#pinefic

A particularly challenging mission had kept you busy all day, and you had been pestering him throughout the entire time. He had been particularly bitter when you had highlighted that without your help, he would probably be dead after putting half of his opponents to sleep thanks to your powers. You, on the contrary, were deliciously beaming.

The night finally settling, you spend a long time after everyone else in the only bathroom in the west wing of the mansion, treating yourself to a nice hot shower to relax your aching muscles. You were brushing your teeth in nothing but a large shirt and comfortable shorts when you heard heavy footsteps coming your way through the long wooden hallway.

A familiar tall silhouette stops at the entrance to the room, and you turn toward it, leaning against the doorframe. It's late, but he's still wearing his clothes, white tank top, jeans and leather jacket, as if he didn't even own anything else.

"Good evening, Logan. You finally found your way to the bathroom after all those years?"

He looks at you with an unreadable expression. He doesn't look in the mood for your teasing tonight. Maybe your jokes from before had affected him more than usual.

"Shut up, I'm not in the mood."

"Oh, you're probably here to wash away your humiliation from today? Or maybe you missed me so bad you followed me all the way up here?"

"Just wanted to take a goddamn piss, that's all." He grumbles in a flat, nearly threatening tone.

"Yeah, alright, puppy." You're unable to suppress a smug little smirk from growing on your lips.

He clenches his fists.

"Don't ever call me like that again." His face is so cold that it only makes you want to go further. Want to see this impassive facade react to your insufferable provocations. Want to give him a taste of his own bitter medicine, considering the way he's acting with everyone. He takes a step towards you, eyes locked on your mocking face. It seems like he's waiting for something, the mood between you strange and charged with electricity, as if the air were about to burst into flames at the slightest spark.

Maybe his ego was getting a bit bruised from having finally found his match? Well, you weren't going to disappoint him.

"What, d'you prefer kitten? That would fit those cute ears of yours." You aim the pointed tips of his hair with your toothbrush, some foam falling from it.

"I swear to God, bub, if you say one more-

"Do you purr in bed too, lil' kitty?"

That was it. His eyebrows furrow in a dark, devastating stare that only black holes could rival. If he was radiating with anger before, now he's the God of it, fury barely contained by his tensed muscles that threatened to explode under the pressure. What frightens you the most is the absence of the usual smug grin he displays when he's enjoying your banter. It's not banter anymore. It's a declaration of war, an annihilation between species. His furious thoughts are so loud you can hear fragments of them against your will.

Little slut, I'll make you shut up — gonna fill that goddamn mouth good and proper—

You're silenced for a few seconds, finally, too shocked by the obscenity of his mind invading yours. It's so raw and genuine, there is no mistake about that. It's the first time someone's consciousness has reached so intensely into your head. The extreme blend of emotions you had a quick glimpse of along with his words sink deep into your own bones, feet anchored to the ground when he takes another step further, closing the distance between you two completely.

"What you gonna do, uh?" You throw at him, your neck already sore from looking up at his face.

"You have no idea of what I could do to you, girl." He emphasizes the last word, standing so tall compared to you, reminding you of his prideful physical superiority. This isn't a simple discussion. This is the beast intimidating its rival in the unforgiving wilderness.

But you know better. You're not a defenseless mutant anymore. You're not his prey.

"I could say the same to you."

"Oh yeah? You gonna throw that toothbrush at me?" He snorts, one of his eyebrows arching in that doubtous expression of his.

But you're faster than light. In a split second, you use your mutation to throw it away back in its cup and instead pull his razor from the edge of the sink. The blade flies toward him at full speed like a bullet without you making the slightest movement or blinking an eye. It stops abruptly against his neck, the cutting edge only one inch away from piercing his skin.

He's as impassive as before, but his grin is back. You bore him with your fiery gaze, your whole being longing for even the slightest reaction from this unbearable, unshakeable statue. You're both so close now, hung in this unbearable stilness, his intoxicating scent distracting you. Cedar, smoke, whiskey. A faint trace of cologne his sweat covers largely.

But he gives you none other than that. His mind, however, is boiling; you can feel it, being so close to him.

A quick glance wouldn't hurt anyone, especially when his thoughts are so heavy and loud; he's basically screaming it to the world. Your curiosity wins out over morality.

He'll never know.

You open his head's door just slightly…

SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT-

DON'T MOVE

SHIT -

It's like opening a window on a nuclear disaster. The state of general alertness that his body is undergoing is almost too much for you. He is not just standing there watching your little show; every single one of his muscles is strained, his hands, arms, legs, torso, and even down below. It's such chaos that you wonder how a human can endure it, before reminding yourself that Logan is indeed not an ordinary person, even for a mutant. But beyond his self-control to resist your threatening razor, his most intense restraint is against his irresistible urge to… take you right here.

She's so fucking hot right now.

Is he serious? He is enjoying it? The most sinful and mischievous ideas of all fill your mind as his is still seething like the pit of Hell. So much anger, mixed with so much rivalry, turned into so much lust. You who thought he was tired of your shit. You who thought you couldn't drag the slightest emotion out of him. He was, completely contrary to what you imagined, a veritable volcano of primal instincts.

"Not bad." He finally breaks the silence. The contrast between what's going on inside his head and his casual voice is striking.

"You wanna see more?" You don't know where this sudden self-confidence is coming from, but you're not thinking straight anymore. Not after everything you felt by probing his mind for only a quarter of a second.

"Do you have any other tricks up your sleeve?" He rasps with his flesh embracing the blade. He's still looking as unbothered as ever. "Or d'you wanna cut my throat right now?"

"I think I proved my point here." You concede, slightly pulling back the razor, but you're interrupted by his head ringing in your skull.

No, don't go yet!

It's almost a cry for help at this point. Oh, this is way, way too tempting not to finally call him out on that.

"Don't go yet, mmh?"

"You're-" He looks away for the first time since the start of your standoff. "You're reading my thoughts?"

"They're so loud I can't do otherwise, Logan."

Yeah, say my name again - Oh, goddamn it!

You chuckle at how he's battling himself knowing you can hear him thinking. You try a new frontal breakthrough in his mind, curiosity way too strong to resist.

Her lips - Her smell - Shit, her voice - So close - Kiss me - KISS ME - KISS ME - KISS ME - Fuck, please don't look a it

It's so loud you almost forgot who you are for a mere second. His thoughts jostle like thousands of bugs after kicking an anthill, words intermingle, sentences overlaping like hundreds of voices. His lust had turned into a need, and it's consuming him. If he doesn't act on it soon, he's going to lose it.

Wait, look at what exactly?

Your gaze falls down between the two of you. And here it is, the obvious bugle in his jeans. The fabric looks so tight, it's impossible to miss it. The sight of it, God, it lights up the same hunger in your guts. Looking back up, you catches his gaze, unreadable, intense. The gaze of a man who's crossing a limit. And a pretty damn big one. His eyelids are half closed, but you notice his pupils, settling on your lips, glaring a few seconds, pondering, then back to yours.

Beautiful blend of pale green and brown. Indescriptable.

Intense, as always.

And just like that, the air ignites. His hands are on you before you can do anything else —you drop the blade that was still swirling in the air around you in a resounding cacophony, giving in to him and his needy mouth with abandon. His tongue is already tasting yours, like someone entering his long-awaited home they left years ago. One of his hands grabs your neck, the other your waist. Oh, his mouth, so suprinsgly sweet against yours, soft and wet, with just a tiny bit of roughness from his stubble. His taste, strong and spicy from his constant consumption of rich cigars and earthy whiskey. He's a way too addictive cocktail.

And him? He's even more lost in you than you are in him. You wanted to push all his buttons; well, you had done worse, way worse than that.

Mmmh so good - More - Finally made you shut up didn't I? - Fuck, your breasts against my chest - Need to grab that ass

The fingers he had on your waist are quick to execute his urges and travel all the way down to your rear, digging and gripping a fistful of your flesh through your clothes. He growls. You feel his crotch burning against your belly.

"Everythin' okay here?" Scott's voice reaches you from the hall, probably worried by the metallic racket the razor made when you dropped it on the floor.

You don't need any powers to feel the utter rage coming from Logan as he practically barks out a "All good, now fuck off dickhead!" that makes you stifle a giggle.

But he isn't laughing one second. He grabs you by the shoulders, pushing you inside the bathroom. After entering, panting, he locks the door and turns back to you. He looks hungry, like the animal he's desperately trying not to be. His body flushed against yours again, lifting you up effortlessly on the sink with a grunt of need.

"You really want our first time to be here in a fucking bathroom?"

"Now listen to me darlin'." He rumbles as all answer, tone so serious you feel your legs becoming mush hanging from the bathroom counter. "You're the one who had been playing this dangerous little game from the start." While talking, he unbuckles his thick leather belt, then reaches for your shirt. "Now you're going to face the consequences of your goddamn actions." Your piece of clothing is on the floor. "And I don't give the slightest damn about wherever we are."

Your shorts follow quickly, and you shiver at the feeling of the cold marble on which you're sitting. He wastes no time. His lips attack your chest, discovering the taste of your skin, the look of your breasts hanging bare, two beautiful pearls for him to lick at. Those he has fancied in silence and secret for what feels like ages. He's gripping your thighs all the while, all his body acting and sounding like he needs more and more of you.

