♱ rosalie

a beleaguered breath slithers from his weary larynx like crude oil, past chapped lips and coating his teeth in a bubbling, boiling blackness. the stringy tar of exhaustion, clogging up his vocal cords with vitriol and venom. he rolls out taut knots imbedded between the sinewy slants of his bronze-leathered shoulders, the gritty, sandpaper aches lodged in his tendons. a stiffened neck, slept funny and bent out of shape, the stacked stresses of his fool's errands in saint denis excoriating his will all the way down to the fatty, yellowed hypodermis. twin tin mugs in his grip, yours lumped with sugar, too, the heaved helping a permanent fixture in his bloated memory. a tad too much, he thinks, but just what good is a man if he doesn't give his lady everything she wants for?

his ascension up the staircase is sluggish at best. marked with cringes at the screeching creaks of rotted, timbre floors, thinking of his light sleeper. milky ribbons curl around his mouth while he bleeds his morning cigarette dry, the singed bud then tossed out the jagged opening of a lichen-laced window. a sweated drizzling smothers the plantation house, swelling cattail thick banks to waterlogged slopes. the sweltering crux of a southern summer in the swamp, and he finds you curled up in the distinctly worn divot in the cot. carved a long time before you took blossom in the barren cracks and crevices of a lone cowboy's life. you, saccharine and sleepy. your short breaths, sunbeams of honeycomb and butterscotch hues in lambent kaleidoscopes on your bare skin.

arthur can almost feel the spike of a throbbing toothache just looking at you, all dressed up in ivory gossamer lace. pretty as a dew drop, aren't you? he wonders how high you would whimper if he forced his weepy cockhead inside your spread, sappy heat. and despite his better tendencies, the shooting star rarity of his good, gold-mounted inclinations, he imagines it; the feel of your satin mouth when he'd fishhook two fingers deep inside, how the pitchy, panicked gasp would warm his skin. how your sore cunt would clench around his thick base when you came to, your clumped lashes and wet, crystalline cheeks. your sleep-misty face scrunching up while he snapped his corded hips and bullied a home for himself. how you would cry out with all the sweetness of a little lamb. should know better by now to leave him unsated.

ultimately, he decides to wake you. he wants to hear you. an adoration-drowned onslaught begins with a scratchy, smoke scented kiss to your cheek. his scarred nose brushes over your the crown of your head, to the satin-soft heap of your loose hair. lily of the valley coats his sinuses and palate, the little lye bar you keep handy. tiptoeing to scrub slow circles over the hard planes of his stocky muscles, in streams and creeks when hotels are too lavish of a luxury; the airy, melodic giggles when he tips your neck up to nip at your jaw, canines grazing soft skin, palming greedy handfuls of the soapy fat on your ass. and how his hands always wander upwards, cupping your glossy tits dripping in glittered waters, thumbs brushing over your nipples.

he does the same now, tweaking a puffy nipple between his thumb and forefinger. murmurs his groggy mornin', watches the button of your nose scrunch in surprise before you offer up your mouth for consumption. a clumsy kiss, teeth clinking. his glacier-blue pools glassed over with a murky film of bestial greed, a ravening lining glutting gloomy irises. the eyes of a gunslinger don't tend to twinkle much, usually only when a mark between the crosshairs is primed and ready to blow brain matter, an itching trigger-finger to match; they do, with you, a gravely coo and a gentle guide to get you propped up on your knees for him.

you oblige through a sleepy, softened mumble, shrinking away from the sequinned, sunshine blanket slinking into the boxy bedroom. his tight-knotted fist shucks up the loose cotton, fluttering over frills and ruffles, ensnaring your supple, sun-warmed thighs in two heavy hands. palms crisscrossed in distended, silvered cicatrices part you wide open. relishing in the ripple, the give of the plush fat beneath his thick callouses, your babbled begs between the scuffle of shuffling sheets. thinks about sinking his teeth into your ass, sucking a hard, spit-shined bruise to unblemished plush.

all but barks at you to quit squirmin’, angel. the hot honey of his drawl placates your timid twitches into docility, nothing but a tempered whine ringing out while he runs his roughened knuckles up your clothed cunt. arthur's barely touched you, and he already feels the collected dampness through his thick scar tissue. a cheshire smile tainting his lips, he tears the slick sodden fabric in two, the hard pad of his thumb pushing against your drooling hole. swirling the pool of syrup lazily, breathing out a gritty groan from his tightened jaw. drops his skull down to smear his flat tongue over the lacquer of your pearly slick.

weren't expecting his mouth, were you, sweet thing? plasters his big, toughened hand over the small of your back so you settle, deepening that delicate arch of yours and pushing your pretty pussy against the bump of his nose. he'll make a good girl out of you yet. you whimper, wounded and watery into the padded fluff of your pillow, socked feet thumping over the thin mattress. arthur bears you no mind. never lets you off the hook easy. he mouths slovenly kisses to your sopping slit, suckles at your swollen bud until the strawberry-sweet moans start to leak out from your maw. feels your clit twitch under his hot muscle, lapping wolf-like licks, scruffy jaw scraping an abrasive love trail over your trembling thighs.

shiny drool bubbling and frothing at the corners of his mouth, sparkling bands of spit slipping past the tight seal, flooding the sandy spattering on his chin. a throbbing pulse stirs in his ruddy tip, milky beads leaking out from the tender slit. you reach back, rooting your littler fingers into his freshly-cropped, tawny tresses, struggling in the cocoon of his burly biceps twisted around your legs. mewling for more when he stills, rising, clouding your trembling frame in a tenebrous cloak, knees bracketing yours, the bed dipping and creaking from his weight. bulky brute that he is.

arthur swipes his fingers through the milky mess, temples divoting with the hard clench of his jaw, plunging two fingers inside your silky cunt. earns him a frightful whimper. no doubt spooked by the sudden stretch, his thick digits dwarfing the size of yours. usually works you up with one first — you asked for more. rapacious desire dripping from the spikes of his lashes, watching with rabid-blown pupils and pride oozing from his pores.

sucks his teeth while you sloppily fuck yourself back on each pump of his wrist, dribbling small, bejewelled droplets down the corded length of his forearm, your pouty lips huffing out sugary squeaks. god, if he could bottle that sound. better than bourbon, he knows, sawing and scissoring his wet digits inside your convulsing walls. a tight resistance bands around his fuzzed knuckles, your abused hole fluttering, the puckish pout painting your lips dissolving to a sweetened, slacked jaw when he pistons up into the spongy spot you can't reach.

licking a drooly path up your sweat-shimmered neck, kissing ragged blossoms over the delicate, delirious beat of your carotid artery. he pushes a flattened, warm palm against your tummy, kneading the thrumming of the faint bulge inside, cradling your blood-hot, bouncing body close. his goliath chest flush to your bowed back, he tells you how pretty you are. the prettiest thing he's ever seen. how good, how you're just the sweetest little girl, ain't you? this what you think ’bout when i'm gone, huh? you hump that pillow ’n wait for me t’get home, take care of you? c'mon. make a fuckin’ mess out of me.

