🌾Appalachian Cowboy🌾

Artwork:

Red Dead Redemption:

Portrait of Arthur #1

"C'mon. You heard what the doc said, Woman. Let's getchu in that bath. Gotta open them lungs up." Arthur's voice echoes in your aching mind, harshly pulling you out of a sick-dazed slumber.

In protest, you manage a groan, although croupy and not without paying the price of a hard cough, "N-No."

Arthur's patience is as thin as spider silk, especially after the rattle of that cough. He's more than eager to make you feel better, even if he seems a little less than kind.

"Stubborn as a damn mule," he mutters under his breath as he strips the covers from your body and gives the round swell of your ass a few swats to get you going.

He means no harm in it, truly. His only focus is to get you in the bath like the doctor had ordered. But the instant he spits the reddened flush of your cheeks and how your lips part to pull in a heavy breath when your lungs cannot, he slides a gentle hand over the curve of your hip to guide you onto your back in silent apology.

It is a feat akin to climbing the tallest of mountains. With one elbow crooked below you, your bicep trembles until he grasps your other arm in assistance.

Your limbs sprawl out upon the expansive bed, resting on the downy blankets in a small triumphant victory over the first of many challenges that life has presented you with as of late. But with just one aided turn, you're already far too fatigued to even celebrate- let alone consider getting out of bed.

"I just wanna lay here a little longer." Satin wrinkles stick to the side of your cheek, emphasizing the puffiness around your nose and under your eyes like you had been crying all evening; you most certainly could if you would allow yourself to. Everything aches - the very nerve endings in your face pound in tune with the migraine hammering away inside of your skull.

For anyone to see you struggle like this, to see how badly this ailment has taken a toll on you, is a rarity. Well, all except for Arthur. He knows that you most certainly are not made of glass. You are as tough as nails. He of all people knows just how much you can handle. But this? This is beyond anything he has witnessed before, even on the worst of days. You are downright weakly and peaked: your usual vibrant demeanor is entirely dulled by sickness.

-

It all started earlier in the week with a headache that you were certain could be explained away by the extra weight you had been pulling around camp. With Arthur and the only other men in camp willing enough to lift a finger to help gone on various jobs for Dutch, meant that picking up slack had been left up to you and the other women around camp for nearly two weeks. Chopping wood, feeding the horses, hunting down food, lifting and pulling, all on top of the other "womanly duties" assigned to the daily list of never-ending chores.

You had not minded the work at first- staying busy to keep your mind away from what dangers Arthur could possibly find himself in had made the time pass by much quicker. And when that familiar, annoying little ache pushed from the back of your skull to the front of your eyes, you figured it had been due to the stress of his departure. Only was it after Arthur's return did the stuffiness set in and eventually, a deep crackling wheeze crept into your breaths.

He had tried his best to bite his tongue and let you work for the last few days, but when morning came, he had finally had enough when you couldn't rightly stand to dress yourself for the day, not without toppling over the bedside table and into his arms.

There had been quite a bit of fuss that ensued when he scooped you up, half-dressed and wrapped in that old, tattered blanket barely hanging on by the patched threads mended by your hands over the years. But before morning broke the treeline, and despite your grievances, Arthur saddled up his mare and raced you straight to Dr. Barnes in Saint-Denis.

The ride was a rough one. Although Arthur tried to make it as easy of a trip as possible, there had been no way to ease the hard shock of clomping hooves hitting solid ground. And just as the agonizing nausea of riding horseback began to subside, the bustling sounds of the inner city hit your ears- piercing your aching mind with whistles from workhouses and clouding your thoughts with the putrid stink of machinery smog. The only thing anchoring you to the moment was the certainty of Arthur's strong hold up on your half-limp form and the soft murmurs he had whispered against your ear: "Yer alright." "Jus' stay 'wake for me." "We're right 'round the corner, Darlin. We'll be there any second, so keep them eyes open."

Arthur guided his mare to a stop in front of what looked like a tall-standing hotel with a modest sign out front that read: 'DR. JOSEPH R. BARNES, M.D. PHYSICIAN & SURGEON'. Arthur had been to this doc once before on his own accord to sell some herbs needed for tinctures and salves. From your recollection, Arthur had mentioned how nice a fella this Dr. Barnes seemed to be. You had not met the man yourself, but Arthur's word was always a truthful promise, never guiding you astray.

Everything slipped into a blur when Arthur slid off the saddle and guided you down into his awaiting arms. Your feet barely touched the ground before the world swirled back into view and the early morning sun broke through the white wisp of clouds above to shine directly into your throbbing pupils. He circled an arm around your waist and hoisted you up the steps, pressing you to his side as he pushed open the front door with his shoulder.

"Bring her through these doors." Dr. Barnes' voiced behind the counter, instructing Arthur to hasten his steps.

Dr. Barnes' office had not been unlike any other that you have visited in the past, although admittedly far and few between it had been. As far as medical offices go, Barnes' seemed to be the most welcoming: anatomy posters plastered upon the walls just through the entry, tinctures and other remedies lining curio cabinets to the left, and the golden filter of morning sunlight shimmering in through the large windows at the far side of the room cast a bright light to welcome in prospective patients.

The examination process had not been filled with all the dread that most experience during a visit. Though visiting any doctor is always costly and unpleasant. But for Arthur's sake, you held yourself with dignity and did not dare put up much of a fuss - not that you had any energy to do so anyway.

The doc listened to your lungs carefully with the long probuscus- like attachment leading to a pair of hearing receptors, not needing to do much further testing than firmly tapping your sternum to determine which of the two lungs had been more congested.

Barnes concluded that you had some sort of common cold or 'Catarrh' as he put it.

"Catarrh is common this time of year, for which there is some speculation on curing such an ailment. Though none are quite conclusive in the medical sciences, I'm afraid." Dr. Barnes looked to you and then Arthur from where he washed his hands beneath the silvered-faucet tap.

"There ain't anything at all you can do to help her, Doc?" Arthur had been worried, and rightfully so. If he or you had waited any longer, Dr. Barnes suspected that this could have turned to Winter Fever, even after winter had long passed.

"Hot liquids, steamed baths, and plenty of rest should do the trick." He assured betterment in your condition within the week.

Arthur lacked much experience in the hospitable ways of taking care of the sick, unlike Hosea. A swig or two of whiskey, rubbing some mint salve upon his chest, and a hard day's work were his usual go-tos for a good cure. But for you? His inexperience made him a lost cause.

So, he figured that the best course of action was to take you off to someplace far more fitting for a lady... Like The Bastille. Fluffed beds, a porcelain tub, and some peace and quiet away from all the constant interruptions that camp life brings, he figured, would do you both some good.

- "Now, Darlin', you know ya can't. I wantchu breathin' right an' layin' here ain't gonna getchu no better."

