasn’t like the others. It was sweeter, richer, but still electric. When he pulled back just a fraction, breath ghosting over your lips, he whispered, “You’re perfect.”

You laughed softly against his mouth, heat curling through your chest. That little giggle seemed to spur him on because the kiss deepened, became hungrier, a little messier, as if both of you were finally letting go. Arthur’s grip on your hips tightened before his hands slid down to your thighs. 

In one smooth motion, he stood, lifting you easily, and you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist. He walked you backward until your spine met the cool surface of the bathroom door, the wood pressing between your shoulder blades. The kiss never broke. His lips stayed molded to yours, breath quickening, his body pressing flush against yours—your thin white panties doing nothing to shield you from the hardness straining against his boxers.

You gasped softly into his mouth, your hips instinctively shifting. His voice was a murmur between kisses, warm and sincere even in the heat of it. “Gonna do this right with you, darlin’… not rush it. You deserve that. You deserve all of it.”

And with the way his lips and hands were moving, you believed him.

Reaching behind you, Arthur carefully turned the doorknob with one large, steady hand, the subtle creak of the hinges cutting through the quiet as his touch remained firm and protective. Your arms were looped tightly around his neck, fingers tangling in the slight wavy ends of his hair, as he made a left down the narrow hall, his bare feet padding softly against the worn wooden floor. It was only a few steps, but every second of being carried like that felt like an eternity—your heart thundering, breath catching—until he stopped just outside his bedroom. 

With a controlled push of his foot, the door swung inward, revealing the dim, familiar space, and he led you inside with the same gentleness one might reserve for handling something rare and delicate, like you were a treasure he was almost afraid to break.

He lowered you carefully onto the disarrayed flannel sheets—still warm from earlier—and your back sank into the softness, the faint scent of his cologne and laundry soap surrounding you like a cocoon. Your head tipped slightly as Arthur, without hesitation, leaned down to press himself against you, the solid weight of him grounding you instantly.

His mouth found yours in another kiss—slower at first, lips molding perfectly to yours in a languid, hungry rhythm that made you release a soft, involuntary whimper. He swallowed the sound greedily, angling his head to deepen the kiss, his tongue teasing yours in a way that had your toes curling.

Arthur’s kisses weren’t just contact—they were consuming. He kissed like a man starved, but careful, like he didn’t want to scare you off. His hand slid into your hair, thumb brushing your temple as his other palm anchored against the mattress beside your head. You made a tiny, breathy hum—one of those little sounds he’d learn to love because they told him he was getting it right. You broke for a fraction of a second, your noses brushing, and Arthur chuckled low in his chest before tilting down again to steal another kiss.

His lips began to wander, slow and deliberate—across your cheek, down the line of your jaw, over the slope of your neck—each press of his mouth warm and damp, the faint scratch of his beard setting your skin alight. Your hands found his arm, lightly gripping, tracing the firm line of muscle beneath his skin.

His mouth was hot against you, his breath warm and ragged between kisses, the coarse scrape of stubble a delicious contrast to the softness of his lips. His body heat engulfed you completely, as if the room itself had shrunk around the two of you. A moan slipped from your throat before you could stop it, and your hands fisted in his hair, pulling him closer until his chest was flush with yours.

Arthur drew back just enough to look at you, his breathing uneven, blue eyes blazing like they could burn right through you. “Jesus, girl,” he rasped, voice low and almost reverent. “You’re gonna drive me insane.”

You laughed shakily, your own voice trembling from a mix of nerves and want. “Good.”

His mouth twisted into a crooked smirk, and he let out a hoarse chuckle before crashing his lips back onto yours—rougher this time, needier, his teeth catching your bottom lip before he soothed the sting with his tongue. His hands slid down your sides, fingers pressing into your curves as though he needed to memorize every inch, before gripping your hips and hauling you flush against him.

You could feel him—hard, thick, insistent—pressing into your stomach, and the sudden shock of it made you gasp against his mouth.

Arthur dipped his head to your ear, his breath hot and sinful as it ghosted over your skin. “You think about this,” he murmured, voice so low it was almost a growl, “when you lay in that little bed of yours? Huh?” His hand slipped under your cami, knuckles grazing your bare waist, making your breath hitch. “You touch yourself thinkin’ about me?”

Your knees almost buckled, and if it weren’t for his solid grip at your hips, you might’ve slid right off the bed.

“I—” Your voice caught on the confession. “All the time,” you breathed, feeling your face heat under his gaze. “I think about your hands. Your voice…..your cock. The way you—fuck—look at me.”

Arthur’s expression darkened, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “You’re so fuckin’ small,” he muttered, sounding almost like he was talking to himself as he shifted, bracing his weight. “So soft. I could bend you in half without even tryin’.”

His large, callused hands slid to the inside of your knees and spread your legs wide, the strength in his grip both firm and careful, as though he wanted you open for him but still cradled. He stepped into that space by leaning down between you with the weight of a man who knew exactly what he wanted, one palm trailing up your bare skin until it disappeared, his fingers curling against your thigh in a slow, claiming squeeze.

“You wore this for me, didn’t you?” Arthur’s voice was deep, the syllables curling around you like smoke as his eyes dipped to take in every inch of you. 

He let his knuckle trace a featherlight line just beneath the fabric, grazing so close to the place you needed him most that you felt your stomach clench. “You want me to see how good you look, layin’ here, all pretty and wantin’.”

You could only nod frantically, words deserting you entirely, your mouth parting on a shaky inhale as your pulse thrummed against your neck. Your breath stuttered into a sharper, higher hitch when his hand slid higher still, fingertips just grazing the damp lace edge of your panties—such a small movement, but it made your hips twitch involuntarily toward him.

Arthur leaned in and kissed you again, slower this time, his mouth deliberate and heavy against yours. It wasn’t rushed—it was possessive, reverent in a way that made your chest ache. He took his time tasting you, his tongue coaxing yours into a slow, deep rhythm, and it felt as if he could kiss you like that until the rest of the world faded away.

Then his palm shifted, pressing fully against your clothed core, the heat and pressure making your lips part on a gasp that he swallowed with the next brush of his mouth.

“So fuckin’ wet,” he muttered, the words rumbling deep in his chest, vibrating against your skin. “Christ, baby… I ain’t even touched you properly.”

He finally pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his pupils dark and blown wide, holding your gaze as if nothing else in the world existed. His hands didn’t move away, his rough palms staying exactly where they were—warm, steady, unapologetic in their claim on you. 

“You tell me now if you wanna stop,” he said, his voice deeper than you’d ever heard it. “Last chance.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse pounding so hard you could feel it in your fingertips. Both of your hands rose to frame his face, palms planting on the bristle of his cheeks, your thumbs brushing against his beard. The warmth of your touch made him lean into it, his eyes hooding in quiet pleasure, like he wanted to stay there forever.

“Don’t stop,” you breathed, your voice shaking but certain. “Not tonight.”

Arthur’s jaw flexed, his nostrils flaring once as he dragged his gaze over you like he was memorizing every angle and curve. His thumb stroked slow circles against your inner thigh, the rough pad dragging just enough to make you shiver.

“Alright then,” he rasped, his tone thick and full of assurance. “I’m gonna take real good care of you.”

Arthur sank down to his knees in front of you, the movement unhurried, deliberate, like he was kneeling at an altar. His big hands skimmed the outside of your thighs on the way down, thumbs brushing over your skin in a way that made you hum softly in the back of your throat. The sound slipped out unbidden, a quiet, trembling note that made his eyes darken even more. 

He settled between your legs, his palms sliding up the length of your calves before hooking gently under your knees to pull you to the very edge of the bed. Your heart pounded in your ears, your breath growing unsteady, as he leaned forward with that same slow, reverent touch—like he was about to worship.

Right there, on the creaking wooden floorboards, Arthur settled himself between your parted thighs like a man kneeling at an altar, his broad shoulders filling the space, his presence overwhelming in the most delicious way. His hands slid up the length of your legs, gripping and squeezing whatever soft flesh they found, almost as if he couldn’t get enough of you. His mouth followed the slow path of his hands, trailing molten-hot kisses along the inside of your thighs, each one lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch and your skin prickle with anticipation.

You let out a trembling moan, fingers digging into the corner of the mattress for something to anchor yourself to, your knuckles whitening as the ache between your legs grew unbearable.

When he hooked a finger into the delicate lace of your panties, tugging them aside with an unhurried deliberation, his gaze never left yours—not for a single heartbeat, admiring you in all of your glory.

His eyes drank in the sight: your nude, glistening folds demanding for some sort of attention, and the little patch of hair on your mons pubis that had him smiling smugly.

You were growing impatient, ready to bark some kind of instruction until….you felt Arthur finally lower his head and taste you for the first time, you swore the air was stolen clean from your lungs. That first slow, deliberate stroke of his tongue shattered you from the inside out, your hips jolting forward instinctively, a broken sound spilling from your lips that you couldn’t hold back if you tried.

You saw stars—real, dizzying bursts of light dancing behind your eyes—every nerve ending sparking like wildfire as his tongue moved in languid, devastating motions that felt both impossibly tender and utterly consuming.

You knew then, with terrifying clarity, that this wasn’t just a fleeting crush you could walk away from when the night ended. This wasn’t some harmless, heat-of-the-moment indulgence to be tucked away and forgotten.

This was a dangerous, all-consuming fire that threatened to swallow you whole.

And you were already burning—gladly, recklessly, letting the flames lick higher, knowing full well you had no desire to ever be saved from it.