“me neither,” you chirp candidly, skimming the flat of your palm across swaying florets; horseshoe overlook perfumed sweet by the babies of spring, pastel patches of bluebells and buttercups. your gaze catches on his discarded gun belt glimmering in the grass, the cracked leather coiled up. you press your kiss-swollen lips together. acutely aware of your sex-sticky inner thighs, the syrupy strings and tender soreness between your legs, you mumble out a timid protest of your own. “but i ain't exactly decent, arthur.”

his bottom lip twitches into an amused, light smirk. he hums, drawn-out and dulcet, and you shift slowly. the clover-rich blanket kisses your bare calves as you loop your legs around his hips. his head rises, scarred chin flush to your sternum. a pair of love-rimmed, baby blues shrouded with sandy blond lashes blink twice and drink up your salacious state; frills of flimsy lace barely cupping both your tits, bunched-up cotton brushing the bare curves of your ass, the work of arthur's hungry hands and gluttonous pawing. inky pupils linger a little too long at the divot of your barely-clothed, puffy pussy, dribbling his sticky spend down into the daisy-dotted dirt. your breathing stutters.

“weren't too rough?” he questions, stern with sincerity, fern-shaped shadows splayed across his wide jaw. he dips down again, staining your sunshine-streaked skin with slow, open-mouthed kisses. he wonders if you know that the gentleness comes easy, as natural as his thumb slotting lead into a six-chambered shooting iron, tossing a lasso or breaking a bronco. arthur scents your skin with his, woodsmoke, pine soap, tobacco blossoms and the undercurrent of iron. your kittenish fingers find solace at the nape of his neck, toying at the tawny, too-long strands from colter's frosty spell.

stumbling over a stammer, you shake your head lightly. “no,” you affirm softly, sliding the pads of your fingers up the base of his skull, settling in his scalp. your pulse sings a steady pitter patter, no clumsy, stress-drunk beats of a startled jackrabbit's paws. “no, of course not.” your other hand thumbs absentmindedly at the bruised cherry blossom by the junction of his jaw, trailing a slow path down his spit-shined neck.

“an' you'd tell me if i was?” a fracture forms between his heavy brows, and his line of questioning does not relent. a splinter in his otherwise smug cadence, grit in his throat. and though he's gladly caressed a plentiful bounty; squinted at glittered jewels and precious metals, flicked through many a rumpled bill fold, cracked padlocked safes and rusted lockboxes — he's grateful to not have stolen you.

“yes, you silly man.” swallowing a caustic quip, a bashful half-smile bubbles over your lips. you catch his callus-thick hands skirting up your sides, cupping them in your littler palms and careful of the turgid, lavender-blue knuckles. “i promise.” you add through a mousy breath, returning his unburdened affections. you bring the mottled skin up to your mouth, pressing kisses to the worse-for-wear joints. arthur's apoplexy is a hungry creature, but he always comes home to you.

when it comes to licking wounds, arthur considers himself more than proficient. in laving enzyme-laced saliva over lacerations and abrasions, in drooling biocatalyst bandaids over bumps and bruises. both figuratively, and literally; it rings true now most of all, the tip of his tongue tracing the bloodied innards of scar-tissued cheeks. and he's never been a sucker for self-pity, but, he feels stuck. he's been staring at the flimsy ceiling of his tent for god knows how long. inebriated through the catatonic cocktail brewed up in the tight, throbbing bounds of his skull, knee-deep in the stagnant ponds of sleep deprivation. just as murky as the olive-green swamps of saint denis. the hard heels of his palms rise to rub at dry, bloodshot eye sockets.

his head hurts. nightmare, night terror, sleep paralysis — he's not overly fond of any of the names. he just wishes they'd stop. needs them to stop. it's been long enough, the sizzling, buckshot-burnt hole in his shoulder is just another knurled scar now. arthur doesn't much like being cosied up in cruel old cotton country either, neighbouring with all the moonshine-swilling, inbred bastards; spinning a pretty yarn with his shimmering, silver deputy badge, and an equally as glittery tongue. chasing yankee gold and decaying dreams. and the heats been bothering him like a rock stuck in a horse hoof.

clemens point isn't all bad, though. the lazy days are few and far between, most of them spent with you. whenever he had the chance to whisk you away. offered to teach you how to play poker by the pronghorn hide tables a couple weeks back, to which you promptly assured him, you already know. robbed him blind to make up for the brazen presumption, beamed at him the whole way through. paired with the weight of your head over his denim-clad lap, an afternoon nap. impromptu, passed out by marigold-cloaked spindly trees at the sun-dusted edge of camp, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the nape of your neck.

spun you around under a star-soaked, candied violet twilight when you asked him to dance, too. told you he had two left feet, flushed a furious petal-pink, but indulged your coquettish request anyways. arthur wished he kissed you, then. he would've, if he wasn't so worried about giving you a whiskey-laced regret. he drank too much. and when he passed by that big old orchard on the way home, to bring you back cherries for breakfast; you were melt-in-your-mouth beautiful laying on your tummy in the sweet grass, with ruby-lacquered lips and tacky fingertips, tongue darting out to lap up tart juices trickling down your wrist.

would you suck him off like that? lick a kittenish, slippery path up the thick shaft of his cock? arthur would be gentle with you, he's sure, wouldn't force himself down your tight throat or tug at your hair harshly. he'd have plenty of ways to show his gratitude, after. hook your plush thighs over his shoulders, suckle a messy mouthful of your syrupy pussy and stuff his fingers inside knuckle-deep. make you sing for him. he doesn't know much, when it comes to you — he just knows he's bigger than you. stronger. could cup the backs of your knees and pin them to your chest without breaking a sweat. wouldn't let up until you squirmed sorely to get away, oversensitive, salted beads clumping on your bottom lashes.

he rises from his cot on uneven footing, forgoing a shirt, not so much as splashing his face with water. squinting at at the golden-sweet, swollen sun, trickling her luminous syrup into champagne-coloured clouds. just after five am, if he had to guess. early enough for camp to be entirely still. dawn starts to dilute the glaucous sky. he gulps back a big breath, citric dandelion and swamp air on his sinuses, and grimaces. huffs a virulence-dipped sigh. he could relieve one of the guards, could start on chores early. and still, he harbours a puffy predilection for your bed. he should let you sleep. he wants to, he does. you make it so hard.

arthur knows he's running on ravenous instinct over logic, when wandering to the sun-bleached flaps of your tent. dulled and disoriented, he just knows he misses you. not in the way he's missed anyone else before. it doesn't sting like scraped knees or fishhook-pricked fingertips, it aches abysmally, a flea-eaten, maggot-riddled cavity carved jagged in his chest. as vexatious and incessant as a swarm of insatiable fruit flies. swollen larvae rooted in the ravines of his ribs, making the muscles of his heart feel bloated, bulbous. its a coffee-brown bruise to have a crush, and he dons the dappled contusions like fawn fur.

his forearm sweeps the cream canvas wide open without so much as a word, spilled sunlight warming the spotted skin of his back before the fabric flutters closed again. intruding. your name froths from his chest, fizzing out shotgun-fast, a shaken up beer bottle. messy, out of his control. you're sleeping, still. fists tucked under your jaw, in your little lace chemise. you look real pretty in it. plucked right from a fable, like a princess. something straight out of one of the faded storybooks strewn around camp. arthur's lips curl into a subtle, small smile. could've made your fortune off it in another life.

he should go. why can't he just go? works his weighted indecision around his teeth like clumped chewing tobacco. swallowing the acidic scald of his bruised pride, arthur slips in your bedroll beside you, your back flush to his chest. you stir, then, shimmying softly against his sinewed muscles.