"Logan-" You moan out as he traces his nose along the valley of your chest.

"Yeah, give me more of those pretty noises, darlin'." He rasps against it, before opening his sinful lips once more and suckling at one of your nipples in a frank gulp.

Your hands reach for his head, encouraging his actions. You run your fingers through his thick strands, earning a little sigh from him. He's so eager. Soon, his hand moves up your thigh and his fingers hook your underwear, the last piece of clothing remaining on you.

He stops, removes his head from the tender feeling of your tits he had found, and locks his heavy eyes on yours. He waits. He's a beast ready to jump at you any second, nearly dying if he doesn't, but he waits. You try to brush the warm feeling spreading into your chest away, putting it away for later, and nod at him, giving him permission.

He's lost in it again as fast as he had stopped. Your panties join the pile of clothes on the floor. He unzips his jeans and you take advantage of it to thug at his top, pulling it up, revealing the piece of art that was his chest. How strange it is, that he is such an exceptional warrior, how much he loves to fight, and yet to see no scars on his immaculate skin. Only his hair covers it, nicely traveling from his collarbone, curling around his pectorals, and all the way down to his navel and under it. The veins on his arms and shoulders, impetuous rivers that would make any man jealous, wind their way up his neck. He was truly an expression of power. As if the God who created him had been angry that day. As if, instead of shaping him with gentleness and patience like his other sons, he had abused his tools, carving the roughest of all materials with vigor and impertinence.

"Y'a like it?" He's the one teasing you know, openly jubilating.

"Don't get cocky," You try to retort, but your eyes widen as he shoves his right hand in his open pants to fish out his engorged member.

"'s not my style."

You want to retort something, and knowing him, he probably wants to. Except he's too needy to let you both have one of your fights in the middle of this. His large, warm hands spread open your thighs as he aligns himself at your entrance, his cockhead gently brushing against your wet slit. And he looks up at you. The heaviness of his gaze crushes yours as he waits. Eyebrows crunched in this intense, deep expression that always makes you shiver. You nod, granting him permission.

He didn't need more. He sinks into you, slowly, sighing deeply through his nose at the feeling of your velvety cunt welcoming him. You feel like he's restraining himself, shoulders taught as a bow ready to shoot, wanting to let you have the time to adjust to him. And god, what size to adjust to. Every hot inches of him is better than the previous; his cock is so thick and long it nearly feels like it's never going to stop.

"Fuck," He growls once fully buried in you, forehead searching for yours, eyes half-lidded.

"Logan, please-" Your ankles lock behind his hips, and he uses one hand to take support on the sink while the other stays on your hip. "Please, move."

You don't want to sound so desperate, but it looks like his own urgency had finally spread to you. He pulls out in one, torturously slow movement, his cockhead almost getting out of your cunt, and you whine hopelessly. With a pleasured moan, he thrust back, hard, and you cry out in pleasure.

So fucking good - Yeaaah just like that - That damn pussy

Your thoughts and his mingle just like your bodies, linked and intertwined. He's picking up a pace, unable to wait anymore. Every roll of his hips against yours is pulling a cry out of you, feeling so full of him every time he plunges all the way in. And his dick reaches that spot inside of you that you need more than anything, striking it again and again. You're lost in him and you can't even think about what it must feel like for him who thinks so loudly, who feels so deeply, whose senses are so heightened.

"Please don't stop!"

"Don't worry -Oh, fuck- won't stop until you had it all, sweetheart." Never stopping again.

Hearing his thoughts at the same time as he's fucking you brainless on that damn bathroom counter is too much. His cock pumping in and out of you, again and again and again, is bringing you right to this inevitable edge. The wet and nasty sound of skin hitting skin so repeatedly fast, his chest rumbling as he's groaning loudly every time, all those noises deafen everything else. You're close already, and he can feel it, you hear his mind exult. "Yeah, let it go," he orders, leaving your hip to cup the side of your face and pull you into a kiss. His tongue penetrates your mouth at the same time as his cock sinks into your pussy and you feel so perfect getting fucked in both places. He doesn't slow down, he doesn't even breathe for a few seconds, making all the bathroom furniture shake with each roll of his hips, repeated clattering sounds filling the room along with your high-pitched moan and his deep, primal grunts. All you can feel is the heat of his hard body all against you, the taste of his tongue fighting yours, the thickness of his cock as he thrusts, and thrusts, and thrusts-

Come ooon, baby, come for me!

It's your turn to have your limits blown away. With a strangled scream of pleasure, swallowed by his throat, you oblige his frantic order and come around him, letting the pleasure disperse everywhere from your cunt to the tip of your toes.

He growls loudly, this animalistic sound you had only heard from him when he's fighting. Your pussy clenching and creaming his cock is making him lose what little sanity he had left. He looks at your wrecked face, your messy hair, flushed cheeks, and that unforgettable expression of pure pleasure embellishing your features. Perfect. He feels his balls contract, and screw his eyes close. Fucking perfect. You are filled with such an intense feeling of fulfillment and happiness that you are on the verge of coming a second time. It's his own pleasure, blending with yours in your mind. A cold sting as he pulls his cock out, and finally a mighty deliverance as he finishes himself with his hand so vigorously it must hurt. White thick spurs of his cum paint over your stomach. His breath is labored, hoarse with growling, his face redened, his hair and sideburns all messy. He looks absolutely gorgeous like this.

You sigh deeply yourself, before removing your hands from him. It takes him a moment to completely calm down. Maybe his mutation is making him feel those sorts of things more deeply, too? Considering the link that had blended your mind when he came, there's definitely something along those lines.

Running a hand through his hair, Logan silently grabs a towel from one of the bathroom cabinets next to you. He cleans the wet mess he had let on your belly, and you let him. As you get off your perch, you hiss slightly at the pain in your lower back. That was definitely not what your muscles needed. At least, not those of your back. He's the one who breaks the silence once again.

"Love the noises you make when you're not trying to get on my fucking nerves," He mumbles, getting his clothes back on.

"Shu'up, you're not exactly silent either, Wolverine."

That earns you a smile, thin lips curling up. "Yeah, well, at least now you know what you're in for when you piss me off too much." He checks that everything is okay with you before unlocking the bathroom door.

His eyes are struggling to tear themselves away from you, seeming to savor every last second. He looks like he's unsure. Of what to say, of what to do. The urge to check what he's thinking burns your neurons, but you let him have this privacy. Too many boundaries had already been crossed in one night.

He turns and walks through the door. “See you later.” His last words for that evening.

"See ya, kitten." You swear you hear him snort.

Yes, it has always been a story of intensity between Logan and you. That night had been its apotheosis, his passion now extending to his desire for you.

And something tells you that you haven't finished exploring the furthest reaches of his passion yet.

While Tommy and Maria are deep in conversation right next to him, their words barely reach Joel’s consciousness. His thoughts are focused on something else —as obsessive and unsettling as those of a chain-smoker trying not to think about his next cigarette.

He's way too close.

That guy you've been dancing with since you let the alcohol and light mood drag you onto the dance floor. That stupid, idiotic moron. Dave, if he recalls his name right, has the physique of those boy band stars back in the days, young and charismatic and "pretty". But God, he's as smart as a bag of rocks, and as moral as a corrupt cop.

And it's unbearable. The way his hands linger, his eyes too, on places of your body one could only fantasize about. Joel can see it as bright as day, that little piece of shit had only one thing in mind.

He grabs his glass and sips on his beer, trying to think about something else. Anything else. Tommy's speech about next year's goals for the town. Ellie apparently talking with Jesse on the other side of the room, both of them leaning against the wooden counter. But nothing could do the trick, his thoughts would always come back to your inflamed dance session with that moron, his muscles tensing and heart racing as if he was about to beat the shit out of a herd of clickers.

Couldn't you see it? Were you that blind? He just wanted to have his way with you and would break your heart the next morning.

What a way to start the year.

Joel shifts from one foot to the other, his stare back on you as his fingers grip his pint way too strongly.

You're only his partner during patrols. That's all you two are supposed to be. He has no right into even thinking about those things about you. God he knows that. And he really, really shouldn't be feeling this tight twisting in his stomach right now.

The song suddenly comes to a flamboyant end as the rhythm stops, everyone clapping, some guys throwing their partner in the air. But not Dave. Oh no, Dave pulls you closer. He's holding your waist as you're bowing backward, and is downright devouring you with a hungry stare, eyes half-lidded, lips bitten.

Joel's finger joints are turning white. His feet are itching. That clenching sensation in his guts becomes unbearable. It's a turmoil, savage and dark and unstoppable.

You lil' piece o' shit.

Dave's lifting you back up all against him. Your chest is pressed against his.

Let go of her.

You're laughing, the sound so pleasant to his ears, but discordant, tainted, next to that asshole.

She's…

Dave's lips smoothly take advantage of the movement to get closer; and you don't fucking pull away.

Mine.

He puts his beer down so powerfully that a dead silence cuts through the others' discussion. Tommy calls out his brother's name, but he doesn't even look at him. His whole body is turned toward one precise direction. Like a lethal weapon launching.

