#dolliefic

he stares at the twitchy shift between your shoulders, the pair of dainty hands slinking down to toy at the scalloped-lace hem of your chemise in turgid thought. one of the weekends where your daddy was away, on business. too busy with cattle drives and the like to pay too much mind to you, left you all alone. arthur's reluctant to admit his gratitude for the cyclical absences. there's something sweet about playing house, a cloying taste of a mellow life out of his reach. and, the little precious pearl at the middle of it. you come to your wordless decision, then, crawling over the hickory floorboards of the aged porch to close the distance. settling yourself in the denim-dressed divot of his lap, a sleepy sigh.

your love for him always finds a way to bleed through. it trickles through the slits and rifts like sun-warmed honey, sweetens his old, sour heart like no other. makes arthur wonder why you chose him. he figures you might think you owe it, a twisted love-loaded debt of sorts. after all, he found you. all those months ago, trudging along the trail, wobbly-lipped and watery-eyed. wandering aimlessly under the skin peeling, scintillating star in the sky. a rattlesnake and a spooked horse, the cruel conjunctions of your misery. swallowed up by the bone-dry, dirty bowels of the dessert, where things are still wild. too wild for you to be all on your lonesome. skirts soiled with canyon rust, hiccuping in the abrasive, apricot gold horizon.

it's your fragility that lures him in. a tried and true hunter's trap snapped around his ankle. tugs on the corroded heart strings with gargantuan force, all the odds stacked against his favour; the day's sweat pooled thick on his neck, an aching back and lesioned exhaustion, a steaming bath and warm bed many miles in the opposite direction. every reason to turn around. try as he might, arthur's no selfish son of a bitch. helped you up on to the blood bay velvet rump of his mare, tattered riding gloves cupping the curves of your waist firm, and promised you he'd get you home safe.

the silken, steeped desire crawls up on him. makes him brazenly ignore the ‘trespassers will be shot’ sign plastered over the fence post, spurred with bravery-rich stupidity, or stupidity-rich bravery. not minding your overly trigger-happy daddy. if only to see his pretty girl for just five minutes, clouded by inky shadows and selfishly roused from sleep. to knot his stocky, summer-kissed arms around your waist and whisper his honeydew goodnight. all sand-sprinkled spurs and saddle-scuffed jeans, the wildflower bouquet bunched in his grip.

gambler hat askew, reeking of firewood and whiskey. the barn cat bunting his leather-clad calves. he could've cleaned up a bit, he knows. waiting patiently as you bound down the stairs, nudging the lichen-cloaked backdoor open shyly. tiptoeing in the dew damp grass to meet his mouth in a tender, eager peck. tugs the haphazardly strewn shawl around your shoulders all that bit tighter, shushes your glee-tingled giggle with a grin. lord, is he sweet on you. lumped sugar cubes and candy-striped peppermints couldn't come close to striking a similarity. so sweet, it nauseates his synapses and makes him loose all sense.

and arthur feels like a real, sick bastard, splitting you open; sinewed biceps swelling with each sloppy bounce of you atop his leaky cock, his softened hunger to your shy affections. he wants to say sorry, for spoiling and sullying you. fervour blocks his throat instead. bands of milky moonbeams slip into the wide open slats of the hayloft, pearlescent residues clinging to his heaving, sweat-sticky chest. bathed in silver, your bare knees dig into the dirt, trembling thighs bracketing his thick hips. his hazy, sin-jewelled pupils catch on the glimmering glint, flicking down to the rise and fall of your sticky, sore pussy over his syrup-slick shaft.