“'s jus' me.” he mumbles thickly, waterlogged words muffled by the mess of your hair. you're warm, nothing like the muggy, heavy heat. a welcome weight anchored to his front.

but the comfort is gone as soon as it came, you roll to lie flat on your back, sluggish shells of your hands rubbing slowly at your weary eyes. “hi,” you scrunch your nose affectionately, blinking at the blankets pooled around his hips and his bare form; sun-spotted from the tenacious ferocity of lemoyne heat, freckle smeared, bronze-tipped broad shoulders and tanned, brutish arms. without his well-worn embellishments; his hat, his holsters, when he's not the brawn, the brute or the enforcer. when he's just arthur. heart-achingly human.

a dozy, drowsy smile dimples your cheeks. your voice is light, but it still manages to carry a sing-song softness. “can't sleep?”

god, you're so good to him. he grunts throatily, propping his weight up on corded forearms, clearing the coarse block in his sleep-coated throat. he decides a simple answer is for the best. “bad dream.”

something in your demeanour shifts, he notices, a knowing kink forming between your brow. your shoulders slump with a short exhale, you lean up, and kiss him. slot your peach-tender lips over his for a short second, then slouch back on the bedroll with a quiet thud. makes him wide-eyed and stupid. arthur draws in a bated breath, wincing at the delicate, lightning-bolt heartbeat pulsating under his pectorals.

you give a pitchy gasp when he closes in on you again. the bridge of his nose bumps back on yours, calloused fingertips cupping your jawbones and digging into the flesh firm. he panics, briefly, of coming off too strong, of crossing a burnt, singed line by matching your winsome affection with an aggressive appetence. but you just whine over his wet tongue, and it's so, so sweet, on his bullet-shocked eardrums.

resolve as frayed the work-worn ends of his lasso, and amorous in his advances now, arthur's hungry hand clamps over your bare thigh. asking silently, squeezing a trail upwards, to the little divot between your leg and clothed cunt. the taut tendons in his arm screech from the suffocating embrace of self-restraint. rumpled sheets ruffle together as you spread them wide, rocking your waist up in waiting. he fumbles clumsily through the slick-damp fabric, swiping two thick fingers through the slippery mess. you're soaked, all strained breaths and trembling thighs, as he kisses a sloppy, honeyed path down your neck.

mouthing at the flats of your collarbones, pressing the heat-cracked skin of his lips between your heaving tits. he pushes into your drooling hole with his ring finger, slowed, swallowing a bitten off-moan when he works you up to take two. a shuddering breath gets lodged in his throat, caught like a rabbit's paw in a snare trap. you're soft, scathing around his driving digits, knotting his abdomen into lecherous twists.

and it's cloyingly better than any ill-imitation he imagined up before, all the lonesome sooty, shadowy nights when he fisted himself furiously into his mattress. hooking the hard pads of his fingers into your soft walls, he curls up greedily, wringing another sequence of watery whimpers out of you. arthur wants to devour you whole, wolf you down like strawberry syrup. there's a sore, simmering desperation etched into the chalk of bones, zipping through his calcium-thick skeleton; his cock swells, throbbing fervidly at the leaky tip, your glossy beads trickling into his open palm.

he's huffing, now, can hear the dulled, heavy breaths echoing out in between your pitchy pants. pumping, forcing his entire forearm with the force of it. your flittering fingers cinch around his wide wrist, thumbing the bulging, baby blue veins, catching on the keloid-shaped, sawtooth battlefields carved into his metacarpals.

“arthur, arthur —” you hiccup a hurting, torn wail, tugging lightly at the burnt-sand strands on his scalp. prying his lips off your shaky sternum, snaking your trembling hand to cup his blood-warm crotch. “just fuck me.”

he hisses a tangled breath out between his teeth when you squeeze, stroking the hard, hot outline of his cock. quick to serve your whiny plea, he hooks both thumbs into the crumpled crease of his waistband, wrangling it down to settle around his mid-thighs. you writhe, angling your sweet, swollen cunt up to meet his swaying shaft. jesus, do you always sound like that? cinnamon-sweet and dizzying pliancy, all for him? arthur should be taking his time with you. would, if he were a different man. less mauled and mangled, maybe. his ruddy, dribbling tip taps your puffy clit, he lubes himself up with your dewy slick as much as his blistering impatience will allow.

the blunt head of his cock catches on the glistening rim of your cunt, feels your arms loop shakily around his shoulders as he sheathes in. a slow, languid push, and he groans, tender and tortured; arthur's sought out the comfort of a soft cunt a couple of times, a no strings-attached fuck. the ones where he wiped the mess of spend from his stomach shame-faced, palmed a crumped billfold into the clasp of a disenchanted working girl, left in haste. left feeling worse than he did before. he's no stranger to one night stands, but none of them felt like this. maybe it's different because it's you.

it is different, because it's you. you've seen him at his worst. and you're shuddering underneath him, sweat-shimmering skin, glossy-eyed and dumb. breathily begging him to move, to fuck you like he means it. swinging your calves around the small of his back, love-locking him in place. raking red-hot lines down his tense, flexed traps, while he stuffs his cock in deep. slides his stocky, thewy arms underneath your back to fuck you all that harder. pumping his hips sloppily into your heat, rolling two fingers rough over your swollen, slippery bud. it doesn't take you much, arthur realises smugly, a responsive, sweet little thing like you, to bow your back, clench and convulse helplessly around his swelled base. drooling milky dew over the seam of his heavy balls, soaking the chestnut curls stippled over his skin.

he lowers his head again, planting clustered kisses against your sensitive skin, clumping together like honeycomb. your cheekbones, your chin, your cupid's bow, your temples, your jaw, the bridge of your nose. pecks your forehead last. warm and sticky, pollinating every plane and ridge of your pretty face with lust-sweetened adoration. he hears your teeth clink together once, shuddering in oversensitivity. with shaky syllables, you part your spit-shined lips. “inside.”

it's so, so simple, just one airy word. lands like a loaded gun. still manages to cinch his lungs together rattlesnake-tight, sends an aching spasm down his blanketed cock.

“sweetpea,” he gasps a guttural groan, brows pinching together painfully. adam's apple bobbing and beading with sweat, arthur clasps his hands over your flushed cheeks, buttercup-soft, the tightened muscles in his tensed jaw whirring like steam train gears. slowing his thrusts into shallow, shy bucks, forcefully clenching the hardened muscles in his stomach. “you ain't thinkin' proper, you — i shouldn't.”