Arthur's words are truth: lying here in this bed will not do you a single bit of good, but it surely means that getting up will not be any easier, either.

Guiding your palms on either side of your aching form, you dig and press them into the soft sheets beneath you, all in hopes that your shivering arms might hold you up long enough to swing your legs over the side of the bed.

If you looked up at his face, you would see his expression screwing into an unpleasant scowl for each little grunt and whine that escapes your lips as you attempt to peel yourself away from the comforting warmth of the plush bedding - a far cry from your shared, lumpy cot back at camp.

Soft fibers from the elaborate rug spread out below upon the cold, hardwood floors, brush against the very tips of your toes as you still at the bed's edge. Despite the ornate luxury of its solid frame, it creaks beneath each subtle shift upon its mattress, groaning in tune with the low, feeble sounds escaping your chest.

A swimming sickness circles around your head, stemming from the fullness of your sinuses, prompting your body to inch closer to his for comfort and for stability.

He smooths his hands over your shoulders, along the nape of your neck, and between your shoulder blades repetitively. All the while, you nuzzle yourself against his sternum just to hear the steady thrum of his heart beating beneath the warm surface of his skin. Its drum-like rhythm soothes the swirling storm of discomfort behind your eyes for the time being.

Hiding the desire to stay in his comforting embrace for a little while longer is a nearly impossible task, but in reluctance, you part yourself from him. Instead, you offer your hands for him to grasp, where he wraps his weathered fingers around yours to effortlessly guide you on your feet. Steady is the mass of man before you, but your knees wobble as if the earth itself were trembling beneath the streets of Saint-Denis, rocking you to and fro with the harsh motions of a quake.

"Easy now.. Don'tchu go fallin' on me." Arthur is quick to catch you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you close to the front of himself in order to ease the burden of your exhaustion.

Embracing you so closely, no matter what the circumstance, is never an issue for Arthur. Excuse after excuse would spill out of his lips just to rest the palm of his hand on the dip of your waist, carved out like the beautiful mountainous terrain of The Grizzlies.

"No.. No. I'm alright. I can walk- just need to get my bearings." You press a palm to his chest, readying yourself to part from his grasp.

"Mhmm. I see that." He steadies you with a firm, yet gentle hold. His body is strong and sturdy like the mighty trunk and roots of a large oak tree: he is there to hold you right and proper through the winds of life, no matter how harsh they may become.

"Uh uh, well, you'd see me walkin' away from you right now if you weren't holdin' onto me." The world around you spins, but sure as they say you were born, there is a stubbornness within that would fight him tooth and nail to do this walk on your own.

"'At so?" Sarcasm laces his grin-bitten words. His hands are reluctant to leave you, even as you straighten yourself up and take a few unsteady steps forward.

Everything in your periphery dizzies into a whirlwind of feverish delusion: where you once thought the doorway to be is the corner edge of a chest of drawers. Shivering weakness radiates throughout your limbs, buckling your knees and forcing you to steady yourself against the solid oak furniture. Arthur only watches for a moment, smoothing his hand over your lower back until you buckle once more, nearly toppling over the fancy finery decorating the top of the chest's surface, before he scoops you up into his arms.

"Arthur!" You gasp at the swift upheaval of your trembling form. "Put me down!"

"Ain't no way 'n hell I'm sittin' by just to watchu stumble like a foal." That is exactly what you had looked like: legs weak like a newborn pony struggling to hold itself up for the very first time.

He might be strong-headed and rigid in his lack of compromise, but sickness or not, you're just as insistent. "'Yer gonna hurt 'yer back! I'm too heavy!"

He stops halfway through the bathroom entry, dim orange lighting highlighting the offense that has overtaken the furrow of his brow. "You think I can't carry you?"

"It's not-"

"'Sides," he continues without pause. "I don't hear you complainin' when I'm tossin' ya around while we're up to other things." He leaves no room for objection, carrying you the rest of the way to the tub like a bride floating over the threshold in her lover's arms.

La Bastille does not shy away from the fancy finery that most describe the high society, French aristocrats to have in their luxury homes across the water. The room around you is cast in a dim, lantern-lit glow of candle-like wall sconces. Curtains and blinds are drawn shut for your comfort, only just barely allowing the evening sunlight to pour through the bottom gaps of fabric to shine upon the tiled floor. Ornate red wallpaper decorates the interior, consuming the room in a passionate orange-red lighting to match the flames licking in the hearth behind the porcelain bath. Even a plush, red couch rests on the other side of the room in full view of the tub.

This room, this suite, is suited for honeymooners, you reckon. Especially, with all the flowers and romantic drapery strewn between the two rooms. You least expected such opulence from a hotel stay, but Arthur went out of his way to request such a suite to ensure that no disturbances would ensue - a picture-perfect image of a Saint-Denis getaway for two lovers looking for a place to hide away and explore all that their mortal flesh has to offer.

The world is quickly brought back into view as the cold lip of the claw-foot tub brushes against the backs of your thighs as Arthur lowers you to sit just above the sudsy, steaming water.

"Th-Thank you," you murmur sheepishly.

"Shoah. You just rest up 'til we can work them clothes off." He smooths his hands over the bareness of your knees, just barely brushing his fingertips under the fabric of your chemise before giving the slightest squeeze to your soft flesh.

Having rid yourself of your outer clothing and stays, the only thing left upon your body is an old cotton chemise and the linen drawers concealing the full swell of your hips. Only when you have caught your breath does he slowly help you back up onto your feet, aiding in ridding you of your last layers.

His calloused fingertips are careful to ghost over your bicep, curling over your shoulder to the thin strip of fabric holding your chemise in place. Arthur's not always a delicate man, but somehow in the comforting confines of privacy, he never manages to brush you over with anything less than the tenderness of a man in holy admiration for every divinely-given mark upon your imperfect-perfect form.

Even now in your sickened state, Arthur gazes down at you as if it were the very first time he were seeing you bared before him: his gentle blue eyes half-lidded, barely concealing the inner storming depths of emotion within them, and his full lips parted to draw in the air laced with your delicate scent.

God, how he remembers that night and all the nights there after. Never once forgetting the sight of you undressing yourself for the unforgettable pleasures that lovemaking can bring.

One hand rests upon the small of your back to brace you while he crouches down by your thighs to test the temperature of the water. His fingertips extend forward, skimming over the soapy surface permeated with the scent of something sweet and floral, like wild honeysuckle.

With his presence by your hip, your eyes drift over toward the couch nestled away near the entrance of the bathroom. How many times have visitors come to sit up on its plush seating to undress or lounge while their partner bathes before them? Had other things happened upon its surface? What sort of things would you and Arthur do upon such a fine piece of furniture?