His legs finally move on their own. He rips through the crowd as if crossing a field of grass bending in his wake. Each step he takes worsens his state, as nails being hammered into Dave’s coffin.

"Hey, get away from her."

You both snap your heads to him. You instantly pull away from Dave's embrace, more from surprise than anything else.

Joel's voice is insanely calm. But not that quiet, peaceful calm, more like a barely contained anger, that blankness that holds threats and hatred and violence underneath.

"Joel?" You ask dumbly, confused, as your eyes search his face for answers.

"What's wrong, man?"

The oldest doesn't even listen to him. His eyes are fixated on you. The soft tones of his hazel pupils are all gone, leaving only a green so dark they almost look entirely black. Like an ancient, dense forest at night, where the leaves and trunks merge into one in a heavy, menacing darkness. The young boy takes a step back, his eyes jumping from you to him in an awkward manner.

"Dude, there's no problem here…" He tries to stand his ground, but his stare falls to the ground, hands fidgeting with something on his jacket.

Joel is as silent as a tombstone.

Dave gives in, stiffly walking away, praying this mountain of a man won't come and find him in his nightmares.

You, on the other hand, don't move.

"What the actual Hell was that, Joel?"

"He's bad business."

"Wh- so what?" "Since when are you interested in what I'm doing, uh?"

No answer.

"I don't know what you're trying to do. But I do what I want, and sorry if ya don't like it."

You get out of the Church. The air inside was too thick to breathe, and you didn't like how everyone had suddenly seemed so interested in this little play you two were displaying.

You're not able to walk two meters away from the building before feeling a large hand grab your wrist.

"Hey, let fukcing go of me!"

Your patrol partner drags you away from the crows, behind the back of the church. Words of explanation do not seem to be part of this man's DNA.

He lets go of you, your boots slipping a bit across the layer of ice, and you find yourself facing him, with your back to the wall, while he stands stiff as a board in front of you.

You're trapped.

"Just- Shit." Joel's concerned voice sounds almost too loud in the quiet atmosphere. The light of the party looks so far away in the distance, barely illuminating the thick layer of snow covering the entire town. "Listen t'me. Dave's a real jerk to girls, I know him. He just want to..."

"He just wants to what, Joel?"

His mouth stays shut as he looks at you with harsh eyes. He has a hand on his hip, the other is waving the air in defeat, his camel jacket waving along. You won't make him the pleasure to help with any of it. He has the audacity to come and bark on your date? Pull you aside like a child being grounded? Well, he sure as better spill the beans.

Your eyebrows move up in a half-annoyed and half-interrogative expression, watching him sigh and struggle. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he explodes:

"He -He just wanna lay with ya!"

"And you don't?"

There's another tense silence. Frozen, he's genuinely surprised you're being so upfront about it, scowl still deep on his eyebrows.

"Come on, I'm a woman, dumbass. I know how you guys look at us. You really think you were discreet? Watching over me all the time when we're out patrolling. Jesus if I wanted a pair of eyes sticking to me 24/7 I would have glued a pair of googles on my ass."

"You're always so smart uh? You think you know everything, you don't need anyone or anything-

"I sure as hell been doing fine without you, Joel. So yeah, I don't need you to be my fuckin' watchdog and bite every man I'm seeing." You spit, taking a few steps towards him.

"What the hell did you just call me-" His threatening tone do nothing to stop you.

"Why don't you fucking admit the truth for once in your life, mh?" He brought you down with him into the fire pit of anger now, throat tight and muscles tensed. "You don't want anyone else to dance with me? To sleep with me?" You walk closer to him, pointing an accusing finger upward. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you're just jealous."

His scowl worsens at that last word. You're bot a few meters away from each other.

You're suprised to snow isn't starting to melt from the rage you're radiating.

Joel's voice drops again, so low now it's almost a menacing growl,

"Take one more step and I'm done playing nice."

Oh, yeah? You don't even think about it twice.

Of course, you take that step. Feet stomping on the ground as your fiery eyes stay stuck on his. Because that's what you always do.

Pushing his buttons, testing his limits, driving him insane.

Enough of this.

It's quick, almost instantaneous. The moment you're chest to chest, his hands are on you, one grabbing your neck, the other holding the side of your waist. You hitch at this sudden grip, and almost as a late realisation, it hits you;

If he really wanted to, this man could break you.

"You know what? Maybe you're right." The same tone as before inside the church. Except this time, you can feel this isn't anger that's hiding beneath the flat blankness of his raspy voice. It's another raw, physical kind of urge.

With every word, he pushes you back against the wall, annihilating in the blink of an eye the steps you had taken toward him.

"I"

He traps you between the wall. His chest hard and warm, pleasantly warm in the cold air.

"Want ya,"

The words seem to sting his lips and intoxicate him with freedom all at once.

"For myself."

You sigh, rewarding his confession by reaching for his jacket, keeping him close, encouraging, daring him to continue. The leather feels nice. His face is only a few inches away from yours.

"So when a lil' piece of shit like David Mathews puts his disgusting hands on you," His fingers grip your neck tighter, "Ya can't expect me to stay god damn seated!"

He's a bow bent to the maximum, ready to snap any second. His words come out loud and deep, rumbling like thunder that had been held back for too long. And in his soul, too, his tired eyes almost crushing you under his stare.

"I wouldn't have it any other way." You lift a hand up to his face, caressing his skin from cheek to jaw. His beard is softer than you had expected. "Joel…"

It's as if whispering his name had just cut him loose; a sign that you really wanted him. His lips collide with yours instantly, unable to wait for just a second more. It's wild and hot and messy, just like you needed him to be. His hair scratches pleasantly against your mouth, and you slip your tongue between his teeth, earning a low growl. His other hand on your hip is losing patience, pressing you more against him, as if he needs your two bodies to merge.

His breathing gets more labored, his movements urgent. The hand you had on his face smoothly travels to his hair, long and curling on his neck. Brushing, touching, discovering. And then, tugging. He groans louder at it, internally swearing, losing his usual composure with every new touch from you.

Of course, you notice.

"Y'know, you're not as controlled as you think." You tease with a cheeky grin, between two heated kisses.

"Eh, maybe I ain't." He concedes with a small smile of his own, probably the first of his entire day. "You… Y' wanna do it here?" He asks in a hopeful and almost disbelieving tone, scanning your face, his body stilling for a few seconds.

"God, fuck yes." You pull his waist against yours, a finger looped around his belt. "Here, anywhere —I don't fucking care."

A deep chuckle shakes his chest, "Well ma'am, might as well please ya as I can."

He unbuckles his belt, movements controlled but eager. His hands then reach for your own pants, pulling them down as well as your panties all at once, and he spins you face against the wall, ass bared for him. The stinging cold surprises your skin, but your head can't focus on that information, too troubled by what's coming next.

"Lord, I've been waiting for this." You can't help but whisper as he places himself behind you.

"Definitely should have done that sooner," He agrees, starting to press against your slit, a big hand flat holding your lower belly up.

Every inch of him pushes inside, spreading you slowly, almost too slowly. But Joel knows what he's doing. He knows he will hurt you if he doesn't give you some time to adjust to his size. And even in such a heated state, it's a risk he won't take.

He's the one who'd never hurt you.

"You good?"

"Yes, Jesus-" Does he even know how having him entirely inside without any movement makes you feel?! "Please, Joel, go on already!"

He snorts through his nose, pleasantly surprised to discover you so avid. Not another word crosses his lips as he answers by retrieving himself and smashing back his hips against you, making your whole body jerk forward.

"Oh, fuck!"

Both of his hands hold your hip now as he sets a slow, deliberate tempo. Every time he thrusts into you, it's hard, hitting a spot deep down inside of you that you could never have satisfied yourself. That obscene, hot sound of his balls smacking your skin mingles with your barely muffled moans and his growls, your breaths in the cold creating huffs of mist twirling together before getting lost in the air of the night.

"Are you still going to see that guy?" Joel asks between thrusts, his grip on you tighter than ever, "Be… -mmf- very careful, about your answer, sweetheart."

"N-No, I won't."

"Good girl". The praise rolls from his tongue to your ears like the sweetest liquor. "From now on, when you'll feel like having some fun at night, who you gonna turn to?"

"Y-you, only you!" You can believe how pathetic you are right now, but you want him to continue so bad, you can't do much else but bend at his will. "Joel, faster, p-please."

"Ya want faster, uh?" He slows down, on damn purpose. "Say you're mine."

"I'm yours Joel please! I'm … I'm yours."

"Damn right you are."

And he grounds his legs, picking up a relentless pace, fucking you good and proper, right there against the church's wall just a few feet away from everyone, the muted sounds of the party vibrating through the cold stone against which you're pressed.

His cock is so hard inside of you, rutting your cunt with such intensity and speed it's hard for you to even form a single thought. All you can do is keep your ass up for him as your insides burn, that familiar feeling building up more and more under the strain of his ruthless treatment.

"Joel," You can hear him letting out a pleasured groan, one of his arms leaving your side to snake around your chest, "Joel-I'm-close!" you urgently stammer through your shaken body.