“i am,” you stutter through the twitchy aftershocks of your orgasm, fluttering lashes and helpless babbles. he watches with rapt, bumblebee buzzing attention as you struggle to steady your trembling tone. nudging, nuzzling your face into his open palms, cooing a promise. “i want it, i want you — i want all of you, arthur.”

moonstruck, arthur stares at you with sequinned, celadon irises. all the vertebrae in his spinal cord stiffening, the rapturous, gooey pool in his pelvis rupturing — he barely breathes a hoarse moan before flooding your tight, tender insides, shoulders crumpling inwards with carnal pants while his cock spurts out warm, wet pulses. the cracked, callous skin of his palms hugging the meat of your hips, massaging the fat in a too-tight grasp. pounding your sappy pussy, filling you up with silky ribbons, your slick clinging a sticky film to his fuzzed thighs.

he's sure to avoid swathing you in his muscled mass, releases a drawn-out, abrasive sigh, all the way down from his stomach. doesn't bother pulling out just yet, though. brackets his arms around your skull, fingertips stroking at the sweat-damp curls by the crown of your head. you're quiet. sealed eyelids, almost as if he never woke you in the first place. silent besides the shaky succession of uneven inhales, and it forces a flurry of treacherous tar-black anxieties to bloom in his head.

he's closed-off. all barbed wire and roaring wildfire, serrated at every single seam. dominated by his more saturnine moods, and mottled with a lifetime of puffy, silvery scars. used to scaring folk off. led a lonely few years, the type of solitude that starts as a just dull ache. festering in the flesh of his pink gums, blooming like clusters of decayed molars, too tricky and deep to dig out. eventually, it spirals into a throbbing, pus-filled abscess. infected. seeping septic and pestilence into every crack and crevice of his life, so he resigns himself to it.

then you come along, like a course of neon, two-tone sugarcoated anti-biotics. just what the doctor ordered. dainty fingers curling around the walnut varnish of the door, fluttering eyelashes, whispering a girlish, tentative, “can i help?” and a curiosity you can't afford. shooting him a shy smile, somehow steadfast. even when he blinks back at you with dulled sea glass eyes, dripping sweat, flecked in veils of sanguine. you're nauseatingly sweet, waiting in question under flickering fluorescents. it makes the hairs on the nape of his neck erect, gooseflesh rippling over his sun-spotted skin, intestines twisting and calcifying with dread. he always wondered how a kind little thing like you ended up in a rotten old place like this, what you could've done to earn it. he knows how he did.

arthur lets his guard down. a knockout at best, certain death for a boxer at worst. you're no threat, though, nothing he needs to strike at with a noxious right hook. gives you a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders and an inharmonious grunt, trudges into your small apartment like he's lost. you skip out on the small talk, quiet, making quick work of peeling the sticky backs away from band-aids. soaking cotton rounds with the crisp, clinical reek of antiseptic. and you apologise too, for the sting. like it's your fault. he clenches the overworked muscles of his jaw throughout, hoping his silence will serve as a self imposed prong-collar to not get too close. praying silently at a god he stopped believing in when he was a little boy.

you send him off into the dark hall with a syrup-soft “goodnight”, not before offering ( or shoving, rather, not taking no for an answer ) leftovers into his arms and whipping him up a hot cocoa. something to warm his bones. he doesn't even like chocolate. more of a coffee person, and he usually guzzles back a minimum of three beers just to get to sleep. didn't mind so much knowing your hands made it just for him, though. chirping about your day, your colourful array of patients, padding around the boxy room in silk, something skimpy. sucks his teeth for staring too long, especially with you filling up what once was the radio static of his evenings so innocently.

you tell him to come back — if he wants. you'd like him to, you confess, bashful. at first, all he does is run your first-aid kit dry. begrudgingly so, reluctant gruff sighs and a solemn swear to make up for the trouble. to pay you back for the supplies. you shrug, starry-eyed and always smiling, saying something about stealing it from the ER anyways. health insurance is a bastard, you know? he laughs, a hearty, rumbling noise, like the first blinding sunshine beam when you sweep the curtains open in the morning. it winds you more than a sucker-punch.

then, the strictly night time visits mutate, metamorphose into an unspoken, unofficial stay. bit by bit, you burrow a delicate dent into the chainmail of his emotional armour, shucking off the solid iron plates with your helping hands and sugared tongue. spilling saccharine affections over his torn skin, his lips, his chest, his ugly, disfigured fists. as if, arthur doesn't make his living off pummelling people half-dead.

you contort his overworked cardiac muscles back into the long dormant, jackrabbit thrum of love. your daddy always warned you about taking a shine to strays. you're all the softness he's never known; he's all the security you've never had. every morning, arthur tips the slope of your jaw up with a single knuckle, feather-light, kissing you when you wake. leaves your polka-dot printed bedsheets stinking of cheap cologne, which does little to mask the scent of sweat, swirls of rusted metal. more often than not mottling them with bloodied pinpricks too, but he leaves a noticeable warmth in his wake. carves a man-shaped divot in the lumpy mattress and keeps the biting cold away.

the ivory porcelain of the sink shifts into something of permanent rose tone over the months, the habitual victim of too many wrung out, bloody washcloths. his toothbrush gets slotted beside yours, his navy towel slung over the brass hook. the hot water runs out much quicker now, but you don't mind. arthur delicately detangles the knots in your damp hair behind you in the bath, with a gentleness he shouldn't be capable of. noses at the nape of your neck, takes you to bed in a tender, bridal-style carry after he towel dries you off. shows up to his shifts scented with your lavender laundry detergent, bats off the crude remarks from his coach about “going soft” with his typical gristle and grit tone.

you memorise his blood type, become his emergency contact. learn how to cook for two, never go without company at the grocery store. the freezer grows crammed with ice bags for black eyes, the medicine cabinet stuffed with heat packs for his sore muscles. he fixes all the creaky doors and leaky faucets in your apartment without a word. even swaps out the snapped deadbolt chain, too, despite his presence rendering the need for it completely obsolete. and whenever you weep and whimper at night, he coos you back to drowse with his sleep-honeyed voice. arthur is kind, and he loves you.

the living room remains something of a makeshift surgical theatre, your moon-blanketed trysts span while splayed over his firm lap. as routine as the muscle memory required for arthur's career, your knees dig into the well-worn sepia brown of the leather couch while the rustling of sterile plastic rings out, the snap of clinical cobalt blue latex gloves. the scent of hydrogen peroxide and rubbing alcohol cuts through plumes of cigarette smoke as arthur stubs out his third. tin metal sizzling and hissing in agony, overstuffed ashtray crammed with yellowed filters. offered you the last toke, ever the gentleman, but he still makes a terrible patient. short-fused, squirmy, eager to insist they're only scratches.

you tell him the consistent blows to the head are turning him stupid, silence his exaggerated complaints with a warm peck, all sharpshooter precision. sunflower-gold lamplight illuminates the jagged laceration in his cheek, he jokes about you contaminating the sterile field.