Arthur's eyes flit away from the bath to peer up at you, watching as your eyes glitter with curiosity, imagining all the ways in which you two could make use of that couch if you had not been so sick. He shifts his head, peering over at the couch himself before looking back at you with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

He leans in, and you gasp.

The gentle scrape of his beard against your hip is soon soothed by his lips pressing a tender kiss right along the soft stretch of skin between the connecting joint of your hip to your thigh. He rises to his full height in front of you, allowing his fingertips to drag a small path from your thighs to the small of your back. Still, his palms have sought purchase upon you, lightly squeezing your hips in silent urgency to slip into the awaiting waters behind you.

"Just hold on to me, Darlin'. I gotcha."

Goosebumps pebble across your flesh the instant your foot makes contact with the hot, sudsy water. His right hand is careful to hold your arm, while the other is motionless and firm against your back lest you fall. Carefully, you bend and lower down into the lake of warmth, encasing your shivering limbs inch by inch until it has risen to your bosom, just barely concealing the supple, round flesh of your breasts.

Hot steam rolls off the bath, settling in the air like fresh fog to bring in the dew of a spring morning. It works its way into your crackling lungs, soothing the pain of your labored breaths, and the water encasing your chest relieves the soreness in your rib cage from one too many attempts at clearing out the tickling ache in your windpipe.

"Ah.." An audible sigh escapes your lips as relaxation passes over you for, what feels like, the first time in weeks.

Blackness crawls from the recesses of exhaustion and opens its mouth wide to consume your vision in the nothingness behind your fluttering lids. There in that darkness every sound is heightened like the shrillness of a hat-pin clattering against the floor in a silent room. Crackling embers inside the burning hearth catch wind and pop wildly with the smallest whine and simmering fizzle. Droplets of water trickle out from the stretched faucet’s neck, long and craned over like a beautiful swan patiently waiting for a dip in the lake of milky warmth below. Even the soft pads of Arthur’s feet tap rhythmically against the cold tile as he flits around gathering up things you care not to look at in your comfortable position.

A loud scrape, followed by a creaking wooden-groan, echoes to your left where he reclines in the vanity chair that was once nestled away beneath the mirror. Yes, it is a blissful kind of rest here behind your eyelids, where sleep is fast to encroach on the dying threads of consciousness. Only… if it weren’t for the sudden knocking rapture at the front door willing you back to the world. 

“Who’s that?” You stare at Arthur, wide-eyed and fearful of what dangers may lurk beyond the confines of this room, though he soothes you with an air of confidence only years of self-defense can attain. “You jus’ wait here. I’ll be right back.” He waves a careful hand in your direction and quiets himself with precaution. 

He leaves you there, silent and wishful that no trouble has come to claim either of you.  Had someone managed to see his poster plastered someplace along the way to Saint Denis? Was he spotted racing you into town? Thoughts speed in the back of your mind with the galloping beat of your heart. Blood rushes to your ears, deafening any sounds coming from the other room.. That is, until the distinctive low hum of Arthur’s voice reverberates its way back to you. 

“What do I owe?” 

There, in the distance, another voice echoes back, someone unrecognizable that Arthur is conversing with. But just as soon as you try to distinguish to whom and what Arthur is discussing, the hard close of wood against wood cuts the opportunity short. 

Distinct little tinks of metal and of glass draw your attention to the doorway. There, you spot Arthur rolling in a brass cart. His stride is long and purposeful as he makes his way toward the tub. Atop its mirrored surface rests food and drink in a sea of silver platters. Wine, two glasses, a bowl of clear broth, and a dish filled with the prettiest and most succulent little strawberries you ever did see, all await your taste buds to sample.

“Where’d you get all this?” You ask in wonderment, never knowing that food could be delivered to a room upon request.

“Ain’t much, but I figured you’d need a little somethin’ to keep that fever down.” He settles down in his chair once more, stretching out his tired back with a sigh.

“You're too good to me, Arthur.. Ya know that?” Sincerity falls from your lips like the fresh morning dew dripping from the distended bellies of cupped leaves.

“You deserve it… Now, open up.” He presses the tip end of a warmed spoon to your lips, watching as you open for him and drink the savory broth down with a delicate hum. 

Thoughtful and caring are usually not the best descriptors for a man like Arthur Morgan, yet here he is feeding you from a silver spoon. Silver spoons, silver platters, silver leaf… Everything would be made of the finest silvers and golds if he could afford it to give, but pretending for one night that he can is enough.

“‘At good?” He is careful to wipe the remnants of broth from your bottom lip and chin with the rough, yet tender, pad of his thumb.

“Mm.. ‘S real good. But..” You shift toward the lip of the tub, crossing your arms over one another and resting your chin upon the softness of your flesh there with the smallest sparkle in your glassy eyes. 

“I’d enjoy this a lot more if you got in here with me.” 

On that suggestion alone, he would have dove in there without a second thought in his mind- standing up from his chair as if he were willed from some part of him nestled so deeply hidden inside the innermost sanctum of his fantasies. Entirely foregoing the idea of undressing, he would step one foot inside that tub at a time, letting his jeans wick up the honeyed promise of love until he would sink down into its cavernous depths, soaked and baptized in your humble passion. Yet he struggles with the concept of taking enjoyment in the whim of this fantasy. Not while you are unwell. 

“Ya know I want to, Darlin’... But-” You interject before he can even explain his reasoning. 

“C’mon, I ain’t gonna bite.” 

He gives you an incredulous look, knowing full well what that bite of yours can feel like if prompted. He mulls it over in the soft scrape of a spoon gliding across the smoothed ceramic bottom of the broth bowl.

He can’t indulge in this, can he? Not while you’re sick. Right?

He glances from his hand to your fluttering lashes, then your rosy lips all parted and waiting for him alone.  “Goddamn temptress,” He mutters, knowing you’ve fully won him over with that look- like a siren that has pulled many sailors out to sea.

A slight hint of caution laces his voice as he warns, “Alright. But don’tchu get too excited now, y’hear me?” 

The cock of his eyebrow prompts you to answer, and you do with a soft nod in understanding. Though inside, you’re reeling at the thought of having him bathe with you like this after so long. 

He’s huffing out a soft breath as he rises from his chair and works open his riding shirt, worn from many years of work and wear. Threading each white-shelled token through its eyelet at such a slow pace that you are certain he is half putting on a show just for you. And you gladly watch: doe-eyed and expectant of each glimpse of flesh shown right before your very eyes.