“come on, angel,” he rasps, drawl dragged out molasses-slow, slurred syllables muggy with carnivorous want. “make me cum.”

sweet thing. always taking everything he gives you. you're a quick study, bunnyhopping his blunt cockhead just how he taught you. he grins. a drowsy roll of your shoulders, the crumpled cornflower-blue linens of his open shirt balled up in your tight fists. flooding the fly of his ruched ranch pants, dry grass pressing feathered markings into your supple skin. with a chewed back grunt, arthur hooks two fingers down into the moon-white lace of your damp décolletage, exposing your glossy tits, apple-crisp new austin air pebbling your nipples. slick squelches and your whiny babbling drown out the cicada choir and coyote chittering outside. sugary bashfulness cloaking your face, you stammer. “a-arthur, —”

“shh, shh, don't gotta say nothin', honey.” he soothes, a familiar dance, his dirty mouth filthy-sweet. his throbbing cock nudges at your tender insides and you keen, giving a breathy, broken whimper out from pouty lips. all aching, he bets, your first release on his scissoring fingers, the second on his flattened tongue. softly as he can muster, arthur runs a calloused palm over the small of your back in slow circles, tone dropping down to a hoarse whisper. you make it easy to be patient. “y'want my help?”

you nod. head urgently bobbing yes, puppy-wet, twinkling eyes begging him without the need for words. furrowed brow deepening, his warm, devil-ridden fists dig into the fat of your ass, groping greedily. you slump forwards, body heat blanketing his brutish chest. breathing out strained, shuddering hiccups into the crook of his sun-tanned neck as he sinks himself back into your tight cunt. in all honesty, arthur prefers you beneath him. feeding his tongue into your whiny mouth, hucking a glob of spit inside and watching the bob of your throat as you swallow.

“that's better, ain't it?” he grits wolfishly to your punched out, muffled squeaks, the muscled planes of his thighs biting into your skin. he's really fucking you, now. snapping his hips and pumping up into your sappy heat, setting a harsh, steady rhythm. his heavy hand wanders up to cup the nape of your neck, curling into the hair and splaying his fingers out to cradle your skull. arthur drags his sun-chapped lips to your temple, his gravely groans huffed out into the sweat-damp hair — feel like a fuckin' dream, angel. gonna go to bed with me still leakin' outta you. you're twitching, burrowed against broad shoulder like a prairie bunny.

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 about 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, the loaded baggage which comes with them. he just wishes they'd stop. needs them to stop, more like. 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 all the same. 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, can't read you right — 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 only 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. clogging his adrenaline-fatigued arteries with muck. 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. as most things are, when you're around — ever the big, blustering idiot. his cheeks feel hot. 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, and it still manages to carry a sing-song softness. “can't sleep?”

god, you're so good to him. how are you so good? scrambling in his awkwardness, he grunts throatily, propping his weight up on corded forearms. clears the coarse block in his sleep-coated throat and 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 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. hot and needy, hiccuping something silky and shaky to him that's lost on deaf ears.

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 drive 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? look, 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, he 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 puffy, 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 simple — 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, he 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 his hoarse moan out 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. and, arthur is happy. a fickle, fleeting thing, though the tightness in his chest is gone.

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. brackets his arms around your skull, his fingertips stroking at the sweat-damp curls plastered to the crown of your head, tender. you're quiet. uncomfortably quiet. sealed eyelids, almost as if he never woke you in the first place. silent besides the shaky succession of your uneven inhales, and it forces a flurry of treacherous tar-black anxieties to bloom in his head. a hurricane, and again — he feels like an idiot.

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 in a murky film of bestial greed, a ravening lining glutting gloomy irises. the eyes of a gunslinger don't tend to twinkle much, 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 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. 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, hot 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. watching with rabid-blown pupils and pride oozing from his pores, rapacious desire dripping from the spikes of his lashes.

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.