Arthur’s tongue dragged over you with a slow, unhurried precision that made every muscle in your body tense, your back arching in a helpless bow as pleasure rippled through you in sharp, breathtaking waves. It wasn’t just the touch—it was the way he seemed to savor you, to take his time like he had all the hours in the world to unravel you piece by piece.

Your thighs instinctively tried to close, a desperate reflex against the overwhelming sensation, but his large hands pressed firmly against your skin, keeping you spread for him with a gentle but unyielding strength that made you whimper. He groaned softly, the sound low and gravelly, the vibration sending a pulse straight through your core, making your stomach clench and your toes curl.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, pulling back for the barest breath, his lips wet and glistening under the lamplight. His eyes burned into yours with something wild, something primal. “You taste so fuckin’ sweet, baby. How’s a man supposed to keep his head on straight when you’re layin’ there drippin’ like that?”

Your head tipped back against the mattress with a soft, dull thud, a weak attempt to steady yourself against the dizzying pleasure. Your fingers found their way into his thick, honey-brown hair, feeling just how long and unruly it had gotten—more rugged, more untamed—and it only made you want to tangle yourself deeper in him.

You gave a sharp tug, just enough to make him growl, the sound vibrating from the back of his throat, feral and hungry, like he was on the brink of losing every shred of composure he had left.

Then he dove back in, with a hunger that felt like it could consume you whole.

His tongue lapped at your soaked core with maddening patience, each slow, deliberate stroke making you twitch and gasp. He moved like he wanted to memorize every inch of you—the taste, the texture, the way you quivered when he hit that perfect spot. He alternated between teasing, maddening swirls that had your breath stuttering and deep, consuming strokes that made your vision blur.

Sometimes he’d wrap his lips around that sensitive bundle of nerves and suck, gentle but insistent, pulling a sharp cry from your throat before easing back into those long, thorough licks. You could feel your hips moving on their own, grinding against his mouth, riding his face shamelessly because you couldn’t stop, not when he was giving you this.

You were trembling now, every muscle tense and shivering, your body squirming against his hold like you were trying to both escape and get closer all at once. You were utterly at his mercy, pinned in place by his grip, your pleasure entirely in his hands—literally.

“Arthur—fuck—Arthur…” you gasped, your voice breaking on his name, sounding wrecked and desperate.

Hearing it seemed to ignite something in him. His grip on your thighs tightened, his fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp, and he hauled you even closer to the edge of the mattress. He spread you wider with a possessive sort of determination, his mouth never leaving you, his pace deepening and quickening like he’d decided he wasn’t going to stop until you were ruined.

Your back arched sharply, a desperate, involuntary reaction as that hot, coiling knot began to twist tighter and tighter in your lower belly, each passing second winding you up until you felt like you might snap. Your thighs trembled uncontrollably, muscles clenching and quivering under the onslaught of sensation, and your hands flew to your mouth, covering it to stifle the scream threatening to rip free. 

The pleasure was too much, so consuming you almost couldn’t breathe, yet somehow, at the very same time, it wasn’t enough. You were aching for more, greedy for it, falling apart in the most exquisite way.

“Please—please, I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—” you gasped, your voice breaking on the words, every syllable dripping with raw desperation.

Arthur groaned into you, the deep, gravelly sound vibrating through your core like your begging was something holy to him, something he needed.

His arms locked tighter around your waist, solid and unyielding, holding you down firmly against the relentless movements of his mouth. Your heels dug into his broad shoulder blades with trembling force, your head tossing from side to side as you whined helplessly—and then it hit.

You shattered.

Your body jerked and convulsed as your orgasm surged through you, fierce and unstoppable, hitting like a crashing wave that ripped the air from your lungs. It started deep in your center, bursting outward in ripples that claimed every inch of you, until even your fingertips tingled. 

Your vision went white-hot for a moment, as if the world itself blinked away. Your thighs clamped instinctively around his head, trapping him there, but Arthur didn’t relent—not even for a second, even as you reached down to keep him there. His mouth softened its rhythm, easing you through the high, pressing slow, reverent kisses to your swollen pussy, then the tender inside of one thigh, then the other—until your whimpering turned high and fragile, body slumping boneless from overstimulation.

Only then did he lift his head, slow and deliberate, his breathing heavy. His mouth was shiny with you, his beard damp, and his eyes—those ‘ol blue eyes—were nearly black with heat, looking at you like you were something rare and precious.

You lay there panting, chest rising and falling in sharp bursts, lips parted, every inch of you wrecked and glowing in the aftermath.

“You alright, sweetheart?” he rasped, voice gravel low, like it had been dragged over smoke and whiskey.

You nodded, unable to find your voice, still gasping softly as your heart thundered in your ears.

Arthur’s gaze sharpened slightly, the corner of his mouth ticking up in something that was not quite a smile. “Touch that pretty pussy for me,” he said, no hesitation, no doubt, just a raw command that rolled through you like heat. "Go on. Get those fingers in nice and deep."

Even though you were coming down from your orgasm—God help you—you didn’t even pause to think. Devoted as a dog, your hand slid down between your thighs, fingers finding your slick entrance, pushing in with ease, curling and moving exactly as he’d want.

You kept your gaze locked on his, your breath quickening as he watched you intently, his jaw tight, his chest rising and falling.

“Look at you gettin' off again on your own fingers. Good girl,” he muttered, voice dark and approving. He let you go for a little longer, until the rhythm of your hand had your legs twitching again—then his own hand shot forward, wrapping around your wrist. “Stop.”

Your fingers slipped from you, glistening in the low light, and before you could even breathe, Arthur caught your hand and brought it to his mouth.

His lips closed around your fingers, sucking them slow, deliberate, like he was savoring every trace of you, his tongue curling hot against the pads. It was obscene, so devastating. You felt that tingling sensation again in your pussy.

God… this man.

When he finally let your hand drop, Arthur leaned in, his mouth finding yours in a slow, yet needy kiss that made you melt into him, the taste of yourself mingling on his tongue.

“You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me,” he murmured into your lips, almost like a confession.

His hands slid to your waist, firm and insistent, dragging you closer until there was no space left between you. Feeling the hard, heavy, straining against the thin cotton of his boxers, the heat of him burning even through the fabric, your fingers moved down without thought, brushing over him, and the low, husky groan he let out made your pulse spike. His jaw clenched, his hips twitching slightly into your touch.

“You want more?” he asked, brow furrowed in both restraint and hunger.

You nodded, your voice breathless but sure. “I want all of you.”

Arthur pressed his forehead against yours, breathing deep like he was wrestling something inside himself. Slowly, his hands moved to his waistband, fingers hooking in the edge, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re sure?” he asked again, his voice steady only by force.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” you whispered.

Something flickered in his expression—a small, crooked smile that carried a strange shadow, almost sad in its tenderness.

“Alright then,” he said quietly, the words heavy. “I’m gonna make you mine.”

As he pushed his boxers down, your eyes instinctively followed the motion of his hands. He pulled himself free, the movement slow and calculated, like he wanted you to watch, like he knew the sight would leave you breathless. 

When his hand wrapped around himself and he stroked once, twice, languidly, you finally took in the sheer size of him—and your breath hitched hard enough to make your chest ache. Arthur was thick, long, every inch veined and flushed, a picture of raw power and need that made your mouth go dry. He was much bigger than you ever expected—so much so that you could already feel the stretch in your imagination.

Arthur caught your wide-eyed stare and smirked, the kind of slow, knowing smirk that could melt the bones right out of your body. “You’ll be fine, darlin’,” he drawled, voice dripping with reassurance and command all at once. “I’ll go slow. I promise.”

He reached down, large hands finding your waist with effortless authority, and guided you back, pulling you flush against him until your head met the softness of the pillows. The movement made the mattress dip beneath you, and you felt small, caged, completely under his control—and you loved it.

Arthur’s hand returned to himself, stroking again with a slow, steady rhythm, his eyes never leaving yours. You couldn’t help but feel like a kid in a candy store, utterly transfixed by the sinful sight of him pleasuring himself, knowing that soon, that would be inside you.

You’d thought about this moment more times than you could count—in the quiet of night, in stolen daydreams—and now it was here, real, tangible, the air between you thick with anticipation.

Arthur Morgan was going to fuck you. 

Neither of you mentioned a condom. Neither of you wanted to. Screw that—what you wanted was all of him, raw and unfiltered, to feel every inch of him without anything in between. When he lined himself up, the head of his cock pressing firmly against your still-sensitive entrance, your breath caught in your throat.

The stretch was intense—your body tightened and fluttered in anticipation, every nerve on edge from the sensitivity left in his wake, but Arthur leaned down, his mouth capturing yours in a slow, coaxing kiss. His lips were warm, his beard scratching faintly against your skin, grounding you as he whispered soft praises between the small, careful pushes that worked him deeper.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured. “That’s my sweet girl… takin’ me so well.”

You clung to his broad shoulders, your nails curling into the hard muscle, moaning into his mouth as you felt each deliberate inch fill you. He was patient but unyielding, pushing until your body had no choice but to give, stretching around him until there was nothing left between you.

By the time he bottomed out, hips flush to yours, you were shaking again—your whole body thrumming with a heady mix of pressure, fullness, and pleasure so overwhelming it bordered on too much.

“You feel so fuckin’ good,” Arthur growled, his forehead pressing to yours. “So tight around me… like you were made for this. Made for me.”