Layer by layer falls away from his strong frame in the quiet, measured precision of having undressed himself many times over in front of your gentle, ever-observant gaze- catching the glittering hope of intimacy underneath the warm flicker of firelight and the most beautiful incandescent glow of lamps mounted on either side of these ruby walls. It swirls behind your pupils like the tiniest lightning bug held captive and hopeful for release. Yet, you wait there on bated breath, following each freckle, scar, and mark upon his lengthy torso, traveling down the smattering of hair around his naval until you land right on his perfectly shaped and untrimmed pubis. There, his length springs free, already half-mast and twitching slightly with the anticipation of the all-encompassing warmth and softness that is your body being pressed against his.

One foot in and you scooch forward, water sloshing ever so slightly with the lowering of his body behind yours. Neither of you cares as soap spills over the porcelain lips of the tub and onto the floor as if the earth cracked open to pour out a rushing river of honey-scented fluff.

It is home here with him guiding you back through his parted knees to rest upon his softly muscled front. 

“There. Now, ya happy?” Despite the feigned derision lacing his words, Arthur is just as content and satisfied as your settling bones.

“Mhmm. Very.”

A rumbled hum only leaves him in response, though his lips pressing to your shoulder in silent affection speak louder volumes than words ever could.

You missed him so terribly over these last weeks that the center of you opened wide and ached with the labor of your crackling breaths.

Intimacy has been sparse to say the least.

With his constant errant running for Dutch and any other soul that pulls him away from peace, the simplicities found in the quiet evenings beneath that old tattered quilt have been far and few between. Calloused fingertips dragging over your plump middle, silent with reverence, remind you of the unwavering thrum of desire held ever-present in the very depths residing within you- ready and waiting forevermore.

Pleasant, comfortable silence creeps into every corner and slides along every shiny, fire-licked surface, leaving only the faint shifting of wood in the hearth and the steady breaths entering Arthur’s lungs to be heard. Time passes by slowly as you stay adrift in the in-between of consciousness and sleep. That is, until he leans toward the side of the tub in search of sustenance.

With one arm wrapped lazily around your middle, his right hand slips out of the water in favor of reaching for a chocolate-covered strawberry. Plucked from the pile and held in front of your lips, Arthur makes the offering of temptation laced in the sweetness of a candied gem. 

“Open.” There is no suggestion here- No leeway for objection in the silent tucking of lips in refusal; he wants you to eat.

Your lips part open tentatively, unsure of what such a sweet concoction might taste like. Having only tried chocolates once yourself when you were a child, you cannot quite recall their flavor. But acquiring them, however, is another story stamped into your memory like a branding iron- which may or may not have involved your cousin snatching a box or two from some well-to-do distant relatives that came to visit your family’s farm. 

But that was long ago, and now, Arthur is offering you another chance at relishing a sophisticate’s treat. 

-

He could watch you like this forever: hair haphazardly pinned up in a bun, wet curls clinging to the base of your neck, cheeks flushed, and eyes fluttering shut as your lips wrap around the red-ripened, fleshy fruit of the strawberry he offers you. A picture- perfect vision of beauty that he only believed his dreams could conjure. Dreams of old hopes and forgotten promises, yet you were here in spite of them all, to permit a man without pleasantries to dream once more.

Sweetness rolls over your tongue for the first time in what feels like weeks, coming in cresting waves of pleasure with each decadent bursting of flavor as you chew. Though nothing is as pleasurable as the comforting warmth of his chest behind you, or how his left arm is slung lazily around the softness of your middle beneath the steaming, sudsy water like an anchor planting you right where you need to be.

Lazy, wet kisses brush over the ball of your shoulder, rounding up the supple dip of your neck in a delicate dance of tenderness hinged on promise. It's a subtle shift there, but you feel it. Right there in the pit of your stomach, it simmers like a kettle over a roaring flame.

"You like that?" He hums when the soft touch of his lips meets the shell of your ear.

Oh, what you wouldn't give to turn your head and press your lips to his.

He's right there, mere inches away from giving you what you want. But therein lies the game: no lip-smacked affection or the smothered press of love's promise, lest you infect him with the very cold that's plaguing you.

In between a broken hum of agreement and a murmur, you give him a soft ‘Mhmm’ while wiping the remnants of sugary juice away from the corners of your pursed lips.

Arthur is entirely oblivious to what effect he has on you, how even though your insides ache with infection, they still call out for him- branded in the shape of his name. 

Strawberry, followed by wine, then little morsels of bread are eaten on rotation, one after the other, given with an outstretched hand or by the gentle press of crystaline glass against your lips, ushering you to drink.

“Mm-I feel like one of them rich, high society folk with all these amenities.” Arthur’s hand guides the glass into yours, allowing you to hold it as he rounds your shoulder to replenish your cup. Once filled, he takes a lengthy pull from the long-necked bottle.

“Yeah, I reckon I’m just your fan-bearer, huh?” He hums lowly with a teasing lilt to his wine-coated, silken tone. It's not like he wouldn’t fan you with a few palm fronds, though palms are nowhere to be seen this far east; maybe with a tree branch or two, he could manage.

“You ain’t no fan-bearer.” A small scoff of amusement leaves you at the idea, but you know he would do it in a heartbeat if you truly needed it. “... But I do like the treatment.” 

“Yeah, I’d say you do enjoy gettin’ pampered like a fine lady.” Arthur’s fingertips glide over the softness encasing your ribs, lightly squeezing as if to emphasize his point.

“You sayin’ I ain’t fine?” The hitch of your brow as you turn your head toward him draws up a smirk upon his lips. 

“Oh, Darlin’. You’re as fine as frog’s hair.” Arthur's humorous hum is infectious, causing a lazy smile to spread over your once soured expression. 

Moments like this with him are exactly what your body has been calling out for: lazy movements, drawn-out kisses pressed against honey-slick skin, the easiness of slow living, and the certainty of comfort in his love’s embrace. All of this and more is what could be had if things were different. 

“We’d be quite somethin’ to see all fancy. Wouldn’t we?” Fingertips raise up from the water to catch his hand,  pebbled beads of glimmering beauty dance across the smoothness of skin and drip down into the pool awaiting their return. 

“You’d be the sight to see.” He means it- imagining you all gussied up in the finest fabrics a man could buy, dining out, frequenting picture shows, lavish luxuries of staying in the fanciest hotels each night. He’s imagined it all, desperately wishing he could provide you with something different, something stable.

“Mm.. ‘Yer already a sight to see.” With a delicate tug, you pull his hand to your lips and kiss his palm affectionately. Of course, you have imagined a life of leisure a thousand times over, but you wouldn’t trade this, nor trade Arthur, for the entire world. Not when all you have ever truly needed is to have him right here by your side.

He huffs out breath, sounding as if he is dismissing the idea entirely, but if you look back at him, the flush of flattery coats his handsome features in a soft pink. He isn't a prideful man- far from it. But hearing your compliments always swells his chest with the satisfaction of a man knowing that he is truly fortunate to have a woman like you on his arm. 