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 shirt 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, incandescent eyes 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, just 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 into your skull, flashing the whites. 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 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.”

then you come along, like a course of neon, two-tone sugarcoated antibiotics — just what the doctor ordered. dainty fingers curling around the walnut varnish of his front 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 slow, surprised, with dulled sea glass eyes, dripping sweat, and flecked in veils of sanguine. you're nauseatingly sweet, waiting in question under flickering fluorescents of the hall. it makes the hairs on the nape of his neck stand 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, and 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 beige band-aids. soaking cotton rounds in 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 crackling 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, honey-coloured 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 his 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, faux 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?” you roll your shoulders back, a little stiff, voice cloud-soft and hesitant. 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 gentle, steady 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, tone clipping 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 lose.”

and lose, he didn't. botched your surgically-precise handiwork to high heaven, though. sloughed off his blood-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-jawed 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, digging hot indents into the flesh. 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. sopping pussy stretched, leaking around the swelled base of his hot cock. corded veins drag harsh over your tight, plush walls, his leaky, ruddy tip twitching inside you with impending release — a high-pitched, shaky 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 you a lazy, lopsided grin, all lust-lidded eyes and liquid, oil-black pupils at the spasming clamp of your fluttering, drooling hole. panting like a hellhound into heat into your wet, welcoming mouth, hips twitching and heavy balls tightening up. “stuff y'full, sweetheart.”

but in the heart of big valley, his famine forever quelled with your coffee-flavoured kiss, he feels just how abundant love is.

arms of corded iron pinned to russet furs and ruffled bedroll padding when he has you, claws clamped around the pillowy fat on your sides. the pinch of his swollen cock as he pushes inside, bullish, clumsy ruts into your puffy cunt, his sweated forehead pressed into the dip of your neck. my girl, he moans, like a hail mary, mouthing sloppily at lavender nectar and salt sprinkled on your throat. i'll give you what y'need. litany of saccharine praises for his sweetheart. his spit-slick fingers snake down to the heat of your union, rubbing roughened sweeps over your tender clit. your squirming hips struggle to meet his slamming waist, shattered breaths with all his sticky, rippling muscle forced onto your spine. desire is a formidable beast and his tattered muzzle breaks on borrowed time.

you sure are good at tugging on his sweet tooth. arthur can only ever overindulge, on you. already licked his thick fingers clean, glittery slick suckled into his stretched maw, wet face stuffed into the curve of your glistening cunt. his heavy tongue dragging over his milky heat dribbling out of you. the hinges of his jaw flush to your folds, dipping into your hole, fucking you. cooing out broken hums with his tracing tongue. his incisors clamping over something rightfully his, claiming something only for him — food aggression. gluttony turns his fists into springs.

bite marks burned into the meat of your inner thigh, puncture wounds and his grunted whispers. concupiscence wrapped in barbed wire, bathed in ichor. sting of his stubble kissed along your soft skin. the crooked arch of his nose colliding into yours when you lap at his drool-coated chin, pull his bottom lip into your mouth.

“we have to head back soon.” you mumble woefully, tracing his rib with the pad of your finger. ticking of the timer that keeps you tethered, the yank of a loyalty leash he can't quite shuck off.

arthur clings. skin to skin, moulds you to his side and catches your anxious fingers skirting against the sweat-pooled divots of his chest, intertwining them together. “i know. s'still early,” he hums, whisper brimming with melted candy warmth. “not yet we don't.”

you bite your lip, a wobble in your delicate doubt. “you're lying to me.”

he scoffs at that, your arthur. a dry chuckle and a boyish smirk to boot — he wants you, here, eternally stitched to him like a phantom limb. it is not profane; he washed you clean in the creek on his knees and drawled haemorrhaging absolutions to your dewy chest. in all the time he has known you, dishonesty has never once crossed his teeth.

he plants the petals of his lips to the inside of your wrist. “to you? i'd never.”

then he begs you, sweeter than sugar-dusted pie. through bleary eyes, his ruffled mop of sandy blond bed hair, blinking down at you curled bare between the part of his legs. your gentle fingers cupping his heavy base, smearing kittenish kisses on the glossy sheen around his shaft, thumbing his bulging vein. coil of his voice raspy like cigarette smoke when your loving lips close, so softly, around his rosy cockhead. oh, honey. jus’ like that, god. please, please, please. taking him all the way down to the root, stuffed cheeks, his calloused palm cradling the nape of your neck.