Arthur filled you to the hilt, every solid inch of him pressing so deep it felt like he was rooted inside you, claiming every part of you he could reach. He was heavy in the way that made your lungs forget how to work for a second, the weight of him sinking into your hips and holding you open beneath him. That first stretch was almost unbearable, a slow, hot burn that made your toes curl against the sheets and your fingernails dig into whatever they could find. 

You’d never been stretched like this before—never felt someone fit inside you so perfectly yet so impossibly big, like your body was having to learn him, mold around him. His cock was thick, velvety over steel, radiating heat, and it was so much that it sent you spiraling into a breathless gasp, struggling to keep up with the sensation crashing through you.

“You okay?” he asked with a gentleness that made you further ache. His breath brushed over the shell of your ear, sending a shiver that rolled down your spine in slow motion.

You whimpered, nodding shakily, your nails curling into the muscle of his forearm as though he might vanish if you didn’t hold on. “Y-Yeah,” you breathed, your voice breaking. “Just—so full.” 

It was almost an understatement; you could feel him everywhere.

Arthur chuckled under his breath, the sound rich and sinful. “Ain’t even movin’ yet,” he drawled, a wicked smirk in his tone, “and you’re already squeezin’ me like that.”

You hid your face in his shoulder, letting the coarse warmth of his skin and the scent of his cologne and clean sweat ground you in the moment. Your fingers clamped harder around his forearm, feeling the flex of muscle beneath your grip. His hips pulled back slowly—so slow you could feel every vein, every ridge drag along your inner walls in maddening detail, and then he thrust forward again, deep this time, punching the air from your lungs in a ragged cry.

Arthur groaned low in his chest, the sound rumbling against you, his hand sliding between your bodies to grip your hip possessively. “That’s it,” he muttered against your temple, the warmth of his lips ghosting your skin. “Keep feeling me filling you up like this.”

His rhythm built, not fast but purposeful, every thrust timed to drag against the sweetest, most sensitive spot inside you until your legs were trembling.

The wet, obscene sounds of your bodies meeting filled the dim quiet of his bedroom, echoing faintly off the wooden walls and floorboards like they wanted to record every second. His other hand came up to cradle the back of your neck, keeping you still beneath him, grounding you like he couldn’t bear the thought of you shifting away and missing even a fraction of what he was giving you.

Your legs tightened around his waist, heels digging into the hard muscle of his thighs as if you could anchor him closer, deeper. Without breaking rhythm, Arthur leaned back just slightly, his strong hands sliding under your thighs. The movement pulled you up, tilting your hips until you could feel him hit deeper—so deep your breath caught in your throat. You gasped, clutching at his biceps, your knuckles white with the effort of holding on.

In that angle, the sex became something else—more consuming, more overwhelming. His broad chest pressed to yours with every thrust, the steady drum of his heartbeat thudding against your ribs, syncing with the sharp snap of his hips.

His lips kept finding yours between breaths—sometimes soft, sometimes greedy, almost like he couldn’t decide whether to worship you or devour you whole. And the way he looked at you when he pulled back just far enough to meet your eyes. 

God, it was almost worse than the way he fucked you. Intense and possessive. Like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.

“Arthur—oh my God—” 

Your breath caught in your throat, voice trembling as his deep, relentless thrusts slammed into you with an intensity that made your whole body shake. Every sharp snap of his hips stretched you wider, filled you deeper, and sent waves of pleasure crashing through your nerve endings.

“You like that?” he growled, his voice thick with need and raw hunger, snapping his hips harder now, each movement precise and demanding. “You like bein’ split open on my cock like this? Look at me, darlin’. Look at how fucked-out you are already.” 

The possessiveness in his tone was undeniable, laced with pride and desperation. His most prized possession, laid bare and completely his.

You forced your heavy-lidded eyes open, struggling against the haze of pleasure to focus on him, and the look on his face destroyed you completely. He looked like a man possessed: lips parted slightly, breathing ragged; dark hair tousled and damp from sweat that traced a slow, warm line down his temple; his blue eyes wide and wild, pupils blown dilated, locked onto your face as if he was trying to memorize every inch. It was raw and beautiful and utterly consuming.

He craved this—craved seeing you undone like this, completely ruined, unraveling beneath him, utterly lost to the relentless pull of him inside you. You could see it in his expression—the way his jaw clenched tight, the desperate tilt of his head, the way his chest rose and fell with ragged breaths.

“You got no idea..” he rasped, voice rough with emotion, “how many times I thought about this. You. Up here. On my bed. So fuckin’ pretty, whimperin’ my name like it’s the only thing you know how to say.”

And then, without warning, his thrusts slowed, becoming more deliberate, almost hesitant. You weren’t alarmed—no, not at all. If anything, you were curious, your mind racing to read what was going on behind those intense eyes. You weren’t afraid he might abandon you now; you could feel the gears turning in his head, the cogs of something deeper clicking into place.

Arthur pulled away, which caused you to whine softly at the sudden emptiness that left your body feeling raw and exposed. Your gaze locked on him, searching, needing, wanting to know what he was thinking.

The older man seemed to carry the weight of the world in his gaze, settled back beside you, propping himself up on his elbow on his side, feeling the heat of his fuzzy chest skimming over your back. His movements were slower now, more measured, and for the first time since you’d started, confusion furrowed your brows as you studied him.

Before you could say anything, his hands found your hips again, strong yet tender, gripping and groping in a way that sent fresh sparks through your skin. Then, with a careful but purposeful motion, he began to turn you over onto your side, the shift making your heart race and breath hitch.

“Oh…” you breathed, feeling the promise in the change, a new tension building between you as Arthur prepared to explore a different rhythm, a different closeness.

The softness in his touch contrasted with the fierce heat still radiating between your bodies—a silent but electrifying invitation to surrender once more.

Bringing three fingers slowly up to his mouth, Arthur coated them thickly in spit, his tongue flicking over each fingertip with deliberate care. His eyes locked onto your body from behind, dark and intent, as he gently reached down to rub those slick fingers over your most sensitive folds, teasing your wetness and coaxing a soft, shuddering sigh from your lips.

You cherished the way he prepared you, like every movement was a promise, a tender prelude to what was coming next.

Once he was done, His rough hand slid down to his stiffened cock, gripping himself firmly but not hurriedly. He pressed the swollen, engorged head of his cock against your dripping entrance, circling just enough to make your muscles tremble with anticipation. The slow, willful rubbing drove you wild, and you whimpered as the tension coiled tighter inside you.

Then, with a guttural groan that vibrated deep in his chest, he finally eased himself all the way in, filling you completely again, thick and warm and impossibly good. Your own moan spilled out, breathy and needy, as you felt the delicious fullness flood every inch of you.

Arthur’s voice was low, rough, and dripping with desire, his words a breath against your ear: “God, you’re so fuckin’ tight. So damn perfect. Never gonna get enough of this pussy.”

His hand, firm and possessive, stayed glued to your hip, fingers digging in just enough to mark his territory. He started to move, not fast but with a steady, unrelenting rhythm that sent shockwaves through your core.

The slow thrusts were teasing yet purposeful, every inch of his length drawing out your pleasure, exploring the depths of this new position with a hungry reverence. His hips rolled slightly, angling just right to hit all the right spots inside you, while his hand slid around to cradle your waist, steadying you as you matched his pace.

The air between you was thick with the sound of wet skin meeting skin, your soft gasps and his low groans blending together in a symphony of need. You craned your neck a bit; Arthur’s eyes never leaving your figure, his gaze smoldering with an intoxicating mix of lust and tenderness, as if silently begging for you to tell him to keep going, to never stop.

“You feel that, darlin’?” he murmured, voice husky. “You’re squeezin’ me just right, makin’ me lose my goddamn mind.”

You could only nod, too lost in the waves of sensation crashing over you to speak, your body arching instinctively toward him, craving more of this slow, sweet torture.

You loved the feeling of his solid, warm belly pressing into the curve of your back with every deep plunge he made into you from behind, your bodies aligned almost perfectly in that intimate, tangled spooning position. The heat radiating from him wrapped around you like a blanket, his chest expanding against you each time he inhaled sharply, only to deflate with a low, guttural groan as he pushed in again. 

Raising your left arm back and around his neck, your fingers brushed the rough stubble of his jaw before they found their way into his thick, damp hair. You gave a deliberate tug, just enough to make him grunt against your skin, the sound rolling right into the kiss he planted on your bare shoulder. His lips were hot, a little chapped, and each press carried both hunger and a quiet tenderness

He breathed deep into your neck, his exhale fanning over your skin in waves of warmth that made your stomach tighten. The thin strap of your white cami had been slipping, inching down your arm with every subtle shift of your bodies, and Arthur noticed immediately.

His eyes—heavy-lidded but sharp—tracked it as it fell, and without hesitation, his big hand reached up to pull it the rest of the way down, exposing your right breast to the cool air. His palm left your hip, dragging across your stomach slowly, as though he was mapping you out with each broad, calloused finger.

When his hand reached your breast, it covered nearly all of it, the contrast of his rough skin against your softness making you gasp. He squeezed firmly, kneading with a possessive, almost greedy rhythm, his thumb brushing over your nipple before giving it a sharp pinch that tore a surprised yelp from you.

Arthur’s mouth moved to your neck again, kissing harder now, his eyes shut in sheer pleasure as though he was tasting every inch of you. He kept that hand on your breast, massaging, holding you like he was afraid to let go, his panting growing heavier against your ear.

To say you were on cloud nine was an understandment. 

You were relishing every second of it—being fucked stupid by your incredibly gorgeous boss, the man who could make you lose all sense with just the roll of his hips. You couldn’t get enough. Arthur was experienced, his touch and pace considerate, and it showed in how he knew exactly when to be rough and when to ease, how to keep you teetering on that dizzy edge of wanting more. 