Soft kisses trail over his palm, plush lips dragging over weather-roughened skin with all the longing of desperation and admiration for such softness underlying that toughened exterior. Your lips carve a path over his palm, wrist, forearm, bicep, and then settle on the week-old scruff covering his strong jaw. Sharp hairs prick at the softness of your pliant mouth, reminding you of the many nights you claimed him here, tasting his sweat-salted skin after a hard day’s work. 

His eyes glinted with wonder-  heavy-lidded and lips parted a hair’s breadth away from yours. You see the shift in his expression. No longer are you solely feeling that warmth in your abdomen. No, it creeps in between every little nook and cranny of your bodies, buzzing intensely like the electrical charge of a lightning storm.

His hand slips down over your side, squeezing at your water-softened skin as if he were keeping himself grounded from taking you just as you are. God, you can feel him behind you: strong and taut, encompassed by soft skin, length pressing against the small of your back with a twitching need for friction. 

“Careful, Darlin’. Keep lookin’ at me like ‘at an’ I’m not liable to keep my hands from wanderin’.” He murmurs low in his chest, a threat laced in a warm breath ghosting over your opened mouth.

“What if I ain’t ain’t askin’ ya to keep ‘em still?” Hot breath mingles like smoke possessed by desire. 

His eyebrow twitches up, and a slight smirk curls at one corner of his mouth, “That right?” 

That hand by your side slips up out of the water and dances across your ribcage with trepidation. He fears overwhelming you in such a state, touching far sooner than your body is able to handle.

“Is this whatchu want? Wantin’ me to touch you?” Blue eyes flit over your features with uncertainty, gauging your reaction as his fingertips barely skim the underside of your breast. “Y-Yes.” Sure as you have ever been, you breathe out with a certainty of what you want right now: him. 

“You miss me touchin’ here?” He slips his fingertips over the swell of your breast, sending electric pulses of desire straight through the very center of your being as the entirety of his palm engulfs your supple breast. Calloused fingerprints trace absentminded shapes, following the natural full slope leading to your pebbled nipple.

How could you not miss him- missed the rarity of gentleness held within these hands that are only saved for you? “What ‘bout here?” His right has fully slipped between your legs without warning, pushing past the thickness in the innermost portion of your thighs just to trace his fingertips over the thatch of hair concealing your seam. 

“Arthur-” His name catches in your throat with a hard swallow. 

“Hey, Hey. Easy now, Darlin’.” 

All movements cease as air crawls down the wrong side of your windpipe, tickling awake the sickness still lingering within your tired chest. Crooping, muscus-filled coughs jolt your body forward away from his front. Clawed stinging wrapped around your throat like a vice, squeezing tightly and seizing any airflow to your lungs. 

He is quick to act, leaning forward with your motions, his hands lifting from the water to grab the bottle of wine upon the serving cart. In a second’s worth of time, he holds a thinned, intricate crystal glass filled with maroon drink to your parted lips. 

“C’mon, baby. Just a little sip fur me,” he urges desperately. 

Your trembling lips wrap around the delicate edge, and with his guiding hand, you draw the tart wine into your mouth and swallow it down with an audible gulp. Arthur pulls the glass from you as you gasp in search of an easier breath to fill your strained lungs.  

“I-I’m okay. I jus’ got a little choked is all.” Pink floods your cheeks, flushing your skin with the color of life.

“Yeah? You sure I  ain’t hurtin’ ya?” His left hand smooths over your back, absentmindedly following the path of water droplets racing down the length of your spine.

“I’m alright. I promise.” A lazy little smile spreads over your lips despite the ache persisting in your chest. “You’re  helpin’ more than hurtin’.” 

Seeing you like this, choking for air like a fish out of water - it is not easy for him, not when he’s convinced you are just one lost breath away from an early grave.

He debates on whether or not to even continue, but feeling your fingertips stroking over his arm eases the worry and leads to an easier decision.

“Alright then. Butchu best tell me if you start feelin’ unwell, ya hear?” 

However skeptical Arthur is, he doesn’t argue with that hum of agreement. No, instead, he guides you back into his welcoming embrace, letting you gather your senses. And only when he is sure that your breaths have steadied, his fingertips continue their exploration in familiar territory. Like crossing the Lannaheche, the pads of his fingertips slip between the valley of your thighs and split your seam.

Warmth blooms in your center, wet and welcome as he feels around only for a moment before he finds that hardened little bead sheathed beneath your delicate folds- a pearl encased in satin petals. It’s a sensation unlike any other when his middle finger rounds the little pebble with such care: warmth encased in an electrifying current.

There is hardly any lubrication- Surprisingly so, given how drenched you are. It seems that the water has entirely washed away any semblance of slip there; however, that does not mean there isn’t enjoyment to be had. Arthur slightly rolls his fingertip against that sweet spot he has come to recognize over the years, pulsating to a steady tune that has each nerve ending waking with garnered attention.

You unfurl for him, stretched limbs lying limply beneath the water, opened up like an oyster, and his hand is the fisherman admiring your pearl. It feels so damn good like this- to have something else to focus on other than the aches and pains riddling your body damn near useless on any other occasion. But he aims to get you squared away tonight, to have you right as rain within the week, as long as he can keep that stubbornness at bay. He wouldn’t dare admit it out loud, but he loves that fire in you, and to see it dimmed by such sickness is something he would be damned to witness again. 

A glimmering fleck of determination crosses his features, pulling at his brow and scrunching his eyes as he searches for the right spot to rouse those nerve endings. Oh, does he find that spot quite quickly. Tight little circles pressed and rubbed at such a consistent pressure that soft, unintelligible groans spill from your parted lips to praise him for his efforts. 

“Still good?” His breaths, once even, are shuddering. 

If you were able to speak, you would give him an exemplary exclamation precisely on how those rough fingertips are making you feel. Buzzing with unbridled avidity beneath the rough pad of his first finger the supple nerve pearls, hardening with the promise to come for him just like this. 

An open-mouthed groan parts your lips from such pleasant ministrations. He needs nothing verbalized now, nothing at all for him to understand that this is exactly what you need from him at this moment. 

“Shh.. I gotchu. Just focus on breathin’, I’ll take care ‘a the rest.” Seduction and comfort all wrapped up in one neat little package pour from his lips in the quiet found between steady breaths. 

Small, lazy circles transition to fast flicks, rocking your clit back and forth into a speedy pattern that races you toward the peak of your arousal. Water slightly sloshes, cresting the lip of the tub and spilling over with soft splashes with the rolling of your hips into his deft fingers. But just as your breaths begin to shudder, Arthur stills, cupping your sex to provide as little friction as possible.

“Arthur-“ you sound, a whine catching on a captured cough.

“Take another drink. Go on.” 