“i can't sleep without you,” you splutter, strained and pinched, your sluggish gaze flittering over the gore glued to the worn fringe of his chaps, the scarlet stippling. frustrated fists scrub at the wet hollows of your eyes, poppy-red and salt-swollen. you choke back on a stunted sob like a rough whiskey shot, it goes down sour and sharp. your gait is pure gelatin. just a lamb-legged thing, shuffling unevenly by the swarm of sparks and toasted timbre, all the way to him. past pine needles and knurled branches, shivering in spite of the growling heat, your confession a cracked cry. “you scared me.”

a grimace quickly sears its sizzling stamp to his face, tugging at his thick brows and pulling at the corners of his chapped lips. a good, god-fearing boy he is not. these days, the only thing that seems to rattle arthur any are the tears trespassing across your cheeks.

“i didn't mean to.” he grits plainly, smoothing a hard palm over his thickly stubbled face in ire, though it slips out crueler than he intends. cuts clean into your worries with the callous blade of a cleaver, and splits your stupidly sweet affections over the iron spike. you crumple. drowsy footsteps come to a stiffened stop, dolor swelling star-crested droplets to your lash lines, your twitchy fingers fumbling at your sides. he dares not let you sit with it. grumbling under his cool breath, the nothings crystallising to misted clouds in moist air, guilt glowers in his gut and hardens his gallbladder to lead.

he catches the curve of your waist in two tight hands before you have the chance to bolt. you bleat, blinking winsome while he wrangles you to straddle against the muscled bulk of his lap. his second skin of petrichor and copper is potent. smells like a fresh kill, clashes bittersweet with the soot and salt on yours. but he's warm. blood-hot and humanly so, not like the burnt brassy flickers you flocked to before.

“i didn't mean to. really.” he states once more, honest as the day is long, softening his syllables and swallowing all the bile and blood which always worms its way into his tone. his rough lilt rumbles like a brush of velvet, his heavy-lidded eyes soft as cerulean silk. you tremble, a shuddering, shaky chest rubbing into his, both from the frost-tipped chill swathing the flooded heartlands and the curse he has so unkindly bestowed upon you; to love a butcher. dainty arms loop around the nape of his neck, and he knows home is where the heart is, your cardiac chambers thrumming steadily through the beaten leather of his coat.

with a feathery touch, arthur strokes the pad of his thumb across the moon-kissed slant of your mandible, up to the pillowy flesh of your sore lip. parts the bruised petals with a tentative push and slips it inside, glitter-dotted drool pooling around the wide base of his knuckle when you hollow the satiny lining of your cheeks and suck lightly. he pumps his digit back and forth inside your plushy mouth, pressing the callus firm to your tongue. teeth graze his tough skin. a little glimmer of defiance, gone as quick as gun smoke. he knows it's not hardwired in your anatomy to bite. unlike him.

sugar was not something arthur had a taste for. too cloy. no good for gunslingers, no use, but then there was you — your soft underbelly, blunt teeth and fluffed lashes. honest kisses over his whiskery cheeks, the weight of a slow breathing body in his bed, smaller interwoven fingers in his at peach-dusted gloamings, neat stitches in the rumpled linens of his shirts. arthur doesn't know much about love. can't make sense of it. he certainly knows why fellers call it a sickness, though. the coagulated film of perspiration on clammy hands, a cotton stuffed skull, and cardolium unfurling in his burly chest like a rancorous cancer when you cry. crying for him, you sweet girl.

blood thunders in his temples. your pupils are blown wide and wanting, dusky, coal-black and lax below the slow sweep of your eyelids, your whisper-soft suckling. if you were anyone else, not his, a misstep might make him maul you to vermillion ribbons. bay bitterly, sink those curved claws of his into the warm fat and exsanguinate you for sport. he'd shove you into the dirt and rip your skirts open at the seams if you weren't so good at rousing the gentleness in him. it does not come naturally. he had to learn how to be soft. how to be mild and muted, force a triggering reflex that was never there in the first place.