His thrusts slowed—not stopping completely, but easing just enough to feel the deep grind of each movement. His hips press flush to your ass with a lingering pressure, the last few thrusts dragging out the friction, and as he does, his hand gives your breast one final, greedy squeeze, the heel of his palm digging into the soft flesh before reluctantly pulling away. 

You hear the quiet rasp of his breath behind you, followed by his low murmur, “Hold still, darlin’… lemme move ya.”

His large hands slide down to your thighs, the rough calluses grazing your skin as he grips and nudges them apart, testing how far you’ll spread for him.

He shifts his position, moving with that slow, controlled strength that makes your pulse race, then hooks his arm under your right leg and draws it over his waist. Your knee presses against the hard plane of his hip, and you can feel just how close he’s keeping you, how possessively he’s holding you there.

With his mouth right at your ear, his voice is gravel low when he instructs, “Now… ride it. Fuck yourself on me, sweetheart.” 

The words make your breath hitch, and you don’t hesitate for even a second. Pushing back against him, you roll your hips, feeling the solid weight of his cock fill and stretch you in a way that makes your thighs tremble.

Arthur’s hand comes to rest on your inner thigh, warm and grounding, his thumb brushing slow circles there—not guiding, just feeling. He’s letting you take control, but you can feel in the way he’s watching, in the slight tightening of his grip, that he’s savoring every second. You arch your back to push into him harder, wanting to wring every bit of pleasure you can from this, but also because there’s something burning in you—a need to make sure he is feeling just as undone as you are.

Your voice comes out breathy as you glance back at him over your shoulder. “Like that, Arthur? You like that?”

He exhales sharply, the sound half-groan, half-growl. “Fuck yes, I like that. Keep goin’, darlin’… make yourself feel good on my cock.”

That encouragement spurs you on, and you grind back into him with more urgency, your movements getting slicker, filthier. Arthur’s panting now, his breath coming in hot bursts against your neck, and every few moments, you hear the deep rumble of a moan he doesn’t bother to hide.

“Mm, that’s it… good girl,” he mutters, his grip tightening briefly on your thigh before smoothing over it again. “Don’t stop for me.”

The praise has heat curling low in your belly, and you press harder, taking him deep, your body trembling with the effort and the thrill of being the one in control. The sounds he’s making—raw, unrestrained—tell you he’s right where you want him: lost in it, in you.

Arthur’s hand gathered your hair with a rough sort of care, twisting it into a makeshift ponytail that felt more like a leash in his grip, tugging just enough to send a delicious ache down your spine. 

Then, without warning, he drove his hips upward into you—faster, harder, the kind of relentless, filthy rhythm that made your breath catch and your thighs tremble. The sudden force had your tits bouncing with each thrust, your top straining to keep them contained, threatening to fully spill free.

Crying out in pleasure, one of your hands clawed desperately at the sheets, knuckles whitening from the grip, while the other pressed against the firm, heated muscle along the side of his right thigh for balance.

Arthur was pulling you into him now, each upward snap of his hips forcing you down harder onto his cock, the wet, obscene sounds between you only fueling the heat in the room.

Your head tipped back helplessly, landing beneath the rough scrape of his jaw as he bent to capture your mouth in a sloppy, hungry kiss that tasted like sweat and want. You could feel every inch of him inside you, stretching you, filling you in that way that had you dangerously close—again.

It was insane, the way he could drag you to the edge so easily, like your body had been tuned to his touch long before tonight. Every nerve ending answered to him, every pulse of pleasure building faster than you could hold back.

“C’mon, baby,” Arthur grunted against your lips, his voice gravelly and deep, sending vibrations straight to your core. “Give it to me again. I wanna feel you come around me.”

“Arthur—I—God, I ca—” you gasped, the tension in your belly coiling tight, your nails digging into the sheets.

“Yes you fuckin’ can,” he growled, yanking your hair just enough to make your back arch into him. “You’ve been takin’ this cock so good. Bein’ such a good girl for me.”

Being with him had already unlocked something new in you. Things you didn’t even know you wanted, didn’t even know you could feel until now. 

And you had the distinct, dizzying sense he wasn’t finished uncovering them yet.

As he continued his relentless thrusting, your eyes were fluttering in and out, a whiny moan escaping your throat as your orgasm hit you like a crashing wave breaking violently against the shore, stealing every last breath from your lungs.

Your back arched and your voice broke on his name—loud, desperate, and utterly wrecked. Your thighs clamped tight, the muscles quivering uncontrollably, and every inch of you trembled as you spasmed around him, clinging to his cock like you couldn’t bear to let him go.

Arthur let out a sharp curse through gritted teeth, the sound guttural and rough, slamming into you with even more force—each thrust driving you further into the mattress, as if chasing his own end while your pulsing walls milked him for everything he had.

Through the haze, you heard his voice—low, ragged, and almost desperate—cut through the sound of your own breathing, “Where d’you want me, darlin’?”

His words were hot against your ear, each syllable dripping with hunger. You were still shuddering from your high, your body quivering, mind fogged with a heady mix of bliss and lingering need.

But the answer was immediate, raw, instinctive—torn from you like a confession you’d been holding in for too long.

“Inside,” you whimpered, voice breaking, soaked in hunger. “I want you all the way, Arthur.” 

The words left you like a plea, your nails dragging faint, desperate lines down his arm. He groaned low, the sound rumbling deep in his chest, his hips faltering for just a beat like the request hit him harder than he expected.

Even then—his breath hot over your ear, his chest pressing tight against your back, his pulse hammering under your touch—he paused just enough to ask, “You sure ‘bout that, sweetheart?” His voice softened for that single question, rough edges tempered by something careful, almost reverent, as though he’d split himself in two if it meant keeping you safe.

The care in his tone, the way he held still when you knew he was seconds from losing control, made you ache for him in a whole new way. You turned your head, brushing your lips against the stubble-rough line of his jaw, whispering with certainty that burned hotter than anything else.

 “Yes, Arthur… I’m so sure. Fill me up.”

Groaning, Arthur kept moving inside you, his thrusts now uneven and desperate, each one landing with a sloppy, wet sound that only made the heat between you coil tighter.

You wanted him to finish, to use you for this second so he, too, can chase the release you were just granted of. Most importantly, you yearned for the feeling of being filled up by him, his hot seed shooting into you, dripping down.

You were getting further aroused just thinking about it. 

The words broke into a growl as his fingers dug into the soft flesh of your opulent hips, holding you in place like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.

His teeth clenched tight, head tilting back for a second before his eyes squeezed shut and rolled slightly, the pleasure overtaking him.

“Shit—fuck—I’m gonna—” 

With one final, deep, bruising thrust, Arthur buried himself to the hilt and groaned—a sound so raw you swore you felt it reverberate through your chest. You felt him spill inside you, thick and hot, each pulse sending warmth blooming deep in your core until you were gasping and trembling from the overwhelming sensation.

His hips stayed pressed against yours, grinding faintly as if he couldn’t stand to lose the connection, and you felt every single heartbeat of him inside you. 

For a long, suspended second, everything was utterly still. So still you swore you could hear the slow, heavy thud of his heartbeat against your back, syncing with the frantic rhythm of your own.

Arthur’s forehead remained pressed into the curve of your shoulder, his breath coming in hot, uneven bursts that fanned over your damp skin.

Both of you were panting hard, your chests rising and falling in a staggered, almost desperate cadence, sweat cooling in patches where your bodies still clung together. Every muscle in your legs trembled faintly from the strain, from the aftershocks still rippling through you.

His arms stayed locked firm around your waist, the solid weight of them an anchor, as though letting go wasn’t an option—not yet, maybe not ever. His rough palms flexed against your hips in a slow, unconscious rhythm, like he was committing the feel of you to memory, grounding himself in the shape and heat of you.

Holy shit… 

The thought crashed over you in a dizzy wave. That had really just happened. It wasn’t a fever dream or a half-drunk fantasy—it was real. Really real. So real that your body still ached with him, that the echo of his voice and the scrape of his beard lingered like ghostly fingerprints across your senses.

So real that his cock still sat deep inside you, thick and solid, buried in a way that made you hyperaware of every slow, pulsing throb of him. You could feel him still stretching you, filling you so perfectly that it was almost unbearable—almost. Instead, you reveled in it, in the way he fit like he’d been made to, in the way your body instinctively clenched around him as if trying to keep him there forever.

Arthur didn’t move, didn’t pull away—he just breathed against you, taking what seemed like quiet, selfish pleasure in the fact that he was still exactly where he wanted to be. And so did you.

“You okay, honey?” he asked again, his voice softer now, ragged around the edges, each syllable dragging with the weight of his uneven breathing. Concern threaded through the haze of lingering lust, rough yet tender, like he was trying to anchor himself in making sure you were alright before anything else.

You nodded slowly, letting the motion melt into him as you rested your head against the pillows. “More than okay,” you breathed, your voice a quiet confession that carried the remnants of your release and the tremor of something deeper. "Who knew that's what you were trying to hold back from me."

He chuckled under his breath, the sound low and warm, almost disbelieving, before one roughened hand rose to brush your hair back from your face. His fingers lingered at your temple, sweeping damp strands away with a gentleness that made your chest ache.

“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he murmured, the words falling heavy between you, not like a compliment tossed in passing, but as though he meant every damn letter.

His eyes searched yours, the corner of his mouth twitching like he almost wanted to smile but didn’t dare.