"I know baby, I got ya." His upper body is pressed against your back now, both of you intertwined in an impossible embrace. "I got ya, now give it t'me."

Cheek to cheek, his face nestled above your shoulder, you can feel his beard, coarse but also weirdly pleasant against the side of your face. His body is engulfing you whole, your smaller back arching as he keeps pleasuring you, wanting more than anything to make you come. You're almost suffocating from the warmth he beams around you, like flames licking and twirling all around in the glacial snow.

"That's right, you're so great girl, so good-" His throat tightens as he barely contains his own relief, "Yeaaah just like that!"

Your pussy obeys his every word, and with another push, you let everything go, his shaft buried deep inside as you clench around it, the feeling so perfect the satisfaction makes you see stars, body making one with him completely, even just for a few seconds. He holds you tight during the whole length of it, whispering tender encouragement in your ear. They're almost out of place considering how his hips are still pounding inside to drag every inch of your orgasm out of you.

You mutter his name again and again like a prayer as you dissolve in his arms, your forehead against the wall. He lets a small kiss on your temple, praising you for how good you've been to come for him.

He then reluctantly withdrew his burning hot and still painfully hard shaft from you, smiling to himself at the frustrated little sound you let out.

"Trust me, I would have preferred the first option too, sweetheart-" He pants, curling a big fist around his base, "But we can't take that risk just now."

"S' okay." You pull your clothes back up before gently adding your hand to his grip, fingers joining his. "Let me help you."

He nods. The feeling of your smaller hand on his shaft already sends shivers all the way through his body now that he doesn't have to stop himself from cumming, his pleasure freed and wild making his toes curl and his brow crunch in delight.

You don't waist anytime teasing him again, stroking him hard and fast to match the pace he had inside of you. He moans like he's been hit in the guts, eyes squinting shut, one of his forearms taking support on the stoned wall above your head.

"Shit, keep doin' that," He ordres as he removes his hand to leave you total control.

You can feel how close he already is after fucking you to your relief, and you're well determined to give him back just as much. He's so vulnerable right now, so beautiful with his cock in your hand. His gigantic body to your mercy, his hair disheveled, its gray color sublimated with subtle silvery glints, like the snow-covered landscapes around you.

"Yeah, Jeee-sus," He whispers more loudly than he should, feeling his relief coming. Your hand keeps rubbing his length just like he needs it, all the way up and down as fast as you can, your wrists starting to burn slightly.

He brings his forehead to yours, and you use the opportunity to seal your lips with his. He huffs through the kiss, almost moaning, his pleasure an unstoppable wave crashing on a fragile, immaculate shore.

And with a few more perfect moves of your hand, he comes just like that, his cock spurting his spent all over your clothes, your scent filling his nose, your taste, his mouth. His breath stops for a few seconds, a cry caught tight in his throat, before sighing deeply through his nose. He breaks the kiss, gasping for air as he had just been underwater the whole time.

You gently let go of his softening member, a satisfied smirk plastered on your face. There's a little silence, a bit awkward, where you watch him put himself back in his jeans, and wipe a few beads of sweat on his forehead. How beautiful it is that you succeeded in making this man sweat during the coldest night of the year.

You both seem lost in thought, neither of you daring to speak first, as if doing so would seal something between the two of you. As if it would taint the moment, anchoring that timeless instant in reality. In problems.

After heavy minutes of quiet, Joel's mouth opens, a sound almost crossing it, but a loud, sudden noise surprises both of you.

"Happy New Year!"

Everywhere outside and inside the church, people of Jackson are celebrating, drunken shouts piercing the night, bearers of joy and a well-deserved moment of shared togetherness.

You both look at each other while euphoria surrounds you.

"Happy New Year, Y/N."

"… Happy New Year, Joel."

He awkwardly steps away, disappearing into the falling snow. You sigh, your feet slow, your brain too occupied to process what had just happened.

There was this taste on your throat, bitter. Like those fizzling sweet candies that taste so good but leave your tongue burning. A nagging sense of incompleteness. A painting destined to be a masterpiece, barely begun, from which the artist has been torn away.

A few promising brushstrokes left behind, right there in the middle of the canvas.

You finally move, searching for your loved ones back in the party to wish them all the good stuff for the new year to come.

And you promise yourself that you wouldn't let Joel get off that easily.

a/n: heeey I hope you like it, thanks for reading!! Consider rebloging/commenting if you did!! That means the world to us authors 🫶🏼

Not that it was your fault. In fact, you didn’t even know about any of that and Lord have mercy, he was praying that you’ll never find out; because he would never be able to look at you in the eyes then.

A few weeks ago, the gang had settled at Clemen’s Point. A rather pretty spot just near the lake, and not so far from town. But it wasn’t exactly the place that was causing him trouble. It was the unexpected view he was having from his tent.

For some unknown, mystical reasons, Miss Grimshaw while deciding the camp’s ajancement had decided to place your tent right next to his. Not so big of a problem at first sight, right?

Except that you were a night owl combined with the suffocating warmth of the place. Making you get to bed naked.

Oh, Arthur knew you do, because every night, every single one, you let a candle lit to read, or write, or God knows what before sleeping. The light casts your shadow against the tent’s canvas. The shadow of your very much nude body.

The first night Arthur had noticed, he had come back exhausted from a job in the middle of the night and laid on his cot without even taking the time to remove his boots or hat. A very usual and typical slice of his life, which lately felt more and more like a terribly used one. As if all these slices were repeating again and again. An accumulation of jobs and missions and robberies and fights; deceiving, lying, stealing, killing. Over and over again, going round and round. At night, he was reduced to a slumbered mind in a spent body, that was definitely becoming old and rusty. Already half asleep, mud and twigs surrounding his tired limbs, his thoughts all tangled up like a ball of wool, he had turned his head to his left, reaching from instinct for his pack of cigarettes on the little table next to his bed. Another slice of bad habits from a bad life.

That’s how his eyes had met with this quite erotic shape displayed on your tent.

Said eyes had grown so big that it had fully woken him up all of a sudden, as quickly as if someone had dumped a bucket of iced water on his shocked face. After half of a second of pure stabbing surprise and incomprehension with his hand hanged in the air, his breath stuck in his throat as if really being punched in the gut, he instantly turned his eyes back to the ceiling of his own tent. Cheeks burning red, heart pounding, as if someone had caught him in the act of doing a terribly shameful thing. Exactly as if he had really seen you naked.

He had feverishly grabbed the cigarette pack without looking at it, gaze refusing to turn again, these two blue diamonds locked on the ceiling of his tent, and had messily pulled one out of it, his shaky fingers fumbling, almost spilling everything on the ground.

He must have looked so damn ridiculous.

The smoke helped him to calm down, its soothing and comforting feeling spreading and burning through his lungs. He had fallen asleep, turned to the other side facing the wagon, trying not to think too much about the peek of your intimacy he had witnessed, telling himself it probably was going to be an isolated incident. 

But of course, of course the Lord had to torment him even in the rare moments of peace he could have enjoyed.

Turns out this was apparently a habit of yours. 

To be honest, he probably deserved to be tormented. But this was years from what he had in mind when it came to the Lord's punishment for his life of crimes.

And Arthur, even though a hardened man in many ways, able to lock lips during torture, kill men with bare hands, and stay emotionally strong in any kind of situation, was still only, after all, a man. A man with needs.

Filthy, disgusting needs.

He had tried to resist. Had tried not to let his eyes slip in your direction like that first night. Sometimes he would allow himself a quick glance, just to check if you were wearing any clothes for once, like a normal person. And maybe the night after would be different? Every evening spent at camp, his pupils would end up brushing the sinful silhouette in just a soft, slight sight, as if not to scare you, as if not to feel too bad about it.

But it was getting harder and harder not to stare. The easy lies about just checking on you or looking at anything else in the same area as your tent to have the chance of winning a glimpse of you would soon not be enough.

Just the mere fact that he knew you were completely bare, only a few meters away from him, singly the thin and superficial fabric of the tent between the both of you, was getting him hard and sweaty, and making his blood boil as a virgin teenage boy would. He could almost physically feel it, like a burning presence in his back when he was sleeping head against the wagon's wall.

The Human mind may be well designed for a lot of things; it forgets an event too hard to carry or can trick you into thinking you're not experiencing any physical pain in extreme situations. But Arthur had learned that it was extremely poorly made when it came to ignoring something. The more he was trying to not think about his unholy urges, the more he ended up being plagued with them. As sure as the seasons always turned in circles, you would come back to his effusive psyche.

And Oh, he was ashamed. Ashamed and revolted by himself. This was absolutely not in his habits, all the contrary. Yes, he was an old miserable bastard who had killed and plundered. But for God's sake, he had never acted obscene towards a lady before.

But the shame wasn't enough for him to stop. On the nights when the guilt was at its lowest —when the tediousness of his days was nibbling at his patience, he had let his eyes wander to your sinful figure, telling himself that maybe if he did, he could just go on with his night and finally rest. Just a quick taste, not too long.

But it only made things worse. It made him dream of you. 