Glass is positioned back into your trembling hand. Topped off with a little more bordeaux, Arthur too takes a long pull from the bottle as you drink for him.

“Good Girl.” Breaths labored, he praises through grit. 

A long stretch toward the cart settles both the bottle and your glass down upon the shining surface. With renewed vigor, Arthur rewards you with the long drag of pleasure in teasing your sensitive sex with the gentle scrape of his knuckles against your seam.

Arthur drags his fingers back over the underside of your breast, spreading white foamed soap over your silken skin and up over your pebbled nipple. Rolling between his forefinger and thumb, he pinches and tugs that sweet erogenous flesh just to feel how your back arches into his maddening touch. 

Lips press into the dip of your neck as a reminder that he isn’t just fingers and hands, that he is whole, and that he is more than willing to provide you this release. Heavy breaths pour over your skin with the roll of steam rising from the lake of suds where your bodies are concealed. 

With one gentle tug, he releases your nipple and glides his hand southward, lightly gripping onto the plump deposit of flesh seated around your ribcage before dipping beneath the water to join his other in bringing you to the brink of insanity. His left opens and wraps around the inner fleshy bit of your thigh, opening you up further for him by guiding the crook of your knee to bend and rest over the long length of his leg. And when he lifts his knee, you are spread entirely wide, allowing for the waters to rush past your seam and encompass each delicate fold in the cleansing of a warm kiss.

Hard bone encased in the padding of a worn palm heels against your throbbing clit, applying just enough pressure to relax the ache in your loins. Fuck. The urge to grind down against the hardness of his hand, to grind against the hardness pressed against your back, is paramount and overtaking every other sense with the wickedness of pleasure. Sensing such compulsion, Arthur makes the effort to stretch the two innermost fingers of his hand toward your entrance, circling the tight little shape before piercing your flesh with his own. 

The heel of his hand presses against the whole of your cunt and squirms only slightly when angling to sink deeper within your silken depths to search for that textured, spongy spot. Slithering tendrils of touch push and rub their way straight to the spot that has your lips parting in awe to suck in a deep breath. Whimpered expletives tumble from your lips and only serve to put a proud smirk upon his lips alongside a fearsome ache in his cock. 

“Y’alright? Ain’t workin’ ya too hard?” His voice is low, dripping with seduction despite his concern. 

“‘S g-good. So good,” you babble in encouragement. 

He shifts behind you, pressing himself against your back to feel the slightest semblance of friction as your body begins to reach the end stages of sexual harmony.

It’s been years since the very first time he touched you and years since then that he’s discovered each delicate part of your body, mentally mapping out all the areas that make you writhe in his grasp. Pressing his palm to your cunt, however, is a new technique to add to the ever-growing list of ways to make you come apart at the seams. 

Fire licks across your loins with the promise of a speedy orgasm. Especially so when he forms the shape of a hook just to pull, rock, and wriggle to and fro until you are cresting the mountainous wave in raptures. 

“Oh. I’m gonna-“ You warn, delving your hands beneath the waters in search of an anchor- placing one upon your left thigh and the other around his rolling wrist. 

Arthur can’t stop now. He won’t. 

“That’s it. C’mon, Darlin’.” Arthur follows every writhing bend and jerk your hips make until you’re tensing in agonizing bliss. 

He is half bent over you from behind, fingers buried in your quivering cunt so deep that you’re seeing flashes of the many nights spent staring up at the glittering stars over The Heartlands while Arthur lay between your thighs. 

Flick. Crook. Flick, Crook. Flick. 

Fuck. 

Just as your walls tighten around each pleasure-licked caress, he extricates his fingers and fumbles through the buck of your hips, parting your seam until he meets that sweet spot with a delicate kiss from his sweeping hand. He focuses every ounce of his energy on swirling his fingertips over your hardened desire until you’re coming for him in a harsh, shuddering spasm. 

A silent scream in the shape of Arthur’s name leaves your parted, petal-like lips. 

“At’s it.. Jus’ lay back on me. I got you, Honey.” Arthur pants against your temple as he holds you around your midriff. His steady hands anchor you in place against his strong front, guiding you to lie back against him like you were only minutes before. 

The world pulses and blurs around your view. Heartbeats and rushing blood stills until the faint, melodic hum of carriage wagons and horse knickers floats through the half-drawn bathroom windows. Though you couldn't care less what may be happening outside these four walls. The only thing that matters is the man seated right behind you, a man incredibly devoted to the tender love and care that comes in the quiet recesses of time rarely allotted for a life such as yours. 

Soap and sponge are lathered, dunking beneath the water and carrying satin suds seeping from its porous texture. Arthur takes his time in dragging the sponge along every dip, valley, and contour making the whole shape of you that he has committed to memory with the scorched sear of a branding iron.

After an eternity swimming in the bliss of wading waters, Arthur shifts you forward and climbs out of the tub. Suds and shimmering droplets of water cling to his softened skin. Hands latch onto your arms and guide you to exit the same way you had entered: one step at a time. 

He’s awfully gentle like this, encircling an arm around your waist to pull you flush with his chest while he dries both himself and you off with the nearest towel.

“Hold onto me, now.” He warns, sliding his hands down over your backside and hooking into your thighs to hoist you up from the floor. 

The fluttering of a thousand tiny wings knots up your stomach as Arthur carries you toward the plush bedding you had been resting in only a few hours before. Carefully, he lowers you until your bones sigh with relief in the cradle of comfort one of these Saint Denis suites can provide. 

“Thank you.” You hum, awash in the after-bliss of such a delicious bath. 

Arthur hums back absentmindedly as he closes up the balcony door and draws the curtains to keep out any cold draft threatening to make you any sicker. That’s the last thing either of you wants.

You lie there for what feels like hours without his presence by your side, keenly observing every shifting tap from his feet to determine his position around the room and listening to the subtle scrape of lumber being placed within the fireplace. Drifting in the peace found behind your lids, Arthur accidentally wakes you by standing to his full height and strolling his way toward the bed. His thigh brushes against your knuckles, and you flutter your eyes open, only to be greeted with the sight of his turgid length standing taut and angry from the lack of touch. 

In all of your own self-gratification, you had forgotten about Arthur’s pleasure.

His cock twitches slightly as he leans over the side of the bed in preparation for a good night’s rest, but Arthur seems none the wiser. There’s never been a time where you haven’t made Arthur finish and now that he hasn’t, an urgency floods your tired bones. Shifting away from the pillow-like comforter laid beneath your bare body, you reach for him, grazing your fingertips over the coarse hairs at the very root of his cock.

“H-hey, what’re you up to?” He shivers and steps out of your reach. 

Confusion wraps your expression in such disappointment that you reach for him again. “You took all that time takin’ care of me. Now, lemme take care of you.” 