“So are you,” you murmured back, letting the truth of it slip out without thought, your voice soft enough that it could have been lost in the space between your lips and his.

He kissed you sweetly. Not the fevered, desperate kind of kiss from moments ago, but something entirely different. Gentle this time, slow, his lips molding to yours like he was memorizing the shape, like he was tasting something he wasn’t ready to give up.

Not just a fuck—no, it carried weight, a quiet promise stitched between each movement of his mouth against yours.

Not just a mistake because nothing about it felt wrong, even if logic whispered it should. Something else—something unspoken that neither of you dared name yet, but you could feel it simmering under your skin.

Something dangerous because if you let it in, if you let it grow, it could burn through everything you thought you could control. Something real, so real you could taste it on your tongue, feel it in your bones, and know that no matter how hard you tried, you wouldn’t be able to forget it.

Arthur eased out of you with a slow care, as though even that final movement deserved gentleness, rolling onto his back with a low grunt that rumbled in his chest. The heat of him lingered inside you, his cum slipping from you in the faintest dribble, but your folds were still shimmering—slick, swollen, and glistening in the low light with the undeniable aftermath of what you’d just done together.

You shifted slightly, a small wince escaping before you could mask it, the tender ache blooming between your thighs, and his sharp eyes caught it instantly. 

He turned his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple and murmuring a quiet, gruff, “Sorry, sweetheart,” like he truly meant it.

You bent forward to reach for your panties crumpled on the floor, your legs still trembling faintly from the intensity, the room spinning just a touch as you tried to steady yourself.

Beside you, Arthur pulled his discarded boxers back up in one fluid, lazy motion, his weight settling into the mattress with a familiar creak of the wooden frame, grounding the moment in reality. But before you could speak—before you could even decide what to say—his hand found you again, warm and calloused, cupping your cheek like it was something fragile. 

His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles over your bottom lip, the barest brush, as if memorizing the softness.

“You sleepin’ in my bed?” he asked, like he was half-afraid you’d say no.

Your stomach gave a traitorous flip, heat curling low again. “Should I?” you asked, the question coming out softer than intended, like your body already knew the answer.

He smiled then—small, almost shy, but undeniably hopeful, his eyes crinkling in the corners.

“You should,” he said simply, but the weight behind it felt heavier. “’Cause I ain’t done with ya yet.”

And neither were you—not even close.

═══════════════════════════════

AUTHOR'S NOTE I simply have no words....I've been out-gooned. Hope you all enjoyed this chapter! As always, feedback is greatly appreciated! <3 <3

Series Masterlist Main Masterlist Join my Taglist!

⟵ Previous Chapter ⟶ Next Chapter

[inkmonster21]

“Some people say you fall in love with three people in your life. The first time is childish. The second one is passionate and filled with both joy and pain. But the third one - the third one is profound and filled with a burning love that doesn't fade,” you admitted, “I’ve met you three times in my life," your words filled with a quiet determination, "and every time, you’ve made me fall in love you. You're the only person I know how to love."

You turned to him, your gaze pleading as the words escaped your lips, "Don’t make me love you a fourth time, Arthur Morgan.”

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

1. The Thompson Family

2. Weeding the Flowers

3. Yearning for Freedom

4. If I Were A Man

5. Wishing on the Stars

6. She Don’t Smile Like That

7. Drawn to You

8. Sometime is Now

9. A Parent’s Choice

10. A Lost Moment

11. Back to the Dollhouse

12. Made of Glass

13. Escape the Dollmaker

14. Bruised Soul, Healing Heart

15. To The Rescue

16. Stargazing with Ulterior Motives

17. Midnight Delight

18. Hands On

19. Maid of Honor

20. The Blessing

21. Summer Lovin’

22. Under the Sunset

23. Suspected

24. Dreamin’ of Our Future

25. Our Last Act

26. Good Morning, Goodbye

27. Caught in the Line of Fire

28. A Helping Hand

29. A Sense of Normalcy

30. In Search of You

31. The Year 1899

32. Left Speeches

33. The Show of a Lifetime

34. Just a Beer or Two

35. An Awkward Breakfast

36. Back to You

37. 100 Questions

38. Horseshoe Overlook

39. What I Am and What I Want

40. Return to Camp

41. Protect and Provide

42. Not Property

43. The Letter

44. The Betrayal

45. Collecting at Death’s Door

46. A Wanted Man

47. A Wanted Woman

48. On the Run

49. Home is Where You Are

50. Shopping and Shooting

51. Everybody Works

•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•

Read on Ao3

[arthurscoffee]

back to being friends; part two

pairing- arthur x fem reader

you and arthur are avoiding one another. ꪆৎ How can you look at me and pretend I’m someone you’ve never met ꪆৎ

tags- angst, angst, angst!!! mentions of infidelity, forbidden romance, masturbation, explicit 18+, mdni

this work does NOT condone cheating whatsoever but explores the realities of a possibly doomed romance - please read with caution!

note- listen when i tell yall that i EAT this trope up. like??? arthur pining for reader while she actively belongs to another (dutch) and having feelings they both know they shouldn't have, yet still do? yeahhhh that's gonna do it for me every time i fear

user tags as requested- @heron-feathers @thoughts-of-bear

wc- 2.6k

part one.

Dutch was gone for three days.

On the first day, Arthur was like a gangrenous plague. One you had especially steered clear from at every turn, unwilling to face the reminder of the grime in between your legs. The slew of sin that lived inside you.

The guilt was gnawing the coils of your belly. Every time the women got together in huddles, you swore you heard snarking whispers, tongues laced with yours and Arthur’s names. Paranoia latched onto your brain like blood thirsty leeches, suckling that artery of shame.

Because it was shameful, what you’d done. Then you remembered Arthur’s shame— that horrified look in his soft eyes as he’d realized his mistake. Your mistake.

The mistake of ever letting him kiss you to begin with. And nevermind that his lips had tasted achingly sweet or how his hands had felt bizarrely warm. But to forget how he had looked at you? How could any woman forget the touch of a man who’d clearly wanted to worship her?

Tender. Loving. Protective.

But it was wrong.

We are wrong.

And you’d remind yourself of that every time his gaze had locked with yours. An invisible string knotting and stretching from the opposing ends of camp. Stars crossing, misaligning. Two bent matches, igniting a sizzling spark.

What never was, could never be.

On some nights, it was more than just remorse that had kept you awake. And only on the loneliest of nights where you laid on that soiled cot you shared with Dutch, could you cry yourself to sleep and blink up at the moon with glossed insomnia-ladled eyes, longing for the man you could never have. A man nobody could ever know had touched you.

But in time, the secret that you fought so hard to bury in the neck of woods— that tree he had pinned you against— would bloom.

The seed he’d emptied inside of you, surely, would pullulate. And that speck of unrelenting desire and light that you’d felt beneath him, would come to fruition, crawling out of its pitted darkness. Because Dutch had always been sure to pull out. He was smarter than the men who didn’t. Boasting about it each time.

And perhaps it was true… But perhaps it was truer that a man needn’t be as smart as he was gentle.

Maybe we all owe the world more softness.

**

On the second night, Arthur tortured himself with the memory of you.

And it happened through those lingering glimpses that only an idiot like him could steal. As he stoked the fire and spliced batches of firewood— every aching thought circled back to you.

The blue storm of his eyes brewed, morose in their melancholy, pathetically apologetic. But you wouldn’t meet his gaze. It was all moronic, really, to think you’d spare him a chance. And if you did, maybe he had convinced himself that he was unworthy to spare in the first place.

He’d defiled you. Had marred your grace, even. Besmirched his loyalty to Dutch. The self-deprecation he felt had oozed from the tips of the charcoal pens that broke as he’d scratched over lines on parchment pages.

Obsessive. Reconciling.

So why hadn’t he stopped himself from reaching for you when you had ventured on a trail outside of camp? Why had he followed you there, where sleepy eyes and drunken bodies could not? Where only the fireflies buzzed, and the owls flicked their earth-shattering hoots?

And when you had finally turned, your eyes were crimson like the blood stained on his hands. Cheeks stamped with wet streaks, the tremulous shake of the lowly lit lantern you held. Why had you glowed more beautiful to him, then, than you did on that fateful night?

He reached his arm out, but only for you to flinch. The cold air suddenly turned hot, a flashing welt on your skin.

“Don’t,” you spat, body shaking.

His hand steadied the light. The pad of his thumb brushing yours. Slow and tender, like the first time. Slowly, he’d lifted his face. And the electrifying heat that connected your eyes had surged. Forceful and bright. And then, he’d whispered, gravel and slow, “Talk to me. Please.”

You visibly swallowed. Shuddering out a breathless gasp that hung in-between you. A flaring choke of fresh, salty tears came next. “Arthur— stop…” you took a step back and your speech broke, your face weeping.

He frowned, but there wasn’t a scowl or a curve that bared his teeth. Moreso a pained expression that flitted his tired face. “I know,” he breathed, then gave a firm head shake. A gulp tight and rigid. “I know… I shouldn’t. I know it ain’t right—”

“It meant nothing!”

But your eyes had slipped past him as your mouth cried aloud the words. Peering through empty shadows for something, anything else. A desperate need for escape. And you stared into the dark of the forest, as if wishing for the blackness to swallow you with it.

“Don’t do that,” he murmured. “Don’t lie t’me.”

You tasted the savour of your tears as you shook violently. “We shouldn’t’ve… it was a mistake…” you uttered the words, broken and painful.