Dream of you stripped, his imagination taking the lead of what the tent’s fabric was preventing him from seeing. Dream of you moaning, taking him so tightly, welcoming him in your warm body and into your arms. Dream of the feeling of your skin under his fingertips, of the sight of your naked body squirming with pleasure. He would now often wake up frustrated and angry, if he had succeeded in sleeping at all, his member hard and throbbing on its own, his heart beating powerfully in his chest as if it had been real. His pants and blanket had even been damped one or two times. 

What was he, a fifteen-year-old boy again? He was so angry and mortified by the physical obsession his body was having with you that he was constantly in a foul and fiery mood;  bitter with everyone, his tension leaking into every movement and every word he spoke. He started missing targets when shooting, getting even more reckless and hot-headed during jobs, jobs often ending up missed or taken care of negligently, yelling at people when they weren’t fast enough, or clever enough, or silent enough, breaking things, breaking rules. The lack of sleep was making his deadly efficiency fade away, replaced by sloppy and messy gestures, stopping enemies from falling dead at his feet like his lethal skills always did, castrating the only thing that was left of his masculinity.

And yet, he couldn’t stop watching you from afar during the time he was at camp, telling himself he knew, or at least had an idea, of what you looked like without these clothes on; feeling a twisted sensation of pride imagining he was the only one who did. On top of that, your sweet personality and beautiful face weren’t helping him at all with his addiction. Filthy old bastard, stop it- he had to mentally slap himself to prevent staring at you for too long, especially staring at your chest that this goddamn dress you had chosen to wear wasn’t covering at all; or your ass these goddamn pants were fitting way too well.

Tonight, Arthur is avoiding going to bed too early. He knows he would just lay in it waiting for you anyway. Instead, he goes for a walk along Flat Iron Lake’s shores, bringing his journal with him. Two entire pages are already dedicated to your shadow. He had no idea a picture exclusively made of black and white flats on a sheet could have such a powerful erotic effect. Or maybe he is a complete degenerate —which, he is sure, is more and more true.

He has to be honest with himself, he could just go to a hotel, or out of camp for a few days to sleep under the stars, and the matter would be settled.

But he doesn’t want to. Because deep down inside, his urges are winning, making him feel like the most foolish and weakest man alive. He enjoys watching you. He enjoys seeing those forbidden plumped curves cast on this canvas. He feels like you're not leaving him any mercy, pitiless, his days dictated by the wait for his taboo rendez-vous, his nights by your sensual apparitions in his dreams.

He is trapped, you have completely tamed him, and irony of it all, have absolutely no idea you are making him feel like this.

This woman is drivin' me insane.

After a few hours on the cold shore's sand, his fingers only capable of creating quick little sketches and scribbles, his feet lead him back to camp. What a surprise. He finds most of the gang's members already asleep, apart from the ones on guard duty and some late campfire enjoyers talking about life, about love, grief, the future, the past. He briefly nods at them without a word and walks to his private space. He already knows what’s waiting for him there, your tent looking like it’s still illuminated, his thoughts and body avid for it.

No, don’t be a fool, Morgan.

He sits down on his cot. Mumbles to himself orders and curses to try and stay reasonable. Takes off his hat, runs a hand through his hair, sticky with sweat and dirt from his busy day, as all the other ones, as always. Scratches his beard and his ears with a sniff, tells himself he needs to take a swim into that lake. That he’s as dirty on the inside as he’s on the outside. Pulls down his suspenders before stretching his shoulders, a pained groan escaping him. A cigarette joins his lips, a match lights it, and he breathes in slowly. He tries to calm down, focusing once again on this homey feeling it brings him. 

But his brows furrows. His lips tighten. He knows he won’t be able to hold on much longer. He needs to sleep properly. Even being the all-mighty Titan he is, he still needs a good night of sleep from time to time to keep the engine of his body turning, and you have kept it from him for days.

He lies to himself promising this is only for his health.

That this is the only way for him to stay focused during the day; the only way to rest properly and be at his best again tomorrow.

That this will be the only time he’ll do that.

His only moment of weakness. 

The still-lit cigarette and his good conscience fall to the ground as he lies on his cot, settled on his left side, his right hand already roaming on his lower belly. 

His eyes drop on the scene he had fantasized about for what seems like years to him at this point.

Lord have mercy…

Your shadow looks so perfect. He takes his sweet time to notice every detail of it, enjoying to the maximum his sinful behavior, now that he had succumbed to it. How you’re laying on your back, reading your book with your legs crossed. The curvaceous shape of your body looks divine to his insatiable gaze. Your hair messily tangled around your head. The silhouette of your chin and throat making him hungrier than any feast he could have attended. Your belly, rising and falling with your chest and breasts, gives the shadow an organic appearance. Your delicate legs, from the base of your thighs to your calves, to your feet, your toes mindlessly curling as you get lost in your story. And of course, the blurry outline of what was between them…

Damn it.

His hand quickly reaches his belt, unbuckles it,  fiddles with his pants, opens them carelessly in an urgent grip. He spits in his palm, lashes out at himself when the desire of it being your wetness instead crosses his mind, and slips it between the buttons of his union suit. It finally wraps around his desperate shaft, gorged with blood, and he wonders if he already had been this hard before.

The moment he feels the pressure of his own fingers around it, he can’t help but sigh deeply through his nose, and has to physically block the groan he was about to let out.

Make no noise, moron.

He bites his lips to stop any other immoral sound from crossing through his mouth. Last thing he needs right now is to get caught. He slowly rubs one languorous time from up to down, then up again, his fingers brushing his swollen head right where he needs to. He instantly knows he won’t last. He had dreamed about this, about you, both during days and nights. His eyes are locked on your tantalizing silhouette, this deiform delicious flesh. Goddess of the night, Queen of his desires.

His hand rubs once again and his muscles tighten. He starts to stroke in a rhythmic pace, his moves are efficient, messy, careless. He masturbates the same way he takes care of himself —quickly, roughly, as if matching his disgust towards his own self. The exact opposite of what he would do to you if he could. This is pure physical relief.

Yes, God, yes…

Your name turns in his mind between blasphemous curses as he pleasures himself, stroking faster and faster, delightful warm sensations spreading through him. Finally. The burning is no longer in his back or mind; it's right there around his erection, flames licking all around it.

He wants to be able to join you there, so badly. He wants to discover the tone of your bare skin in those places you never show to anyone. He wants to whisper sweet things in your ear and you to sigh back, your voice high and softly shaking from pleasure. He wants the lewd intimacy, the shared tension and the electric, exciting touch of two foreign skins discovering each other for the first time. He wants to see your hardening nipples he can only have a glimpse of through the fabric. 

He wants to have you, to take you, consume you, all to himself. He wants you to think about him the same way he is now, wants you to come while thinking of him, only him, your mouth to moan, whimper, scream even, all thanks to him. 

He wants your hand instead of his, around his cock right now, pressing harder, moving faster.

Yes, yes, jus’ a bit more darlin’… -

A movement from you, a real one, makes his pace slow down and his heart stops, afraid you might have by some sort of divine knowledge understood what was happening. But you’re just shifting in your bed, positioning yourself on your belly with your book open against your pillow, and Arthur’s balls spasm; he now has the most perfect view of your ass, its gorgeous, decadent round and plumped contour making his member twitch in his fist.

Ahh, shit… So god damn perfect… 

Pearls of sweat leak from his forehead to his neck. His ears shut close to the outside world, his surroundings completely disappearing. Now, there’s only you and your perfect back beautifully arched ending with your perfect bottom and him, and no one else’s on Earth. His breath is jerky, his entire face completely crimson, his fingers pumping so hard and fast he’s basically fucking his hand —your hand, with those wet and unmistakable noises filling the air.

His breath speeds up as Arthur feels his deliverance coming, blood rushing in his veins. He sees himself behind you grabbing fistfuls of your cheeks, he sees his erection diving deep between them. And it's the last straw. His brows are crunched in an exquisite expression of pure sexual delight, jaws so tensed he’s about to break his teeth, your pleasure-filled voice screaming his name in his head, dragging every sensation out of him. His orgasm hit him with the strength and speed of a thunderstorm, lightning bolts of satisfaction striking every fiber of his body.

 Yes! Yesss  —Damnit! 

He comes hard with a low and throaty growl he forgot to —or couldn't repress, silently repeating your name again and again, his lower lip almost cut open from how hard he had bit himself, an enormous vein on his forehead where sweat covers his skin. His thick, hot cum spills messily in an indecently large amount, the aftermath of having held himself back for so long, leaking on his pants and fingers and staining his cot; a dash of white contrasting with the darkness of what he just did.

He’s praying to the Lord and the Devil, any mystical forces known to man, that nobody had heard his final relief sound, especially not you. It was louder than what he would like to admit.

Shit, so damn good…

Using his black bandana, he roughly cleans himself then tosses it somewhere on the floor, his cock finally softening as he shoves it back under his clothes, balls empty. And it feels good. So good a wave of shame and guilt crashes onto him once more. What a pig he was for jerking off while ogling you. What an old bastard he was to mingle you and his filth. But at the same time, he feels like his muscles are thanking him, his restless flesh satisfied, even though he almost hurt himself with how fast he had stroked, lost in his haze.

His bittersweet and contradictory feelings accompanied him as he took a last glance at your tent before drifting off to sleep, his breathing still a bit raspy as if he had run for hours. You had closed your book and taken the candle between your hands to blow on it, the little flame flickering before fading. And then, darkness.