doggish as he be, dripping in his grime-dappled degeneracy, he's a sorry, love drunk bastard. he pulls his tacky thumb from your mouth, a slippery pop, spit string snapping over your chin like spider silk. his darling, honey-glazed with melancholy but needily nuzzling the heat of your cunt over his hardened bulge, thin linens draped loosely over your legs. with all the starvation driven impulse of a ravenous mutt, arthur skims his gunpowdered fingertips and blood-washed palms across the tops of your clenched thighs, past the embroidered petals on cotton. he can't help but think he's wrecked you just as fragile as the threaded flowers, daisy dew on your cheeks, your wispy, waterlogged lashes tinkering slow at him.

he lifts the muddied, rain-damp hem of your pastel skirts to settle around your hips, gooseflesh spotting your sensitive skin in the frosty zephyr, mellow breaths stretching thin when dulled metals and cracked leather click together. your bashful palms work the dirty denim of his pants wide open, gun belt clattering against bark and forgotten, just a dulled glitter in the low fuse of the spluttering fire. a low susurrus of gruff praises spill freely from arthur's throat then, his leaky tip blushing cherry and dribbling hot through your slick slit, soiling your silken delicates. twitching over his tense thighs, you breathe a pretty hiccup, his swollen cock catching on the cleft of your dewy cunt.

“i'm sorry,” he rasps hoarsely, canting his wide hips hard into your sappy heat, slow and strong thrusts against the curves of your ass, throbs running along the vein webbed length pulsing inside you. “i missed you somethin' fierce, darlin'.” a coarse moan catches in arthur's chest. he's nothing but utterly gentle and startlingly tender in the splay of his broad grip encircling your little waist, your tight hole struggling and fluttering at the thick intrusion. matching his pace, small, syrupy sounds spill out from your pounded pussy while you scrub sloppy ruts over his pelvis, your lower halves locked together and sticky, his fat cockhead grazing the pudgy give of your cervix.

fucking you open for him, your translucent slick trickling over his furred, heavy balls, plapping into your glossy folds. you scramble at the broad bulk of his back, bulging muscles rolling beneath your weak grip, dragging your nails across his sweat-soaked shirt and mewling a broken melody. it spikes the lining of his eardrums like a stalking wolf. he near salivates at the pitch of your stifled squeaks, speeding his pummelling thrusts, thickened pearls of precum smearing over the plug of your womb.

your fire shined face pants his name softly. parted lips, sweet as the spring bloom of a buttercup, your sopping pussy a snug snare bouncing on his rigid cock, puffy clit chafing circles over his dark drenched curls. the friction of his toughened jeans bands angry, ballet-pink lines to the backs of your trembly thighs. warm sweat dewy on his wrinkled forehead, his sun weathered cheeks flushed a ruddy hue, arthur huffs ragged, raspy groans, your stuffed walls squeezing his girth. his sharp-fanged maw scrapes over the junction of your jaw. all tongue and teeth, sloppily mouthing scratchy smacks, sinking hard into the slope of your neck, his canines at prickling tender skin.

sugary sweet tension in your tummy snapping, you bonelessly slump over like a bitten bunny, breathlessly babbling through his hilt-deep jackhammering, milking every ridge and vein of his strained cock. spurred on by your tearful keens, the tight coil of your cunt and your steady gush of warm, shimmery slick, arthur follows not far behind, his ‘i love you’s on your feverish skin a drawling slur. his pulsing tip jerks and spasms at your achey insides, shooting sticky, thick pulses, heavy hips grinding your raw cunt over his spent length. your plush cheek slots into the wide crook of his shoulder, his ravaging slams slowing down to lazy, languid pistons. adoring touches caress the meat of your sides, his blunt digits leaving behind lilac and lavender kisses, while he gently fucks his spilled spend back where it belongs.