“you fightin' tomorrow, then?” the question is more rhetorical than anything, confirming the pre-planned leather warfare you've learned to dread.

arthur simply clicks his tongue in response, bare brawny arms stretching out over the top of the couch, hips angling up as he readjusts. “mmn, ten o'clock.” he scratches the dark scruff of his stubble then, love-glassed eyes tracking your movements as you shuck the tight, rubbery confines off your nimble fingers.

“don't start worryin', sweetheart.” he offers you a half-smile, crows feet crinkling with the twitch of his tender split lip, all efforts to reassure you. he's softer, now, put on some pounds from your love-laced cooking and dons a little layer of pudge on his tummy, cheekbones not as hollow anymore.

you puff a warm blow of air from your cheeks, unsettled, head falling to find solace in the crook of his thick neck. resting on the flat of his collarbones, ruminating, voice dropping to something of a petulant mumble. “don't blow your sutures," you pause, working the flesh of your bottom lip between your teeth. self-soothing. he notices, breathing shifting in rhythm. his bubbling, glutinous guilt that comes and goes. “or loose.”

and loose, he didn't. botched your handiwork to high heaven, though. sloughed off his slick, splattered gloves, sweated heat smouldering from the planes of his sinewed back, surging with glory. shoved you into the closest shadowy corner as soon as the third bell rang out — arthur wedges you firm between the whining, rattling, slate-grey lockers and his bare broad chest, thick, throbbing cock bullying the pudgy flesh of your cervix, pounding. slack-jaw and boneless, you babble a breathy plea, burning inner thighs struggling to accommodate the staggering size of his rutting hips. he moans a husky, rough-throat grunt at back at you, tightening the possessive splay over your soft skin, saturated, wet wraps still clinging to the blood-drenched divots of his scarred knuckles.

smearing the crimson evidence of his win, the spoils of his battles, on the pillowy fat of your tightly clamped thighs. you bunnyhop back on his grime-streaked, sweat-slick pelvis, salt-and-iron miasma fogging your senses, chasing the feverish coil threatening to snap in your tummy. sloppy pussy stretched, leaking around the swelled base of his hot cock. corded veins drag harsh over your wet, plush walls, his leaky, ruddy tip twitching inside you — high-pitched wail crawling out the confines of your sticky throat as you cum, bone-straining pulse thundering against your shuddering ribcage. rapture blooming hot somewhere beneath your trembling chest and cunt, creaming thick white rings around his length.

“gonna make a mess out of ya,” he gives a lazy, lopsided grin, all lust-lidded eyelids and liquid, oil-black pupils at the spasming clamp of your fluttering, drooling hole. panting like a hellhound into heat into your wet mouth, hips twitching and heavy balls tightening up. “stuff y'full, sweetheart.”

today, his somewhat slumbering anger agitated through no other than a good, old-fashioned bar brawl. tossed out of smithfield's saloon like a damn ragdoll. plastered in the sun-baked, muddy slop of a dingy little livestock town, irritatedly scrubbed his sore arms and freckled face clean back in valentine. he summons up the will for a sloppy dismount, tender muscles flexing from the strain. scarred jaw clenching with an almost-audible screech, temper toeing precariously on the line of a lit dynamite fuse, still sizzling. a misty canopy looms heavy over horseshoe overlook, smoggy swirls of smoke-grey, as pellucid as the gang's fate. rife with the reek of an overstayed welcome. if they ever were.

arthur notices you, before you notice him. always does. you're too busy tossing wet linens over the clothesline to pay mind to clopped horse hooves, tangled in the haze of lavender lye soap and singing something sweet. the picture of purity, and all his. marked his claim on you with a forged steel paw, grabbed you by the scruff of your neck, many summers ago. his solace amongst all the reprobates, degenerates and sinners — and boy, has arthur racked up his fair share, enough to make a priest weep. he watches you just for a little while, scuffed gambler hat casting dense charcoal tenebrosity over his eyes, like a reverse, deviant halo.

the slow sway of your hips, the soft slope of your lips and the gloomy light illuminating your silhouette. he's much too weak to ignore the allure of lustrous, plenilune moon, your clinquant, chalk-white glow. you look sweet enough to eat. he sucks in a sharp breath, calloused palm rubbing rough over blond flecks in his beard. approach muffled, boots thudding against the damp dirt, fuzzed, thick forearms encircling your waist. the fright elicits a flinch from you, fingers gripping his freshly laundered shit a tad tighter. he hovers some, lest the still-steaming, shooting irons tucked in dual holsters scald your skirts, or worse, your skin. he'd never forgive himself.

tobacco-tainted breath fans hot over the nape of your neck, alongside his hoarse grumbles about trouble and a bad day. you shift, tipping your head back slowly to meet him in a light, close-eyed kiss. there's a hint of a sunshine smile on your face, though it slides off quick before he can admire it. replaced with a furrowed brow and jutted pout. arthur sports a fresh stippled, violet contusion on the contour of his cheekbone, his scarred knuckles dusted a deep, bloodied amaranth too. sidestepping the stuffed wicker basket, you tug him, tenderly, to the respite of his tent. smaller hands curled over his thick wrist. practised, affectionate, love-struck worry dominating your movements.

you don't say that arthur has a nasty tendency to tease and taunt trouble, to invite it in. whenever he crawls home black and blue, tail between his legs, doused in some undeserving fool's blood. you don't ever ask him why. can't teach an old dog new tricks. he loathes being the seed of your anxieties, usually bothers first with bringing back a thought-out gift or trinket to not rub salt in the wound; the aching, pulsating blister of having a bad man as your betrothed. still, you sit with him, his guardian angel equipped with an arsenal of needle and thread, to stitch his wounds so he doesn't have to lap at them.

patiently piecing your cantankerous cowboy back together again. cooing gentle reprimands at him, sprinkling down soft like powdered sugar. your rosewater rich mumblings start to snuff out his roused rage, but he grows restless anyways. agitated, unsettled, scoops you up with his big, white-knuckled hands to splay over the rugged leather of fringed chaps. hastily knocks your pillowy thighs wide open with his knees. a bitten whimper crawls out sluggish from your chest, his half-mast cock pressing firm at the small of your back, straining against frayed denim.

“'s middle of the day, arthur.” you mumble meekly, more of strained a half-breath than anything. doe-hearted, thoughts trailing back to your unfinished chore. one of his damp shirts still strewn haphazardly over dew-blanketed grass, dropped in your urgency to play doctor for him. he hesitates for a half-second. must have worked your delicate, little fingers sore, scrubbing the gore clean out from it. his poor, sweet thing.

but he scoffs indignantly, like you told a bad joke. calloused palm snaking slow down your front, moving to cup the heat of your cotton-clad cunt. thick digits press down lightly on your clothed slit, an inch from your clenched entrance. he just wants to show he's sorry for scaring you. “ain't stopped us before,” he rumbles, teasing and honey-thick, the hard heel of his palm digging into your puffy clit. “y'don't wanna?”

the jagged slant of his scarred nose nuzzles at your soft cheek, prompting you to fix your gaze on his. you're familiar with the rapacious glimmer in arthur's teal-tinted irises — not so different from glowering, incalscendent eye when wolves circle a kill. you swallow, shallowed breaths making your chest twist into a knot, heated arousal fluttering your lashes. stand your ground? you vehemently shake your head no, too shy to speak the words aloud.

he gives a drawn-out, approving hum, burly fist shucking your skirts up in handfuls to settle loosely around your hips. the other peels back the sticky, sopping fabric confining your cunt, turned translucent from slick. you squirm against his corded chest, his bandolier bites cruelly at the dip in your back. whimpering his name like it will save you from damnation, pitchy whines lodged in the back of your throat.