The curtains falling on the stage at the end of this private decadent act.

Eyelids heavy, Arthur knows he will finally sleep tonight.

But he also knows this isn’t the end of his torments at all; the conflicting thoughts paint his mind just as the sun pierces through the dark ebony clouds of a thunderstorm, creating those abruptly dazing shapes and color, pitch black laced with blinding light.

Never in this life or the Other he will forget the form of your naked body, no matter how wicked he feels. Because when it comes to you and only you, Arthur Morgan is, indeed, a very weak man.

↣ Part II

Of all the men here tonight, he is definitely the one you spent the most time with growing up. He was one of the few person who could wear cowboy boots and hat without looking ridiculous—quite the opposite, in fact. With his work jeans, thick rodeo belts, flannel shirts, and denim jackets, he had the honest, straightforward charm of a farmhand.

You two haven't spoken much, but you swear you had caught him throwing glances at you from the other side of the table. You hope he didn't catch the way your cheeks had turned red instantly.

As the bottles empty, faces flush and tongues loosen. A particularly drunk Sean is now leading the conversation, asking everyone about their New Year's resolutions. You listen intently to Arthur's answer. Something about learning how to paint and stopping getting heartbroken. His voice warms your chest. The azure of his eyes. His deep laugh when everyone teased him about his words. His beauty was matched only by his unattainability.

You're dragged out of your reverie by your father asking about your own goals for the year; you mumble something banal about getting healthier and maybe quitting smoking. But to your surprise, he burst into a storm of reproaches. A mix of “What do you mean, you kept smoking?” and “I knew your college years would be difficult to manage.” You sigh internally and as always, take it without making a fuss. What was the point of talking to a brick wall anyway? It wasn't that your father had ever been mean to you—he was actually a pretty good man— but he could be so stubborn sometimes!

The breath of fresh air outside does you good. You've taken refuge for a few moments in the woodshed behind the main cottage, just to catch your breath. Family gatherings are great, but sometimes they can be a little... too much. You can still hear the distant sounds of the party inside, but the snow falling around you and coming in through the cracks in the floorboards seems to have a soothing effect, making you feel like you're in a little cocoon. You could have stayed there longer if only it hadn't been so cold that your teeth were chattering.

Nothing a quick cigarette can't fix... After all, it's not January 1st yet.

Just as you were about to put it in your mouth, the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow stops you.

You hear his voice first, before recognizing him in the dim light.

"Hey girl."

Arthur is standing in the doorway frame of the shed. A big denim jacket tops his flannel and frames his shoulders, which look even more gigantic than before. The cigarette hangs in the air like time had stopped and fixed it there.

"H-hey, Arthur." You let out with an indelible smile curling up your lips. Shit, your voice sounds so shaky. Your gaze falls on the ground, his mere presence so close to you, turning your body into a mess of sweat and tickles and weak limbs.

He, on the other hand, looks as steady as ever. His gaze is stuck on you, not wavering for even a second. It's so intense you could melt right there and join the mushy snow under your boots. You can't believe you're actually alone with him, outside the house, away from everyone. The occasions it has happened can be counted on one hand. Oh, how you had desired and still, crave that man. Your dad's dearest friend. Your throat stiffens, guilt strangling it.

But really, who could have resisted him, right?

"Your ol'man needed some wood. Fire's dyin' in the living room."He leans closer, stretching out an arm against the icy wall. His voice. His damn voice, rich and husky, like the most flavorful of whiskies. You don't move, unable to, your feet like they're frozen in ice. You wait for him to pick up some logs, but a small silence settles. He breaks it with a move of his chin. "Want me to light it for ya?"

"I… I shouldn't be smoking, you know it." You admit with a hint of shame. Your words float in little puffs of condensation into the air. That's the only moment his pupils leave you to study it. "Shouldn't you be lecturing me right now?" You tentatively throw at him with a nervous giggle.

He hums, eyes half lidded, still focused on the shapes of your breath in the cold, soon fading in abstracted plumes. Then, right back at you, his handsome, rugged face lit up by a smirk. That cocky, irresistible smirk that makes the wrinkles around his eyebrows more prominent and stretches his short beard, revealing a little more of the two scars on his chin, remnants of that past as a delinquent that in reality, you knew nothing about.

"Ya know James 's just tryin' to protect ya, right?" You notice the red on his sun-kissed cheeks. You're not sure if it's from the coldness or the mulled wine your mother always made too strong. Yes, the wine. It's the only explanation for what's happening right now. He shifts slightly, wood creaking under his weight. "But I trust ya to be adult enough and do your own choices, sugar."

That's when you realize he's very close. Way closer than you two had ever been in normal circumstances. Your breath is making your chest rise up and down faster and faster, as if to compensate for your pathetic inability to move your legs. This time, it's his own breath that swirls and twirls in the air before reaching you and warming your neck gently. Fuck, you can't lie to yourself —you want him so bad. You want everything he embodies. Lust, love, rebellion, freedom, security.

His free hand moves up to join yours, aiming for the cigarette. His fingers, unexpectedly hot, warm yours instantly. He's wearing his black leather mittens. Coarse and hard —his skin brushing against yours, like velvet meeting graphite. You let out a very small, almost imperceptible sigh at the sensation. His eyebrows rise up just for a split second before returning to their usual hard and piercing gaze.

You're mortified. What must he think of you right now? He's right there, showing you some kind of romantic interest for the first time in your life, and you're screwing things up.

But he doesn't say anything about it. He's still smirking slightly, maybe even more than before.

Your heart, on the other hand, is singing all the Christmas carols at once.

He gently takes the cigarette from your hands and brings it to his lips. With an expert hand, in a movement repeated millions of times, he takes a Zippo lighter out of his jeans pocket and lights the tobacco with a click, which burns on contact with the flickering flame. His other arm has remained against the wall throughout the entire maneuver. It's hypnotizing, this crimson flammeus bubble of warmth, in the middle of all that white of snow and ice. Yellow and gold dancing on his face.

Lips tight, he slowly closes his eyes and takes a long drag. He blows it through his nose, and you can almost feel how much good the burning smoke is bringing him through the cold. When he opens a half-lidded gaze and whispers, you have to hold onto the wall not to pass out on the spot,

"Ya know what? You shouldn't be smokin', that's right. Your ol' man would be pissed right now if he catches you right after that fight." His face is only inches away from yours now. His body warms yours without even touching it, like a fire burning through your soul. "But… I guess… I could help ya get a taste of that poison."

You don't answer right away, too stunned, your head exploding with thoughts of what he's implying. As they fly at the speed of sound and collide with the force of meteors, your body finally takes over and acts before you can sort through the stellar debris of your reasoning's conclusions. With unassured hands, you reach for his torso. The fabric of his flannel is soft, but the fur inside his jacket, out of this world. The subtle sound of snow and wind envelops you in an intimate world of solitude.

That's only then that you realise he's actually waiting for an answer. He's towering over you, the top of your head barely reaching his chin. Those two blue diamonds stare at you without any embarrassment, quickly shifting from one eye to the other. He's unmoving, steady as a rock would be in a blizzard. You summon all the courage that is still with you, knees almost shaking, and murmur back, words that you wish would be forgotten in the morning, "Yes, d-do it."

Arthur exhales a breath he didn't know he was holding back, and just a second later, his mouth is tasting yours. His gigantic body pushes yours against the freezing wooden wall, an almost hurtful contrast with the fire that's burning your skin. Your hands are freely running around his waist to take refuge behind his back, the fluffy coat pleasantly covering them. The cigarette joins the snowflakes as it falls to your feet.

You can feel his hips pressing against yours, your thighs opening slightly on their own, eager to feel the hard line of his jeans-covered crotch against your core. He slowly rubs himself against it, and a slight grunt escapes his throat. You can't hide the desperate little whimper it drags out of you.

"Arthur, we can't…" His hands discover your curves. "There are people inside!" His fingers grab your ass. "My dad!"

"I know, I know darlin'," He hushes you in a reassuring voice. "We won't take long jus' — lemme take care of ya."

Completely blinded by your saturated senses and the incessant messages your body is sending to your brain, you succumb to his greedy arms, surprising yourself at actually enjoying the situation. The fact that your whole family was inside, so unaware, so blindly in the bliss of the party, while Arthur is doing filth to you, is so arousing you should be ashamed of yourself.

You indulge in this sin, exploring him through his clothes, muscles hard and strong. He smiles to himself, before mumbling again, getting closer and closer to the inside of your legs, "I knew you had that fire inside of ya, princess."

And his hand cups you completely. This time, you cry out a real, genuine moan, instantly covering your mouth, crushed by shame.

But your body sighs of relief. The pressure isn't enough, though, and you suspect he knows it very well. How many girls has he been with during his life? With that face and body, that bad boy with a big heart charm, probably many. His fingers begin to wrap around your jeans, terribly slowly, too slowly, opening your jeans with unexpected delicacy. Bending his arm to reach the object of his desire, his fingertips finally slip under your panties and settle on your clit, applying the perfect pressure you desperately needed. You moean in return, almost wanting to thank him for it.