Arthur’s face twisted in grimace— a feeling you knew all too well. A ribcage with a noose wrapping and coiling the heart. Constricting and stabbing and squeezing the mere life out of its host. It froze his body with the chill of night. But he could not reach for you, nor could he watch as the lantern had shattered shards of glass onto the wading floor. He was fixed solely on the pads of your boots as your legs chased the lining of trees that lured you farther and farther. Leaving him alone under the silence of the crescent and the uneven stars, yet again.

**

On the third day, Dutch returned and Arthur had chosen to drink himself stupid.

Whiskey was a fine choice to numb the ache that lived in his chest these days. A fine choice to withstand the whitening of his knuckles whenever he’d seen you tear your gaze off of his own.

Yet it was that obsessive gaze of his that couldn’t help itself. Tracking you like game— a coyote seeking a lamb for slaughter. And then, the immediate scowl and a clot of irritation as he recognized Dutch’s throaty laugh against the confident cheers of his and Micah’s escapades. And the way his body had tensed at the sight of the man’s slithering arms as they snugged onto your hips. Arms that should’ve belonged to him.

So, he chugged the bottle, over and over, savoring the honeyed burn of liquor until it grew numb. Swallowing, not an ache this time, but another slow anger that boiled just below his chest. The clench of his jaw tightening, again, as Dutch’s hands wandered. A blood vessel verging rupture as that groomed mustache kissed down the exposed skin on your neck.

Then, a fouler thought crossed him. If only Dutch knew. Had known only what the light that reflected off of the lake had. Had known only what the stars had seen you do.

But— Arthur knew he’d sever his own tongue before ever coming to divulge his secrets. Though, it was a pleasant dream.

The dream of having you that could only come to life on the sleepless nights behind his closed tent. The imagination of your legs tangled with his. Remembering you and your scent. Back and forth his mind modeled you like a moving picture. The stifled gasps of his name, the juicy walls that squeezed him. Your mouth that had sang the sweetest sounds of pleasure at just his touch alone. Craving him.

He worked his hand on himself, pumping relentlessly. Eyes tightly wound as he pictured how it should’ve been. Your back pressed against his cot. His lips trailing hot kisses down your breasts, descending your thighs… worshipping your sopping cunt as his thumb rubbed soft circles on your clit. The broken moans of his name dangling from your lips, mesmerizing him.

Beads of sweat dripped from his temples as he squeezed up and down the base of his swollen cock. The pre-moisture of his desire spewed from the red tip. Slightly, he tossed his head back and let out a lengthy, guttural groan as he imaged himself hooking your legs across his back and could nearly feel every thrust and roll of his hips. The lean of his broader body as he’d lowered himself, swallowing your breathy moans with the mouth of his own. The sugary taste of your tongue. And the beg that would choke out of your plump lips as he’d pull his cock back entirely before snapping his hips into yours, burying himself and filling you up so completely—

Gushes of thick, white streaks shot up his abdomen as he panted out in short breaths. His hands did their final pumps, milking out the remainder of his spent. With a finale exhale, Arthur reflected down at the mess pooling at the base of his now, softened length.

No more, he begged the universe, silently. No more.

**

Days had wheeled into weeks. And the weeks had turned over the course of a month. Clusters of yellow and red floral began to wilt. And the trees had bloomed with vibrant green heads of springy bushes and the cicadas emerged onto the hot flats of stone, sharing their low, simmering buzz.

Unfortunately, with the pleasant greeting of summer came a new hello: the rounds of your bedridden nausea. Illness that had left your throat dry and hoarse and clutching at your swelling gut as you laid on a flat bedroll.

And where was Dutch? Nowhere to be found. Oggling at Mary-Beth, maybe. Sharing his charm from behind the rank smoke of his cigar and those flashy rings embedded into his fingers. He found any chance he could to brush off your concerns. Fishing with Hosea and jobs with Micah were at the top of his priority. Then there had been the nights you’d even taken to sleeping at the edge of Abigail’s tent— and he hadn’t wondered where you’d been. Nor did he care to ask. If anything, he was pleased to be rid of your nagging.

Things had been normal again. And what a bitter thought that was.

And there was Arthur, until there wasn’t. Perhaps he couldn’t stomach the guilt of what you’d both had done. But he had tired at first. Tried to talk to you. Attempted to pretend as if it could be normal in the beginning. To be like it once had been. Until that stopped altogether.

Oh, how regretful you’d felt for pushing him away. And you wondered if it would’ve been different had you not. At least you would've felt less alone.

An ache simmered inside the hollow hole of your stomach, squeezing the pit of your gut as you remembered the last interaction you shared when he’d said goodbye.

You were awake the earliest that day and he’d joined you quietly by the fire. Your eyes hadn’t seen him until a hand passed you a tin mug. The sweetened aromatics of coffee glazed with honey— he’d overheard you gush about it to Dutch, who hadn’t so much as glanced from his book— instantly settled your stomach. And the gesture was small, you recognized that, but it had warmed you more than the crackling embers of fire log ever could.

He watched as your lips curled around the edge, a small curve that welcomed the calming heat. The softest blue of his eyes shining down as your shoulders relaxed. Like the waves of a tiding shoreline. The magnetic force of the moon’s gravitational pull, fusing you together.

“Thanks,” you whispered.

“You feelin’ alright?”

You nodded and took another small sip. “Fine.”

Arthur scratched his beard. Silence, and then. Flying above, were the distant squawk of birds that soared the horizon. “Gonna be gone awhile…” he took a pause, his eyes following the wings. And in that moment, you wished that you, too, could fly up into the sun just as they had. “Guess it’s for the best,” he finally murmured.

Gone? Your mind replayed the words in fragments. Broken sounds of a gramophone twisting into your ears. You hummed— honestly an attempt to drown out the fear of not being able to see him. To sneak another longing glance. The fear of missing him. A bitter taste laced your tongue and you were unsure if it had been caused by the coffee bean or the arrival of the sour news.

Arthur cleared his throat and his eyes flicked to you before he continued, “Got some jobs lined up with Trelawny. Gonna be travelin’ up north. Dunno when I’ll be back.”

Your eyes welled. Quickly, you rubbed them with the back of your sleeve, blinking through hot mist. But you had only scoffed at him. “Why you telling me?”

“Didn’t want it t’be like this,” he had said. “Just can’t do it no more. Can’t keep seein’ you with him… I’m real sorry— for everything.”

So that final memory of him was imprinted there, inside the darkening depths of your brain. Nestled and tucked away until the day came when you’d cross paths again. If ever. A place where only you could pick it apart. Distorting its pieces and rupturing its cells.

And you’d done so lying awake on one of the nights you had chosen to sleep at Abigail’s tent. Another fight with Dutch. And she must’ve heard the sniffles or maybe it was just the bone of her natural instinct that stiffened at your quiet sobs. With a click, the woman had reached past Jack’s small head and the lantern lit into a flickering flame.

“You were wrong to say nothin’,” she scolded. And you had barely looked at her as she spoke on. “Don’t think I ain’t hear how sick you been.”

Fear coiled your throat, like the serpent that followed you out to the lake that night. The same serpent that turned you around and made love to you. Had sank his venom in the form of soft kisses that poisoned your skin.

A tongue clicked— Abigail’s impatience. But you couldn’t look at her. Too afraid at the very admission of shame. So you swallowed a dry lump, fingers brushing rough into the corners of your eyes. Dry tears, this time.

“Just ate somethin’ bad,” you uttered.

“Ain’t just eatin’ somethin’ bad when you’re up all night yakking yerself to death. He should be here.”

Your body shook and you tried to slow your breathing as the storm in your eyes gradually grew. “Dutch is here.”

Abigail shot you a sharp look. “I meant the father.”

Her words rang like gunfire. The recoil of a shotgun bruising, breaking your chest. Goosing your clammy flesh that had only grown hotter with her slicing glares. And you wondered if the whites of your eyes had shown her the vision of Arthur in between your legs. Wondered if the stammer that struck the knot in your throat had mirrored the sounds only his touch had bred.

“Don’t take an idiot to see how he looked at you,” she whispered.

And the night was stark and quiet again, with only the crickets sounding their chirps in syllabic patterns and the occasional drunken snore that pestered the thick dew.

Both of you stayed like this and when a stream of tears had swam from your eyes— Abigail didn’t need to think twice. Her hands were quick in their comfort. Passing you a small rag she had torn from one of Jack’s old shirts.

“Y’know… He ain’t like John. He’s a good man,” she said, “Let him do right by you.”

If only it were that easy.

[siennaii]

"hellcat" masterlist

Pairing : Arthur Morgan x OC female character

"In which he survives. In which they meet again and again and again. In which starcrossed lovers find redemption in a twisted way."

Rated : Explicit.... oops

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3

[mafuyuh]

wish that was me

[bellaisdeadly-deactivated202602]

ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏʀʙɪᴅᴅᴇɴ ꜰʀᴜɪᴛ

LEVI ACKERMAN X READER - THE FORBIDDEN FRUIT. [AOT AU]

[PART FIVE TO THE REALM'S DIAMOND SERIES].

WORD COUNT - 2,977.

RATING - 18+. [unrequited love maybe? Not between reader and Levi, m/f sex and breeding kink].

[she also has other pairings thus the hashtags but its mainly levi x reader]. comments, liking, following and reblogging would be appreciated!

SUMMARY - after visiting the ackermans you meet with a man who tells you unfortunate information that leads you to be stuck between a dilemma choosing between the forbidden fruit or the unwanted proposal.

previous chapter - chapter four.