“i know,” he coos hoarsely, as soft as a slug in a pump-action shotgun barrel, but still sickly-sweet. “ain't gonna leave you achin', darlin'.” quick, arthur makes true on his degenerate promise, tips of his fingers swiping through sticky, syrup-slick folds. parting the petals of your pussy open, scooping the little puddle of cream from your hole to your clit.

you tremble like a kicked puppy when he circles, once, twice. tucking your bottom lip between two front teeth at the press of his predacious snarl over the junction of your jaw. he breathes in deep, coarse beard tickling at your sensitive skin. a dull ache builds in the pit of your clenched abdomen from not being filled, hole clenching helplessly. arthur wants to play with you. he bounces his muscled thigh up hard against your drooling cunt, huffing hardly-restrained, praised grunts with each rub at your aching bud. his good little girl, his dirty girl, being so sweet and quiet for him.

a heavy hand hikes your knee up into your chest, bone digging into the plush of your spilled tits. arthur stills for a second, soaked digits sliding down to breach your leaking hole. satiating you. he's mean, but not that much. the flat of his scruffy chin settles deep into the crook of your twitchy neck, his lust-blown pupils dragging to stare at the thick fingers pistoning in and out between your thighs. bulging bands of his tendons flex as he pumps his fingers up, and up, flicking his wrist to find that little sweet spot.

“there she is,” arthur snarls a stone-tone whisper as he wrings your release out rough. hiccupy whines start to tumble from your sore, bitten lips, eyes rolling far back in your skull like white billiards balls. spine bowing further forward into his ravenous onslaught, bucking up sloppily, riding his brutish thrusts. he kisses the same spot on your cheek, over and over, persistent peppering as your warmth trickles down into the open, dusty gap of his chaps, milky ring coating the hilt of two knuckles. your ill-bred, coarse-grained sweetheart, mouthing messily at the silk-soft fat of your cheek, lewd smacking noises sounding out from the vulgarity of his kisses.

you pant, a pathetic little mewl when he pulls out languidly, not before landing a light spank to your slick-lacquered folds. your twitching thighs snap shut at the impact, features then twisting in embarrassment at the wet, suckling noises reverberating behind your lax skull. you twist, powder-pink blush flooding the apples of your cheeks. arthur laps at his own fingers, polishing off the glistening cream. you pout petulantly at the act, swatting feather-light at his bulky arm. knock it off. he thinks it's cute.

he fails at first to factor in the little snow angel waiting back in his bed, you — eagerly scrambling up to greet him as soon as the rickety door creaks ajar, your hands already dusting settled snow from the chestnut cascades near his forehead. disquietude sets a pout on your lips, drawing your brows together tight. clutching at his coat collar like a lifeline, peppering panicked kisses to the overgrown scruff along his jaw. he cups the base of your skull in two cold, leather-clad palms, tells you he's fine, you're safe. and against all odds, he smiles small at you.

he worries he's worse for wear, though, reeking of gun smoke and sweat, chapped lips and weather-beaten cheeks. all the royal flush hands, wishbones, horseshoes, four-leaf clovers, and rabbits paws in the world couldn't begin to explain his stroke of luck with you, his sweetheart, his darling. how cupid's taut bow string must have trembled with such force, before arthur was struck hard. aim true and landing firm, his affection for you that boils white-hot, thawing away decades worth of deep-rooted antagonism.

arthur knows he's no good for you. he knows you deserve a man who doesn't come home splattered with blood mist and gunpowder. he decides to start off slow tonight. backs you into the bed with heavy footfalls, gun belt and worn cattleman clanking to the floor discordantly. you're docile, gazing up at him with slow blinks. all-embracing, expectant. he answers with tentative touches, pads of his fingers popping your coat buttons open and unwinding the wollen scarf around your neck gently. ghosting over your skirts, carefully untying the lily-white ribbon of your bloomers, letting bunched cotton drop down your thighs.

a brute, a gunslinger, an outlaw, capable of caresses and cradles only for you, just gentle enough to rival the slowed melt of snowflakes on heated skin. the same big, scarred hands you've seen snap necks, severing soul connections permanently, the sick crunch of cartilage always grinding on your ears. those hands, splitting your sopping cunt wide open with two calloused thumbs.

the ones that always come to your defense with trigger flicking and blade brandishing, forcing your heart to thrum in fast, affectionate little flutters. he spits a thick, hot glob to the center of your clit, crooked nose dragging across your abdomen, dipping to lick a lazy stripe at your seam. lapping at you like you're made up of condensed milk and buttercream frosting, insatiable.

you're needy tonight. rocking your hips up in anticipation, squirming under his heavy shadow. slick hole fluttering before he lines his flushed, leaky cock up to your sappy heat. your head lolls back as he feeds you the first inch, a breathy mewl sounding out. he curses, deep-toned, broad shoulders shuddering. arthur always fucks you like he's trying to consume, cervix-bruising, all fervent greed and sharpened teeth.

his thrusts are mean, short. punching air out of your chest in whimpers with each wet squelch, rusted spurs rattling in the dark. you drool around the thick digits crowding your wet mouth, tongue darting out to lap at the webbing of his fingers. shaky sighs muted some, making his cock pulse. the headboard thumps rhythmically between his harsh rutting, loud enough to rouse all of colter's old ghosts.

a bone-creaking grip around your frame, his inflamed handprints mottling the soft skin of your hips. he knows he's no good, assured himself over and over of being rotten, repugnant, repulsive. selfish, maybe. a mangy mutt soiling something saintly, clipping your wings, rubbing your clit raw with each release he pulls from you.

and you let him, you let him use you, butterflying your trembling thighs for arthur to take his pleasure. he does, fast, wolfish grin seared into the skin of your throat before he spills, shooting hot and deep on your convulsing walls. dainty hands rise to push futilely into his hard chest, twitching from sensitivity, sniffling with each sharp intake of breath.

after, arthur cradles your weight in his brawny arms, readjusting your pliant body to drape delicately over his sweat-slick chest. flickers of moonbeams make your tear tracks glisten in hazy opaline light. he kisses them away, too rough and hastily. like he never learned how to love properly, not without clumsiness and jagged edges.

still, at your beck and call like a well-trained dog, flattened ears, retracted claws and a willingness to service. never bitter or guarded with you, no bared teeth, dwindled down to just a lovesick pup with his favourite toy. arthur morgan might be a rotten son of a bitch, but, he's a good husband. he's good to you, in some distorted fashion. messy and confusing at times, honest even so.