“No.” He gently grasps your hand, pulling it away from his sensitive length and holds it with a tender grasp.

“Trust me, Darlin’, I wantchu. God, I wantchu, but not tonight.” He does not mean to offend you- Arthur is only protecting what energy is left in your weary body.  “I jus’ wantchu to rest.”

There is something captured within Arthur’s gaze that is a firm and honest depiction of what he needs tonight and all he needs is to know that you are taken care of. 

—

Three long fever-filled days pass at a tortuously slow rate. But Arthur made it much easier. 

On the first and second days Arthur read to you during meals, picking up old books left behind at the writing desk nearby and cracking their spines open to read romance and philosophy, alike. And when those ran out? He bribed one of the La Bastille staff for a magazine or two. He read articles of purchasable items for both the Gentleman and Proper Lady. There he found quite the curious article of the latest design of women’s underclothing. It was when his cheeks had turned red from your soft snicker that he decided that reading from magazines was a feat he would not undertake if it involved talks of bloomers and braziers in the likes of designs he had never heard of. 

Instead, through long stories of old, some that Hosea retold over the years and others tinged with his own memories of recent times past, he passed the time when lying in bed with you in the late hours; when the candlelight burned low and his voice carried upon gentle whispers in a warm tune. He had even retold this one story that never ceases to make your chest swell with laughter: a time when he stole a few cherry chocolates from an honest salesman and got caught by Susan Grimshaw, of all people. Just like the matron she is, she tugged him by his ear and forced him to apologize to the man- Who, according to Arthur, held a mighty sense of pity upon him and decided to only make him pay for a penny’s worth of the sweet treat. Of course, the only thing that he learned from such an experience was to be ever-wary of Grimshaw’s watchful eye and maybe not be too greedy to take from those willing to share their kindnesses. 

Not all had been filled with chatter- in between the shifting silence. Arthur detangled the tresses of your hair and hummed quietly to a song whose lyrics he had long forgotten. And even amongst the feverish headaches and bone-wracking coughing fits, he rubbed paths along the curvature of your spine and sides to ease such pains he so desperately wished he could bare for you. 

But on the third day, when the fever broke and you had slept easy into the early morning hours, Arthur snuck away from bed, half dressed in nothing more than his jeans, to have himself a cigarette- a long-held habit only made worse with worry. 

Smoke lingers upon his lips and creeps from the breath pushed out of his nose, carried upon the gentle breeze drifting through the streets of Saint Denis. He stands there upon the balcony, poised and guarded as if he were on watch duty back at camp. Faint melodies echo from someplace across town, reminding him of how lively such a city can be even at an hour as early as the breaking of dawn. Arthur hates any place bigger than a post office, a general store, and a little saloon. But right in front of this place? Where he can hear the birds chirp and the sweet swell of morning doves’ call, he finds a kind of peace that even the quiet days in camp have not provided in many months. 

Yellow rays of sunlight push through the lace curtains draped over the window above the headboard and through the open balcony doors to land upon your delicate features until your eyes crack open in a harsh squint, Arthur isn’t aware of your consciousness as of this moment- no, he is far too enveloped in the train of thought that only leads to his own faults. 

She is over the worst, he reminds himself.

Though, the lingering thought of causing such illness does not shy away from the forefront of his mind, nor will it depart any sooner than he wishes.

“Hmm.. Arthur?” Through a stretched-groan, his name falls past your lips in an airy question, breaking him from thought.

“I’m right here, Darlin’.” A warm haloed glow shines around his broad figure even as he snubs his cigarette and flicks it down onto the streets below. He steps inside with smoke blowing from his lips like the stacked chimney upon a steam locomotive. 

“Everything alrig’? Feelin’ any better?” Arthur closes the balcony doors with a careful click before padding over bedside to aid you if needed. 

Confirmation to his question is answered by the soft thrum of heat radiating in the depths of your slick center. He is not aware, but you are. Oh, God, you are. Just the sight of his strong chest, the plains of hair traveling down to disappear beneath his unbuttoned jeans, and how his suspenders hang on either side of his hips like an invitation have you imagining the last time he hovered over you like this. A time when he pulled his thick cock from his pants between jobs- where he shamelessly fed you every inch of himself while he admired your half-naked form. Your body had been half reclined in the same ways those grecian goddesses pose in their statuesque beauty, breasts skyward and thighs pressing together to hide that sweet little honey pot that your suckling mouth mimicked. 

“Need me to getchu anything?” His voice breaks you from a deep trance. 

Fingertips seek out one of the many wayward strands of your sleep-tossled hair to tuck behind the rounded shape of your ear in a smooth motion; whether he realizes it or not, the tenderness of his touch sends an electric pulse through the very center of your being.

You reach for him with a delicate hum upon your lips. His wrist is held by your fingertips and pulled only a hair’s breadth away from your opened mouth.

“Only you.” You murmur against the open cuff before kissing him there with only the ghosting of your lips. 

“Now-” Arthur hesitates, lips curling together in a hard line, knowing all well where this is leading.

“Please?” There is a quiet plea there wrapped in something so fragile that it could disappear in an instant.

He cannot deny that he wants to, that he has longed for your touch since before he came back. He wrestles with the thought for a while, not wanting to take advantage of you in such a state, but even he sees that you are not as sick as you once were- your eyes are no longer glossed over with fever, and your complexion is as fresh and rosy as spring’s morning, no longer dulled with malaise.

“Okay.” He doesn’t fight you, even though there is an underlying edge, as if there were terms to his agreement. 

Arthur, pushes his jeans down and climbs into bed, holding himself up on either side of your head. This is the moment where he would kiss you, leaning down and pressing love’s promise to your parted lips, but you do not allow him- no matter how much you desire it. Arthur’s face is cradled in your palms as you redirect him to the curve of your neck. He peppers your skin with soft kisses there, not so many as to overwhelm your senses, but just enough that it leaves you longing for the next. 

Hands hewn from years of hard work glide along the expanse of your parted thighs, seeking out the hem of your chemise in order to get at what lies beneath. The thin fabric is manipulated upward and pools around your waist, revealing the dark thatch of hair scattered over your split seam. His cock, half-hard and heavy with arousal at just the idea of getting a taste of what your body offers, rests upon your wet folds, where he decides to masturbate himself and you on this lazy morning. 

“Look atchu.. So beautiful.” Admiration spills from an exhale of breath against your chin.

“Not even close to how handsome you are.” He still and gazes down upon you like the very notion of you considering yourself anything less than perfection in his eyes.

“Now, you that backwards there, Darlin’. I ain’t the one lyin’ like an angel bathed in sunlight.” 

“An angel bathed in sunlight?” You echo with amusement. “Even if my hair’s a mess?” 