Mikasa had been happy systems were pass the time where a lady had to have a male companion to walk in public, or when a woman who was seen beside a man who was not a part of her family was not looked down upon, currently, she had been beside Eren. She had come back from her trip in Oscaar visiting the Reiss family, specifically Historia.

When she was in Oscaar, she had missed the presence of her friends, even though Historia was good company along with her close friend, Ymir, Mikasa had missed being around Eren and Armin, and even Jean.

Eren who had seemed blue ever since Mikasa had seen him, had eventually opened his mouth, for a brief moment the two walked in silence and Mikasa had known it had something to do with the gossip she had heard. “Have you heard about your cousin becoming the main suitor for Lady van Richesse?” Eren asked and with a knowing look on her face, Mikasa clasped her hands, paws in front of her hung low.

“Word travels fast in our continent,” Mikasa forwardly answered and with a neutral look on his face, Eren agreed with her. “How do you feel about it?” Mikasa asked and when she shared her inquiry a quick flash of distaste sped past the Yeager’s man’s face, and automatically, she had known Eren had felt bitter. “Maybe, when you were younger, you should’ve been less obvious about the desires you had for [Y/N],” Mikasa said and with a short sigh, Eren fixed the hat he had worn.

She had been right. “Of course,” Eren whispered. “Well maybe in the next life I have with her, I’ll remember your advice,” he breathily chuckled and with a quick look of sadness, Mikasa briefly pushed her lower mouth behind her teeth. “Enough about me,” Eren smiled as he twisted his sight towards her. “How comes you didn’t come to the Annual Ball?”

“I’m not ready to be married,” Mikasa shrugged. “My parents do not pressure me.”

“Lucky,” Eren whispered. “But, let it be my turn and let me give you advice now,” Eren said as he simply fixed his tie. “All the good men are being taken away, so it would be best to try and get married now.”

Mikasa had then scrunched her nose. “Like Jean?”

“Somewhat like Jean,” Eren shrugged.

“Do you want to be married?” Mikasa asked and with an unsure look, he had then shoved his hands into his pockets.

“If I wanted to marry, I would’ve wanted to marry [Y/N],” Eren said and annoyed, Mikasa stood up straight.

Hands unclasped and arms now folded, Mikasa furrowed her eyebrows. “Evidently, that cannot happen, you cannot have that, you cannot have Lady van Richesse.”

“I’m aware of that,” Eren said with his teeth gritted. “And I am aware of the feelings you have for me,” he continued, perceptive of the awkward shuffle she did with her shoulders. “Let us make a deal, since we have a good connection, and we evidently have no one else we would want to be with, marry me.”

Perplexed, Mikasa stared at him as she had felt wind catch in her throat, eyes slightly wide, the Ackerman girl gently shuddered as Eren’s offer translated in her head. Alas, she’d have Eren, but not because he loved her, because he saw her as a placeholder. Blue, Mikasa gently bit the inside of her cheek. “I’ll think about it,” she responded and before she curved her back to him, every muscle in her body had wamted her to leave. “I’ll see you soon, Eren.”

Thus, without allowing the man to say another word, Mikasa began on her trip back to her family home.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

“You are a natural at this,” Kenny smiled, it had been the afternoon, you had visited the rest of Levi’s family for the first time and after moments of drinking tea and eating finger-food, Levi’s uncle couldn’t help but test his nephew’s suitress’s gun skill.

A handful of feet away from them, had been Levi and his mother, sat on chairs with a silver table between them that had an umbrella pole that shielded them from the sun. Kuchel, had still been hungry, so she had fussed for Levi to tell one of the maids to bring them over while they watched you and Kenny interact with each other. Then, with a short smile, Kuchel glanced towards her son. “She’s pretty,” Kuchel said to Levi who had currently had a half-finished cup of tea in his hand, the object held in the unique way he’d never been bothered to explain why he did in such manner.

“I didn’t believe you would be able to become a suitor for someone, not saying that you’re not handsome,” she began to ramble. “Because you are, you’re my son, and it’s not because you’re a bore to be around, because you’re not---”

“I understand what you mean mother,” Levi sighed.

Comforted, Kuchel sat up with a look on her face that spoke of her feelings being reassured. “I know Kenny and I say that a lot, you not being a suitor for someone.”

“Petra died, and there’s nothing I can do about it,” Levi said, lips tight, the man then crossed his leg.

“Yes, there’s nothing anyone can do about it,” Kuchel gently agreed, eyes softly trained on her son. “I’m thankful that you’re ready to move on.”

Both Levi and Petra had fought in the army a couple of years ago, against one of the countries in the continent that had been exposed for ill testing of subjects, Petra and Levi fought together, loved one another and truthfully wanted to marry each other, but their dreams---his dreams, had been scarred when a rival soldier’s bullet flew right into her.

She had died in his arms, eyes cold and mouth agape as she spoke her last words of “I love you,” to Levi. A moment that had terribly haunted him.

“And we’re done!” Kenny cheered as both you and him returned to the other Ackermans and while Kenny had then collected the shotgun he provided you, Levi stood to his feet and aided his suitress to sit on one of the empty seats.

“Thank you,” you smiled as you had sat opposite both Kuchel and Levi, the only chair available being the one next to her, which you had been aware Kenny would take.

“She’s a natural,” Kenny mumbled as he placed the guns away. “Perhaps in a past life she took part in the First Great War,” he said as he then moved his feet towards the empty seat. “She was probably a beast,” he carried on, unaware of the awkward looks his sister and her son shared with each other.

As she had then picked up another finger sandwich, Kuchel forced a comfortable smile at the girl. “So, [Y/N], are you an only child?”

“No,” you replied. “My brother, Alan is in Oscaar right now, doing business,” you smiled before you reached for one of the finger sandwiches. “He will be taking over father’s business when he steps down.”

“When do you want the wedding?” His mother then asked and when the words left her mouth, you could feel the entire atmosphere pause.

To be fair, the question was bound to come up. It was the Annual Ball season, everyone was getting married, and you had been the Realm’s Diamond, everyone had anticipated your betrothal event. “Well,” you breathily chuckled. “Levi is my main suitor, but I’m unsure if we’re actually going to get married.”

“I’ve yet to speak to her family about the entire thing,” Levi added while his metal-like eyes softly trailed all over you, a certain look on his face had appeared as if he had summarised a thought, quietly, you had looked away from him, you had known what that look had meant, thus, you had placed one hand above the other, both paws against your lap.

“Though,” you continued. “Levi is my main suitor and I wouldn’t want it to be anyone else.”

Content, Kuchel picked up her almost cold tea as she had taken a sip, Levi placed his one down before he spoke. “I’m glad to hear that.”

 ༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

You had been well too aware of all the expressions Levi had up his sleeve during the previous times you had shared with him---when he had sent you the short but knowing look when you had mentioned that you weren’t sure if the both of you were actually going to get married. You had noticed it strung a bad string in his heart, as if it had activated a bitter and acquisitive emotion in him.

It had slightly surprised you, Levi had normally been calm with how he expressed himself, the only time he’d be eminently reactive is when you two would intimately share time with each other, like now, his steel blue eyes fiercely studied into yours as he protectively folded his arms around your waist, supporting your movements as you ardently bounced on his girthy cock, while his lips ringed around your breast as he gently suckled your nub, deep moans vibrating against your skin as he gently rocked his hips.

You had almost forgotten how many rounds the both of you were in, when you had first stepped into Levi’s room, he had first taken you against the wall, then the floor, then his bed, his lust animalistic as he commenced to thrust his body upwards, he had promised countless of times he’d learn how to control himself when it came to you. Yet, whenever he’d feel your wet warmth cover him, a sex varmint would take over his body, his mind and drown his thoughts with intentions to breed and dominate you.

“Right there----oh Levi! Yes!” You cried as your area clamped around him while you released your high, your arm that had once curved behind his neck had now supported you from riding his length, your juices flowing and coating his shaft while it throbbed and ached inside your cunt, the curved length had slipped and kissed the sweet spots before it released its sweet white nectar, Levi, tired had petted one last kiss against your neck before you pulled away from him.

Your body collapsed next to his, both of your figures uncomfortably sprawled against his wide sofa. As he reached for a cigarette, he passed one towards you, aware that you had sometimes smoked, when you first made him realise your smoking habit, he had slightly been against it, but you had promised him within time, you’d stop. Plus, it was nice to smoke when you two finished fucking, it helped Levi calm down, he couldn’t put a finger on it, but there had been something about you that turned him into a wild animal, and as much as he never spoke about it, during the short period the two of you shared with each other, the Ackerman had easily fell into a pit of yearn and ache for your presence.

That’s why he sometimes liked it whenever you were gone, to fall into the cycle of the thirst of wanting to see you again and quenching that thirst whenever you were in his arms. “In a day or two I’ll have to actually speak with your family.”

As you shortly agreed, you pulled yourself to sit up. “I’m actually surprised you’re going along with this,” you said after you exhaled a smoke.

“You’re a good suitress,” Levi answered. “And I’m willing to settle down.”

Offended, you twisted your face. “You know what I mean,” Levi sighed as he watched you cross your arms, aware of how your arms pressed against your breast, and as he could feel his breath catch in his throat, the man hastily looked away from you. “Don’t give me that look,” he continued as he pulled on the rest of his clothes.

“I’m upset you’re not completely enamoured by me; other men quickly fall in love with me…and you’re just…” you sourly confessed and with a quick look that flashed in his eyes, Levi put down his cigarette.

“What makes you think that?” He asked.