“you still with me, sweetheart?” his voice is gritty with combined half-sleep and arousal, heavy hand rubbing slow circles on the small of your back.

you're slow to respond, a fucked-out little mess of twitchy motions with arthur's wet ballsack snug against your asshole. he watches you slowly nuzzle the sliver of bare skin on his chest with your cheek, like the cat that got the goddamn cream. you're stuffed full, swollen, sticky cunt slowly leaking his spend back out on to his thick thighs.

quietly, you mumble out a weak “mhmn”, fingers curling into the cobalt blue fabric cushioning the underneath of both your bodies. somehow, arthur feels softer than usual, between his overgrown beard and the merino wool of his coat. and hot, despite an arctic spring's indomitable storm screeching outside. maybe you just missed him.

“y'warm enough? need me to grab another blanket?” he questions once more, words sugar-sweet, shifting you just an inch across his pelvis.

the gentle movement draws a pitchy gasp from you, hole fluttering around the milky base of his length. ambarino's air mocks the hot, humid and sticky mess blossoming between his legs and yours, slick still dribbling down into the mattress. he had the decency to not strip you completely bare — as much as he wanted to. bundled you up with every blanket in sight instead, smoothed down your knotted hair. patient. funny, arthur's killed folk all in the name of his impatience.

your lack of response forces him to give a two-fingered, little love tap to the side of your hip, waiting. you're quiet, soft breaths and sealed eyelids. fighting sleep. selfishness strikes him again, a small scrap of guilt. he doesn't want you to fall asleep just yet. he missed you. growing irritable, arthur grunts, hands dipping down to dig into your ass cheeks and split you open.

you flinch at the feel of his still-frosted fingertips, curling further into him as he gropes at the fat. his cock throbs inside you from his earlier release, thick head nudging rough against your aching sweet spot. the overwhelming stretch of him, his constant toying, and your puffy clit rubbing ruthlessly against his wiry hair. he bucks his hips up once, just to be mean.

“'m good,” you whine, warbled and debauched. “don't need anythin'. just want you.”

“you got me, honey.” he drawls slowly, spoke soft against the shell of your ear. “we got outta worst scrapes than than this one. we'll be alright.”

you just about manage a barely-there, lazy nod back at him, squeezing your inner thighs around his waist as you settle down. frayed nerves smoothed out, arthur teeters on the slippery edge of a good night's rest with you tucked in his arms, buried to the hilt inside you. sometimes, he wonders if his inner discord will start sticking to you like oil slick. viscous, weighing down your spirits. he'll be dammed if it does.

he waits for your breaths to slow, signalling a deep sleep, moving to murmur a raspy whisper into your temple. “think you was made just f'me.”

when you ask him if he slept alright, if he had good dreams? nuzzling his temple, all kittenish, cushioned over his firm lap like you always belonged there. not quite the same to a tango or a waltz, softer and slowed, but routine all the same. he's sure he must have lumbered into that old, shabby diner you used to work at on a sunday, the luckiest day. a serendipitous stumbling into you, skipping into his life with a spring in your step, so sweet you could put an overripe peach to shame.

you've ruined him. if arthur shifts the water pressure down a notch, he can faintly hear you tinkering about in the two-tone kitchen. heard the mumble of your wedding song beneath your breath before he bounded up to the bathroom. lathered up your scented soap bar, only to be assaulted with aroma of his wife; how you smell when you slip into the sheets at night, fresh out of the bath, and interlace your fingers with his. perfumed up like a damn flower field.

something so insignificant but so intimate, the washcloth long discarded at the bottom of the shower in favour of fisting his aching cock. and shit, it's wrong, he thinks — he a little feels gross, getting off while you labour downstairs, all oblivious to it. his eyebrows furrow, the thought of you devotedly whipping up breakfast for him only intensifying his impending orgasm. his clipped grunts swirl with steam, pre-cum oozing over his knuckles.

the soft click of the latch snaps arthur's misty reverie in two. honeyed sunlight spills through the crack in the door, your melodic tone ricocheting off rows of humid tile. “honey, did you want pancakes or —”

arthur stills for a second, your frame shedding a faint tenebrosity over the bathmat. he hears you choke over your sentence, startled, sending a sharp jerk straight to his dick.

your tummy twists at the sight before you, plump lips parting in a pitchy gasp. he stands, one hand braced against the shower screen, the other still lazily pumping his shaft in slow strokes. droplets trickling off the tawny tresses near his forehead, cheeks flushed hotter than the regular roseate from balmy steam.

almost casually, he simply asks. “you busy?”

his sightline shifts to watch your fidgety digits curl over the apron hem, accidentally hiking it up your thighs further and further. a couple inches from your cunt. it's cruel. you don't even know what you do to him.

“i-” you stammer, shy and shrinking, brains swapped out for cotton candy. “i was making you breakfast.” lashes fluttering as you struggle between looking, or not looking. ironic, considering the telltale ring of his teeth marks peeking out from above your nightdress.

he shudders a heavy groan, squeezing the base of his cock. “can it wait, sweetheart?”

a twinge of arousal blooms between your thighs as soon the shame from stumbling in subsides. you could have knocked, but now you're glad you didn't.

you breathe back a needy, one-word reply. “yeah.”

fumbling with apron strings and bunched-up satin, arthur gapes at the bounce of your tits as you tug the confines of your minimal clothes away. the barrier is crossed in a blur, pearly fog muddling your combined, disorderly movements. he swings the sweated glass aside with little care, thick arm abruptly anchoring you to his wet front.

a soft squeak sounds out from you when the stiff weight of his cock slaps at your tummy, pre-cum staining your skin. silently, he lifts you, the veins in his wrists flexing as he presses you you firm against cool, powder-blue tile. your perked nipples rub against his broad, fuzzed chest, fingers groping to interlace over his neck for security.

“arthur,” you whine with each tortuous pass of his throbbing cock between your cunt, barely-there friction making your hole flutter impatiently. “hurry up.”

hot water cascades across your back in dotted kisses, he melds his mouth over yours sloppily. he tastes bitter, sucking at your tongue with traces of tobacco and coffee grounds, but you moan anyways. stubble scratches at your chin, your cheeks.

“don't wanna hurt you none, sugar.” he hums, trailing his tongue over your bottom lip. two heavy hands cup your upper thighs, squeezing, grabbing greedy handfuls. calluses, earned from hot days of hard labour just for you, scrape at your bare skin. “was all sore last time we —”

“don't tease me,” you cut him off in a watery whimper, loosening one of your arms from the tie around his neck to dip down, lower. “you won't,” with two fingers, you split your glossy cunt open in a v-shape, showing him the sticky strings of arousal clinging to your puffy folds. “please? please?”

the tangible frustration in your tone, the warning of sheeny tears on your waterline, decays his resolve. you always ask so pretty, so polite. he stops slowly circling his thumb over the fading bite mark on your thigh, moving to tap his swelled cockhead over your clit. “got you this worked up huh? ain't you cute.”

you clumsily latch your grip around the curve of his bicep, soap suds sliding under your hold. he teases a little longer, dragging his cock down through your heat all too slow.