"That feels good?" He looks down at you, not leaving a single detail escape him. You don't answer. "Use your words, darlin'."

"That- that feels good, Arthur."

"Good girl…" He praises, his deep, resonant voice giving you even more goosebumps than the cold.

He starts rubbing circles on this pearl of nerve with the precision of a fucking professional sniper.

He starts slow, at first, but gradually gets faster, building your arousal, then giving it what it wants, again and again, playing with your body to get the exact reactions he desires. You're no better than one of the mares he's taming. The blush on your face had spread everywhere now, on your ears and your chest, and you're unable to form other words than his name, babbled in desperation, much to his delight.

You're downright wetting your panties now. The feeling of wet and cold isn't actually pleasing, but you don't care for now. His index and middle fingers have found your entrance, teasing it before sliding slowly inside. Just one, then the other, waiting for you to adjust yourself both times. You feel so full already, his digits so thick and hard from his lifetime of holding reins and hard work.

"Fuck yes! Oh, Arthur!" Your thoughts are cut straight by his thumb pressing hard on your clit at the same time. He's basically handling you with just one hand of his right now.

"Damn girl, I didn't know ya could swear at all!" He laughs in disbelief, his grin cocky as ever. "What happened to my dad will hear us and all?" He teases, before curling his fingertips deliciously inside of you in one quick move.

You're unable to answer. You bury your head inside his chest, desperately trying to cover the sound you're unable to hide, whimpering against his flannel. His scent overflows your nostrils, a cocktail of smoke, hay, and strong sweat.

"D'ya want me whole, princess?" His tone is more urgent now, challenging. "D'ya think you can handle me?"

"Ye-yes, please Arthur!"

"Yes, what?"

"Yes-I w-want all of you! Oh God, please!"

Arthur uses his free arm to lift you up, back against the wall, holding you firmly under your ass. He retrieves his divine fingers from you, winning a groan of protest, which makes him snicker delicisouly gravelly. There's not a single trace of pain or fatigue on him. What even are the limits of this man? Using his now free hand, he quickly unbuckles his huge rodeo belt and unzips his jeans, just enough to fish his gorging cock out. You see his eyebrows crunch, probably due to the coldness he just exposed himself to. He can't wait to bury himself in the warmth of your cunt.

Your legs around his waist, he's almost engulfing you entirely, your petite body still not compensating for his height, even with the way he's holding you. And you're glad he does, because he's literally shielding you from the cold and the snowflakes surrounding you, some white pearls gently settling on the sides of his golden hair. Guiding himself with one hand, he pushes in your pussy, his cockhead feeling even better than his fingers, every inch stretching you a bit more until he's entirely settled inside. This time, even he can't suppress a groan of pleasure from crossing his lips.

"Damn, you're so good, sweetheart."

"A-Arthur, please, move!" You almost beg him, needing him to lead you to your edge so badly now.

He happily executes, not without sighing at the way your voice sounds saying those words. Just like before, he starts rocking his hips in a steady but slow pace, taking all his time to drag himself out of your pussy before thrusting back aaaall the way in. Wet noises start mixing with the night sounds, his spurs jiggling rhythmically every time he pushes into you.

"That's - it, that's - a - sweet - girl now..." He praises between thrusts, "Jesus, if your dad could see us now -Oh- God I'd be a dead man."

It doesn't seem to stop him, though —all the contrary, as he fucks you deep and proper, so fast and stable you feel like you're about to burst. The hand holding you grabs one of your asscheeks firmly. Another wave of pleasure that rushes into you. How many can he pull out of you? He is like a virtuoso playing his favorite instrument.

"Now baby girl, I want ya to let go for me."

"But I'm…. we're…" You stutter, chest tight again.

"Hush now. I'm here, I'm holding ya." He places a tender (too tender) kiss on the top of your head. "Relax, let yourself go darlin'. Stop thinking about them inside, about being good, or doin' things right. You just focus on ma voice now."

You want to protest, but he locks his lips with yours. This kiss, oh this kiss is different. It's desperate and untamed and uncontrolled, guided by his want as much as yours. His free hand cups the side of your face, warm, comforting, almost homey. Grounding. His hips don't stop one bit, and you start to feel it coming, that familiar burst of pleasure inside your belly, spreading everywhere in your pussy and through your legs. His cock doesn't flatter or slow, he wants you to have it all until the very end. He parts his greedy mouth from yours,

"Thaaat's it darlin', come on, you're doing so great." His rasped, pleasure-filled words are like a delicious nectar that unties every knot in your body, tension, fear, muscles, everything. "Let it go for me."

Just like the very first second he had touched you, your body obeys him. There's no resistance anymore, only bliss. Pure bliss, perfect bliss, as immaculate and pure as the white snow that rages around your two beings; ivorine. Your walls clench around his cock, a deep moan erupts from his throat before he praises you for it:

"Ahh, yeah, just like that baby, you're so close now- com'on, come for me."

Your back arching against the wall, his hips meeting yours and staying there, his cock, hard and huge, rocking through your orgasm, his hands holding you tight, his scents the only thing your breath, your eyes closing and his praises filling your ears; it's so much. You feel full, in every way possible, every sense of yours saturated by him. "Fuck, that's it, that's it…" He keeps on whispering gently as he chases every single drop of pleasure he can give to you, feeling your body softening like mush under him, your whimper hitting the sweetest highest note he has heard you scream. "There you go. Such a good girl."

It's only when he's sure you're completely satisfied that he removes himself from you. The sensation of cold that replaces him is instantaneous and hits you like a punch. He gently puts you down, your legs threatening to abandon you. Barely able to think straight, you register his twitching, begging shaft through your fever, and without second thoughts, grab it.

"Damn, girl!" He exclaims a bit too loudly for your liking, clearly not expecting that. Your small, inexperienced hand isn't doing the job he desperately needs to right now after fingering and fucking you, restraining himself so painfully not to cum inside. He add one of his own gloved hands around yours, helping you holding his member just right, jerking it just like he craves it. You caress his hair gently, and your eyes crosses his, and he just can't handle it, he comes quickly, too quickly after only a few proper rubbs.

Maybe, even all mighty he seems to be, he's only just a man, like every other. His cum spurts out on your intertwined hands and joins the white of the snow. Panting, face contracted by his own pleasure and surrounded by small crystals of ice, he looks so incredibly good you can't help but put a delicate kiss on his cheek.

You both only have the time to put your clothes back on correctly and share an intimate, amused gaze as a figure bursts into the shed.

"Arthur, [Name]! For God sake, we've been searching for you!" John Marston basically screams at you, before staring at both of you. "What were you doin'?"

"John, -erm- we was… I was jus' talking her out of smoking. " Arthur instantly lies, pointing at the cigarette abandoned on the floor. "Cheeky girl was there hidin' and trying t'burn her lungs again."

The explanations seem to hit the mark as John doesn't ask any more questions and joins Arthur in a disapproving speech. Though you see in the oldest man's eyes a relief and an entertainment at this whole situation.

Once inside, the warmth hits you as if you had stepped into a sauna.

"Not a word about this until next time," Arthur whispers bluntly in your ears before going to tend to the fire as he was supposed to do in the first place.

Next time? Your aching legs and cunt shudder again at these words. You keep staring at him even when you go back to your place at the table, thinking about him, about his taste, how he felt inside of you. About everything you had wished for finally coming true. You smile to yourself, deciding to continue smoking if it could bring him back to you again.

Here it is, another New Year's resolution smashed to dust before January even started. Little did you know, Arthur was in the exact same situation. Because inside, he had promised himself he wouldn't fall for those beautiful eyes of yours. Promised he wouldn't fantasize about his best friend's sweet girl. About having her all to himself. But it had been too late the moment he had plunged into them and got lost inside their irresistible sparks.

And just like that, Arthur's resolution to stop thinking about you had been buried to the ground long before he could even try to stick to it.

And he was well determine to do the exact opposite again.

a/n: this one's for all the girls who felt too pressured at least once in a family gathering. I got you sisters 💓

Arthur Morgan. Another ranch owner from your valley. He's bending to your direction, turning down his music, and you notice the pile of country and rock albums on the countertop. You internally chuckle; it fits his character way too well. You knew him a little; all the breeders know each other in the valley. Most of them, as with your family and his, have beneficial relationships, like symbiosis in nature. Clownfish and anemones. Trees and lichen. Make yourself useful to the other party and you'll never fight again. Instead of destroying yourselves over a piece of land, you've learned to take advantage of each other and to prosper together. The Man is an animal, after all.

You had very good memories of the time you had spent at his ranch, usually for the breeding season. He owned one of the finest horses in the whole county and rode them like no one else could. And you would have lied if you had said you didn't find him handsome, in this typical cowboy rugged charm. Always wearing jeans, sometimes chaps. Tight, simple black or white shirts that were always stretched around his biceps or pectorals. Never without a pack of Marlboros that smelled like fresh nights, talking about life under the porch. A leather hat and jacket for riding, a cap when around his ranch. Today is a baseball cap type of day too, it seems.

"Of course not, Morgan! Do I look peachy?! My car broke down and I can't fix it." You explain, hands on your hips.