“You’re not kissing my feet like other men,” you said and with a curve of his eyes, Levi pushed out a breathy chuckle.

“You’re unbelievable,” he smirked and shortly humoured, you pulled yourself off his sofa. “I feel pride when I’m with you,” he softly spoke and as his eyes slightly trailed pass your body, he turned his gaze to the ajar window, unaware that you had planned to continue your complaint.

With your hands on your hips with an increasing disappointment, you had tapped your barefoot against the ground. “So, I’m just arm candy to you?”

“I’m not good with my words,” he mumbled as he stroked his raven-toned hair with his digits.

Annoyed, you rolled your eyes and picked up your clothes. “Evidently.”

-Confused, Levi turned to look at her. “Where are you going?” He questioned and with a twisted look on your face, you pulled your garments onto your body.

“Home.”

“Are you seriously upset with what I said?” Levi apprehensively asked and with a tight light, you turned away from him.

“Yes.”

Adamant to leave her alone, Levi reached out to her. “At least allow me to take you home.”

“No, I want the next time you see my parents to be a special day, even if I’m arm candy,” you stubbornly responded, and annoyed, Levi closed his eyes, exasperated by your adamance to not understand him, though, before he could say anything else, you had already pushed his bedroom door open and left.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

When the carriage had come to a halt, the coachman had immediately pulled himself off his horse to open the vehicle door for you, during your trip back from the Ackerman estate and to your family land, you had nervously re-thought of that interaction you had exchanged with your main suitor. Perhaps you had over-reacted you had thought, mayhap you should’ve allowed Levi to continue to express himself, to explain what he had actually meant, but overall, you were spoilt and usually wanted things handed to you forwardly with no obstacles.

Though, your pool of thoughts had immediately been eliminated when you stepped out of the carriage and noticed a presence you thought you wouldn’t have seen in ages. With a big smile, you picked up your dress and quickly used your feet to run towards them. “Alan!” You screamed in happiness once you saw your brother walking around the van Richesse estate.

Content once he saw his sister, Alan wrapped his arms around you once you jumped towards him. Alan was tall, so he had to bend low to experience your warmth. “[Y/N],” he smiled, first to pull away, Alan quickly looked you up and down. “It seems as if you’ve shrunk since the last time I’ve seen you,” he smiled and as you clicked your tongue, you comedically slapped his arm.

“You just got taller,” you reminded and with his charming smile, Alan patted your head. “Where’s mama and papa?” You asked, now side by side with your brother, you clasped your hands together as you began to walk inside the manor along with him.

“They went out on a date,” he responded and with a short blow of your tongue, you rolled your eyes. “Business in Oscaar was a success,” your brother mentioned, his face now expressionless yet calm.

With a short raise of your eyebrows, you hummed in response. “The business is boring, I’m glad you’re inheriting it,” you muttered. “I just came back from the Ackermans, wonderful family,” you explained, expected to see a proud look on your brother’s face, your brows then furrowed when his face gently twisted in distaste.

You had wanted to question it, but it had appeared your brother beat you into talking. “I’ve actually been in du Aurous for two days,” your brother explained. “For those short two days I was actually in another meeting.”

“Oh, please tell me who,” you replied in faux interest and as you stopped in front of him, you had realised the dark look your brother had in his eyes.

His icy look had aided you to grow a feeling of anticipation, but before you could egg him on to speak, your brother opened his mouth. “It was with Sir. Argent.” With a slight freeze, your body paused before you allowed yourself to walk side by side with your brother around the manor. “He told me everything,” Alan said and muted, you had looked down to your feet.

As you raised your view to your brother, you gracelessly smiled. “You really believe anything that stubborn and bitter old man has to say about me?” You gently chuckled.

“Mama and papa think Eren has not laid with you yet, and think they have protected your integrity by forbidding him from you---but I know,” Alan seethed. “I kept your secret, and I’m willing to keep your secret, but Sir. Argent on the other hand, is not. He is willing to tell the entire world about your promiscuity, your events with Sir. Levi Ackerman and is even willing to tell the world you had influenced Lord Erwin Smith to lay with you.”

Frightened, you gently sucked in your breath as you had attempted to hold back your tears. “I’ve never laid with Erwin Smith,” you whispered and adamant, Alan folded his arms.

“Sir. Argent is willing on holding himself back,” Alan then said and with a slight relief, you had dropped your shoulders to your sides. “If you call off your promise to Mr. Ackerman and marry Sir. Argent.”

masterlist

[macfrog-deactivated20260304]

sex on fire | masterlist

ceo!joel miller x f!reader | ao3

DISCLAIMER: please read all chapter content warnings before reading!!! this series features adult content (18+)

you've worked for joel miller for three years now, as his personal assistant. answering calls, organizing his schedule, fulfilling every request he could dream of. it pays well, you know you're good at it, and you get along with all of your coworkers. there's just one you get along with...a little too well.

main series

chapter 1: you shook me all night long as joel miller's assistant, you're expected to meet all his needs. some are a little more personal than others

chapter 2: state-of-the-art joel’s had a rough week at work. you figure you know the perfect way to relieve some of his tension

chapter 3: mile high you accompany joel on a work trip to paris, to eat good food, drink expensive wine, and…get to know each other a little better

chapter 4: la petite mort you spend your second day in paris being spoiled by joel, who buys you anything you set eyes on. you’ve a treat of your own in mind as a thank-you, later on

chapter 5: faire l'amour it’s your last day away with joel. impulses are getting harder to control, feelings are getting harder to hide, and secrets are threatening to spill over…

✨ chapter 6: ace ✨ joel takes you on a day trip to go golfing. it turns out to be more fun than you expected

chapter 7: coming soon!

drabbles

➵ joel taking reader on his sailboat

[joelscruff]

feelings on fire masterlist *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

status: ongoing pairing: joel miller x f!reader summary: you're back from college for the summer, staying with your devout catholic parents in your childhood home while they order you around and try to keep authority over you. as an act of rebellion you ask your new neighbor mr. miller to teach you how to play guitar, but it turns out there's a lot more he wants to teach you. no outbreak, no use of y/n. rating: 18+ explicit (minors, do not interact) warnings (for the entire fic): age difference (reader is early 20s, joel is mid 50s), inexperienced/virgin reader, loss of virginity, corruption, mentions of religion (reader's family are very catholic), praise kink, pet names (use of babygirl, sweetheart, darling, etc), dirty talk, masturbation, unprotected p in v sex, creampies, comeplay, oral (both f and m recieving), voyeurism, size kink ao3 link

PART 1 🔥 PART 2 🔥 PART 3 🔥 PART 4 🔥 PART 5 🔥 PART 6 🔥 PART 7 🔥 PART 8 🔥 PART 8.5 (JOEL'S POV)

(total parts of this fic is still undetermined)

fic tag

moodboard (made by @august-poppy)

fanart (by @hecatombix)

more fanart (by @doodles-and-hedgehog )

playlist (made by @pazvizslasprincess)

pinterest board & edit (made by @ballofthedead)

[quotefeeling]

“I owe myself the biggest apology for putting up with what I didn’t deserve.”

— Unknown

[spitblossoms]

[animusrox]

You know what they did to me for being a hero? They put my ass in jail for 30 years.

The Falcon and the Winter Soldier (2021)  Episode 5: “Truth”  

[roseofithaca]

Do you think Jesus ever got many carpenter requests after he started preaching? Like did anyone ever go up to him and be like; "My Lord! My Lord!" And the disciples are all: "The Master won't do anymore miracles today." But obviously Jesus is like; "Yes, my child?" And they just ask what his basic rate is to fix their door.

[sweetiepie08]

No one talks enough about the fact that Jesus had a day job.

[ranty9000]

He repaired the relationship between humanity and god, he also repaired the table in his friend Mary's house cuz it wobbled too much.

[firelordderpy]

“Jesus!”

“How can I help you my child?”

“So the Chair I got from you and your dad is great, but I tripped over it and it broke, I was hoping you could fix it?”

“Go home and be at peace, your chair is fixed.”

“Lord, did you really just use a miracle to fix his chair?”

“Luke my son, it was still under warranty.”

[tardigradetheking]

“honey that guy who made our table got crucified” 

[amateur]

What’s happening on Twitter? 😂

[ruinedchildhood]

https://twitter.com/smashmouth/status/992478669435060224?s=19

[steampunktallulah]

Love smash mouth

[ryonceagsalud]

What’s going on this year

[ruinedchildhood]

What is happening? 😂

[victorious]

[thefishychicken]

LMAO He just said he does

[ruinedchildhood]

https://twitter.com/TheRock/status/588913900789309440?s=19

[natural--blues]

[imanambulance]

LMAO reblogging again because of 5he sass from dictionary.com 😂😂

[ultracheese]

[awildpaige]

Y'all know when you get wrecked by the damn dictionary you’re a fool

[starsberrisnunicorns]

Never Forget 😂

[usedtobe-a-crazygirlthinking]

The best fucking post on here

[ruinedchildhood]

[trashpandagamer]

IT’S BACK

[boylikeme94]

Thread was missing my fave part.

[official-lucifers-child]

i’m actually wheezing at all of this

[distractful]

My "stay in bed all day" game too strong

[laketaj24]

Whew facts 😂

[throwbackblr]

And 30 years of The Jeffersons reruns. 

[studentlifeproblems]

[jaubaius]

Tactoon-cat Cartoons

[articulate-anxious-atheist-deac]

With each I was like “Surely the cat doesn’t actually look like that in the image. surely this is an exaggeration.” but then I scrolled and yes, the cats are liquid