“relax f'me, sweetheart,” arthur nudges his wet forehead with yours, fat tip dilating your drooling entrance open. his voice, disarming in nature and so smoothly familiar, wills you to take in a long inhale. “i got you — yeah, i know what you need.”

“big stretch.”

you know you'll be paying the price with a sensitive, sore hole tomorrow; the sharp sting works a strangled, pitchy moan from your throat, wet squelch mingling with the dull babble of the showerhead as soon as he bottoms out.

he hisses at the soft vice of your cunt, hot pressure already hiking up with a couple of passive thrusts. arthur allows you a minute to adjust, cooing something sweet and something dirty while you mewl at the feel of him splitting you wide open.

“there's a girl,” he rumbles, rolling his hips, abusing that little sweet spot against your tight walls.

“harder,” you whimper back, wet inner thighs twitching around his waist. your head ticks down to watch the slow pull of him, in and out, your glossy fluids already staining his shaft and happy trail. “go harder, please?”

he pulls back an inch to study your face; flushed, brows pulled together, lips primed up in the prettiest pout for him. puffy clit pulsing, all blissed out. and desperate, just the way he likes.

he kisses the corner of your jaw, delicate, grinding a slow circle into your sticky pelvis. “hold on tight.”

arthur's restraint splinters. his hips rut upwards, hard, tip pressing rough against your cervix. the force of his thrusts send you further up the tile, obnoxious squeaks resonating from your fingertips over the shower screen. you sound out the first syllable of his name, calves trembling with each bounce.

“look at'chu,” he bares his canines over your throat, the sequence of pitchy whines you cry making him blow out a low grunt, clearly pleased. your pulse thrums breakneck beneath his teeth. “sweetest little thing.”

but all the bite, the fight, dies down as soon as you clamp your cunt tight around his length, making his chest constrict.

you pant pathetically, wound-up from his relentless doting and brain all fuzzy, hands scrambling at the muscles rippling in his back. “gonna — arthur, arthur, i'm gonna —”

“already? shit,” he mocks you just in the slightest, though it lacks any real malice. “c'mon, show me. show me, baby.” you match his brutal jackhammering with sloppy little rocks of your hips, spilling slick on the seam of his balls as warmth washes over your tummy. your jaw falls open over the thick of his freckled shoulder, muffled whining pressed into tanned skin.

his teeth grind together at the feel of your cunt clamping down, milking him, already loosened up long before you wandered into the bathroom. you so pliant and perfect, ditzy from your creamy release, he follows right after — unloading hot, stuffing stickiness into your fucked-out hole, spilling out at the base of his cock. the water does little to drown out his husky grunts.

arthur readjusts you against the tile, peppering long, lazy kisses to your damp hairline, spend still steadily dribbling out from your sexes. he's gentle, like he didn't just take you like his personal fuckdoll, mumbling soft shushes at you.

the jostle of his cock still buried deep in your cunt elicits another high whine from you, over-sensitive, craning your neck up needily for a kiss. he obliges, groaning against your wet tongue, then moving to nuzzle his cheek into your temple. a wordless little thank you for the sunday stress relief. the shower stream dilutes down to a lukewarm temperature, growing frosty, the flow shooting shudders into your ribcage.

weakly, you start stringing out a soft sentence, chest undulating fast up against his. “waffles, or pancakes?”

when arthur comes home, it's late. his truck's fluorescent floodlights seep through the blinds, momentarily casting the bedroom in bleached white. you shift in the sheets, rolling over to face the wall, the sluggishness from disturbed sleep rendering you useless to move more than an inch. past midnight, you think. hell of a shift.

the tinkling of silver house keys rings softly through the hall, then a clatter; tossed to the side, followed by a series of barks from copper, also roused from rest. you hear arthur mumble a weary “good boy”, the spill of kibble against tin metal and the clicking of light switches. your lips quirk up in a lazy smile against the mattress. you fed him already, but you'll deal with it later.

it's not long before sleep comes to welcome you again, deluging over your bones like warmed syrup. the hum of the shower a couple doors down and quiet trickling over porcelain serves as counting fluffed sheep. to you, your husband fumbling with chest drawers for fresh laundry goes unheard, in tune with the dull thud of dirty clothes on polished floors.

you remain unknowing to the lingering kiss arthur presses to your forehead, or the way his finger glides over your jawbone in admiration. and when you wake, it's to the feeling of stubble scratching against your inner thighs, and damp linen dragging beneath your back.

barely lucid to the intrusion of two thick fingers stuffed in your cunt, arthur's head lifts up to meet your gaze, features contorted with a hint of repentance. a sleepy whine bubbles from the back of your throat, lashes tinkering as you come to.

“'m sorry, sweet thing.” he soothes lowly, free hand splayed over the flat of your tummy, pinning you down firm. soft words contrast brutal actions. the heel of his palm bashes against the bones of your pelvis, slick spilling from your twitching hole steadily.

he meets your eyes, somewhat apologetic, irises warmed to sea-green from the street lamps outside. a glimmer of something else not typically there. “looked so pretty.” arthur curls his fingers up again, rougher, making you clench around the stretch of two knuckles.

“baby,” you manage, trembling breaths sending shudders through your chest — now bare, nightdress hastily pulled up to splay against your collarbones, sore nipples glossy from his spit. mouthing at you in your sleep. your husband's a pervert.

he groans appreciatively at the endearment, dipping back to split your puffy folds open with his hot tongue. babbling incoherently, you tug on his still-wet, squeaky clean strands, pulling his face flush to your cunt. his lips form a tight seal over your clit, suckling. he smells like forest pine, fresh, traces of cinnamon buns from your stolen shower gel.

droplets of slick drip down to your asshole, while arthur scissors you open, earning himself another sugary whine. his adam's apple bobs, a heavy hand reaching up to paw hungrily at your bare tit.

“arthur, i -” your hips buck up in bunny hops, hair dusting your eyes as you rise languidly on the bed. “i'm gonna - i can't -”

“i know,” he huffs against your skin like an ox, uncontrolled, calloused thumb swiping hard figure eights on your clit. “was already real close before you woke up, darlin.'”

heat pools in your tummy, voice growing more pitchy in tone by the second. the muscles beneath your abdomen tauten, plush thighs cocooning arthur's damp beard.

“you gonna give me one? yeah?”

the wet click-click of your cunt grows louder, and you're too sleepy to warn him before your spine seizes up — your drawn-out whine ambrosia on his ears, the bed springs squeaking in synchrony with your strained pants.

arthur guides you through it, as he always does, with gruff praises and little care for your ever-growing sensitivity. with half-lidded eyes, you catch sight of the rose hued bruises blossoming on your thighs, the glistening lower half of his face.

a barely-there protest bounces off the bedroom walls at the persistence of his kitten licks, your socked feet kicking lightly against his broad back. he stills as your breaths even, a final tender kiss to your clit.

the backs of your knees tacky with sweat, you sigh warmly, cupping his cheek as he comes to rest his head on your tummy.