“Ain’t nothin’ ‘boutchu a mess.” He murmurs against your jaw before placing a slow kiss there. “You’re the prettiest damn thing I ever laid my eyes on.” 

“Arthur.. You’re makin’ me blush.” A soft giggle works its way out of your lungs, clear and humming happily as you try to hide your heated face in the crook of his shoulder.

“Don’t hide yourself from me.” He whispers in that deliciously low tone. If you could see him now, that familiar little half-smirk is pulling at one corner of his mouth in smug amusement, just like all the other times he would whisper dirty little things in your ear just to see you shy away from him with a toothy smile spread across those lips. 

He rolls his hips forward, dragging himself through your wet folds until his tip knocks into the right place along your clit. Breath testers on the edge of a moan, threatening to escape but it turns and catches within the back of your throat until a cough rattles from your lungs. 

Immediately, Arthur stops and sits up from your neck to gauge the situation. “If I’m pushin’ you too far, we can stop-” 

“Don’t you move from me.” You command with a soft gasp to regulate your breaths. A soft shake of the head is all you can give him as you gather yourself enough to stop him from shifting off of you any more. 

He is half-holding himself above you when you cling to him in a needy plea, “Arthur, please. Please don’t move, I need you.”

Arthur sure as hell does not want to tell you no, but he would be damned to seek out his pleasure in the midst of you hurting. Want, need, guilt, and obligation all war within his mind; he wants to, he wants you, but he fears pushing any further when you’re still healing. 

He lets out a shaky exhale through his nose and settles his weight back where he had been a few seconds prior. He cannot refuse you, nor himself.

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere.. But we gotta take this slow.” He warns low in the promise of only bringing pleasure without penetration. 

“Slow is alright with me.” How can you not agree? Especially when it feels this good. 

“That’s my girl.” He praises with the testing press of his hips against your slick center. 

You mewl and cling to any place that your delicate hands can reach: biceps, forearms, shoulders, the nape of his neck… Yes, you cling to him like he is your anchor in a treacherous storm, rocking two and fro with the steady rhythm of his hips. 

“Feel like you’re startin’ to come back to me?” His voice ghosts over your temple, rough and gentle all wrapped in a breathy package. 

“A-Ain’t ever left ya. Even when I was restin’ I was still thinkin’ ‘bout you.” Such a confession holds true: every night and every day Arthur enveloped your mind and pushed away any semblance of hurt or pain as if the very thought of him loving you healed your weary soul. 

Arthur, revels in the idea of being needed. But even he knows that when you needed him the most, he had not been there. He had left you to tend to duties in camp that should have been his to bear. 

“I know you was. You’re always thinkin’ ‘a me..” He regrets taking that job. “I’m so sorry I can’t be ‘round for you all the time- Weren’t ‘round for you when I left for The Grizzlies. But I thought ‘bout ya.. I swear I did.” Remorse falls from him even as his hips cease to slow. 

“I promised myself I’d do right by you.” He grunts softly as he rolls his hips slowly enough to feel himself drag and catch on the rim of your cunt.

“You are, Arthur. You do right by me every day that I get to know you’re alive.”

 “You deserve somebody that woulda been there to keep you from gettin’ sick.” Finally, he stills and drops his forehead against yours as if he were so desperate to understand how forgiveness could ever be placed upon him in your eyes.

“Listen to me. That weren’t your fault. Ya hear me?” You gaze up at him until he sits up from you, but you follow after him. “None of what’s happened to me is your fault.” 

Your legs stay spread on either side of Arthur’s hips, knees splayed open like the wings of a beautiful butterfly while your hands trail over the expanse of his torso with such tenderness that it is as if feathers are dancing upon his skin. Between each winged-leg lies the hard line of his cock, standing proudly and shamelessly asking for attention. 

Arthur’s head is turned from you, his eyes open and brows furrowed as he internally chastises himself for ever thinking that he could make things right when you lay hurting at the center of it all. But the instant your soft palm slips over his sensitive flesh, he is fluttering his eyes closed and letting out a sharp grunt of pleasure. 

Carefully, oh so carefully, you lean your mouth in and press a delicate kiss to the curve of his cheekbone and murmur, “You’ve taken care ‘a me better than what any other man woulda.” 

A sharp huff of disagreement leaves him like a bear’s warning call, but you remain steady, stroking him to ease the pain and frustration of over-thought. 

“Look at me ‘n tell me that you didn’t do all that without love.” This is what garners his attention. He loves you something mighty. 

“You know how I feel, but-“ You interrupt him before even giving him the chance to explain away what forgiveness lies in the palm of his hands. 

“No buts, Arthur.” You state just as sternly as he has with you, especially over these last few days. “Whatchu did for me. Where you went before, it was all outta love.” 

Your words trail over the dip of his collar and over the upper slope of his firm chest with love’s name etched upon your soft lips. “I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.”

Arthur grunts low in his chest, struggling with all the emotion warring in the back of his mind, mixing with the pure pleasure that your hand is providing the head of his cock. 

“Come back to me.” You whisper against the shell of his ear, beckoning him forth to dive in the undercurrent of bliss loving one another can provide.

“Ah, Christ.” He pants much harder than he should, but the sweet slip of your hand against his aching flesh has his hips straining with the urge to buck upward just as he does when buried impossibly deep in your tight cunt.

Finally, Arthur breaks when his mind fogs over with nothing but the idea of loving you in all the ways both of you have needed these past weeks. He presses a firm hand into your lower back while roughly plopping you back against the downy mattress. 

“I am tryin’ to be gentle here, woman.” He huffs with fraying restraint, spreading your knees wide to rest his cock right back where its needed. 

“Thought you wanted slow?” You grin while Arthur unfastens the little tie holding the upper two halves of your chemise together. 

With one gentle pull and the swatting of fabric into place, Arthur watches as your breasts spill out of the thin material. It makes his mouth dry and his cock painfully rigid. 

Before any thought can cross his mind, he leans down and suckles in a mouthful of your breast in worship of what loving forgiveness is found in the shape of your merciful body.

“You don’t make it easy on a man.”

A/N: Thank you so much for taking the time to read this piece! It's been a journey, but throughout it all, so many of you have taken the time to share and support me and my other works. Thank you thank you thank you for all the love that you give. Words could never express how truly grateful I am. 💕 If you would like to check out some of these amazing people that have supported me and those that I have drawn inspiration from, please check out their pages below!!

As always, thank you from the bottom of my little Appalachian Heart AND HAPPY NEW YEARS!! 💕- M.

Tagging: @photo1030 @opheliaagravee @grymghoul @zae-heeyyy @emerald-ranch @pinescent-and-gingerbread @twola @redwritr @wipidek @cassietrn @coltermorning @briispunkk @moeitsu

If I have left anyone out that would like to be tagged, please let me know!