"A chance I was passin' by then." He smirks even more, readjusting his position in his seat. "Don't worry darlin', we'll get it in mint condition no time."

With a smooth move of the wheel with one hand, he pulls over just a few meters from you. Your hear the old truck turning down, the door opening; he grabs a toolbox and a bottle of water before joining you in front of the open hood of your poor suffering car.

"Here, first, drink a bit. Don't want ya droppin' dead in the middle o' nowhere."

You chuckle as you take the water he's handing to you, the coldness of it on your palms enough to make you feel at ease. "Would be hard to explain to the cops eh?"

"Sure would." He concedes with a snort, his left hand taking support on the hood as he bends towards the engine. After a few seconds of him probing the wound with an expert gaze in silence, he turns to you. "Ya know what? You're going to learn and fix it yaself. I'll teach ya. That way, you won't have to wait on a... dirty cowboy to save your ass next time you break down."

You smile, amused and somehow grateful for his proposition. You definitely should have known better in cars already, considering how life was demanding in those wild plains.

"Alright then, let's hear what the "grand master" of cars has to say." You joke, and just for the way his crinkles showed more in the corner of his eyes, the smile it brought to his face, it was worth it.

He takes a dirty piece of fabric and puts it in the back pocket of his jeans out of habit, before giving you a pair of gloves from the toolbox, greasy and used, and you put them on without complaint, hard, used cotton surrounding your skin.

Your eyes involuntarily notice how his neck is more tanned, compared to a part of his torso you can catch a glimpse of. His forearms, too. The veins that run through them are like great streams that sublimate his muscles. He really is cut out for the hard life on the ranch, even more than most people you know.

"First, you need t'find your brake cylinder. Check the fluid level in it." He points at the plastic reservoir and waits.

You bend towards the engine too, and touch the cylinder. It is one of the only things you knew about.

"That's right, that' thing. Does it look full?"

"Yes."

"Good. 'Could be leakin', though. Brush your hands under it..." He commands, one hand still on the hood and the other holding his belt. He looks so casual, as if he were giving mechanic lessons every day. "Come on, don't be shy, darlin'."

You do exactly as he tells. You don't know why, but there's something suddenly extremely intimate in this whole situation. The way you're both bent inward, bodies close, way closer than how you would stand next to someone. The way he speaks those orders, his voice even more gravelly, rasping, almost purring in your ears. Deep, so deep, and the way his accent is eating half the words in that southern drawl is doing things to you. Stomach fluttering, you try to keep your head cool and actually focus and fixing your damn car.

"So? S'it wet?"

Jeeeesus, he's not making things easy. Making violence to yourself not to answer yes on instinct, you force out a too casual "Nope."

"Alright, now do the same with the coolin' system. S'right next to it."

You bring your hand to the other plastic cylinder, wrapping your fingers under the round pipe coming out of it. Your muscle memory is stronger than your rational thinking. You can't help but imagine how it would feel to have them wrapped around something else, something just inches away from your own hips right now. Something you knew would be undoubtedly big considering the way that man is carrying himself, the way it shows when he's riding, big and heavy and obvious through his jeans. You close your eyes, unable to keep those unholy ideas away.

"No leaks, sir."

"Perfect. Oh, ya should always check up for leaks first, but never open this damn thing with your engine still runnin', ya hear? Could splash hot chemicals all over ya."

"Copy that."

"Good girl." He drawls in a satisfied praise, his left hand tapping on the hood in a satisfied way. As if he had just finished with you and would pat your ass contently. You shiver, his words and the fucking delicious way he said it igniting and unresistable fire between your thighs. "Now let's check the engine fluid. Pull out the dipstick from it."

You slowly remove the long and thin wand from your car motor, and to your surprise, you feel one of his big and rough palms on top of your glove to help you carry it, as his left one finally leaves its perch and grabs the top of the stick.

"See the fluid? If the thing looks like you have just shoved it in an oil fryer, you're good. But if you notice some other stuff like... somethin' that looks like thick water, or a creamy stuff right here, it ain't good."

Fluid. Shoving. Thick. Creamy. There's no way he isn't aware of what he's doing. The way his gigantic hands handle yours and the stick. The way you can smell his strong perfume, petrolic reek of the damaged engine long gone, replaced by heady notes of sweat from the scorching sun making him pearl, mixing with remnants of his cologne. Or was it woods? Cedar and pines, with hays, and faint traces of this so specific scent that farms and ranches have.

"Darlin'? Ya got it?"

"Y-yeah yeah. Oil good, creamy stuff isn't." Oh my god, you sound so dumb you're almost embarrassing yourself.

"That' right. Now the filter. See that big fan underneath? We have to make sure it's perfectly running and sealed, overwise your engine is pumping stuff from nowhere and ends up damn dirty."

He arcs himself completely, lying his side against your car to slip his hand under the piece of metal, and grabs a pipe you can't see from where you stand. He probably tests the solidity of the thing, but all you see is him wanking a fucking engine. Does he handles his cock like that? Does he jerk it slow and steady like he rides his horse in an elegant walk? Slow but deliberate, meticulous like he is with his own truck? Or is it all the contrary, does he treat it rough and quick? Like an urge he needs to get out, contrasting with his precise and conscientious work? Does his shaft fuck his fist, jerking off so fast he's almost done in a few minutes? Does his-

"Here, I need to show it to ya. Come."

Oh. You're dead on the inside, your pussy isn't even trying anymore, burning without any restriction and you're happy it's a hot day because at least you have an excuse to be sweating that much. He's still leaning his side against the car, arm folded, and he gestures for you to join him in the same position. Throat hoarse, legs mushy as if they were boneless, you get closer and lean on your side too, your back touching his chest. You two are basically spooning on your car right now. He removes his hand from the engine.

"See? S' that one, right there. Go on, grab' it."

Jesus all I want is to fucking grab it you complain in your head. He must realise this is extremely erotic, right? You couldn't be imagining it on your own. You hope not, or else it means that you're completely crazy. Your body is entirely tensed as an arched bow, you bring your own hand to the filter pipe.

"Now... shake it. T'make sure it's sealed."

His breath is almost brushing against your ear. His deep raspy tone, resonating through his chest when he speaks, scratching against his tongue, feels like honey and whiskey both at the same time. Languorous and coarse. It swirls and rolls all against you, coating you as if you were a candy waiting to be eaten whole. You shake the metal piece, trying at all costs to push away the sinful thoughts the gesture is bringing to you.

"Thaaat's it... How does it feel, girl?"

"F-feels good to me." You're blushing, you're sure you're blushing. You know you are, cheeks burning at the double meaning this whole conversation is holding. You hear and feel him humming a positive, deep sound in answer.

"Well, if it ain't mechanical, it's probably your electrical darlin'. Let's look at that battery o' yours."

He finally gets up, pushing on his arm. You're almost sad not to be turned the other way, you could have witnessed the way his biceps had flexed, veins popping for a few seconds, grease and oil now painting his skin and beautifully emphasizing his muscles, a perfectly shaped and shaded Greek statue.

You start to get back up too, and suddenly feel the weight of his gaze and you. You were bent, half folded just a few seconds ago, basically presenting your ass to him. Oh, you congratulate yourself for having chosen to wear these little shorts this morning. There was no way he could have looked at something else. Once fully up, you greet him with a not-so-innocent smile, fixing a strand of your hair behind your ear. A vein on his neck shows as he reciprocates your smirk, and his own body tenses. He's enjoying this whole situation.

"Mmh. I can already tell ya, she's the one causing trouble." He states, pulling his cap back in place with two hands. You're not even sure he's actually talking about the car anymore.

"H-how do you know?" You didn't want your voice to sound that weak. This man had the effect of disconnecting every basic function from your biology; except all the ones related to sex of course. Those, those they were on fire, on the verge of fucking overheating.

"Look, it's loose." He explains slowly, voice drawling, each word slurred in a husky rumble. He's saying it like that on fucking purpose. "Some bolts must have blown out. So, that littl' bitch bounces as you drive, and it ends up disconnected. All... messy, 'n overused..."

You religiously nod at his godly speech. Your eyes are fixated on his hands moving the battery in periodic movements, repetitive sharp snapping noise filling the air, fingers sliding in between the pieces of metal.. He could have well been thrusting his hips into it, it would have had the same effect on you.

"Now... let's get this bad girl to behave." He adds, devilish smirk on his face, a hand leaving the battery to pull a wrench and a few new bolts from his toolbox.

All your life you had prided yourself on being a strong and independent woman. The ranch chores? No problem. Riding? Easier and funnier, even barrel racing. Lassoing, helping a cow give birth? Done and done. Not that it was easy, but you could handle it yourself, and pretty damn well on top of that.

But right here, right now, this ego is crushed under the dirty boots of this Appolon of a cowboy, odd but unforgettable mix between a rough rancher and a mythological God, palming a car battery as if it was your ass. You could have done anything if he had ordered you to, you had never been weaker because of someone. You would have been on your knees, God, you wish he'd let you get on your knees for him.

With just a few turns of the wrench, the temperamental car is repaired. He tests the engine from the conductor seat, and it works perfectly fine. It's almost humiliating how easy it was. He gets out, pulls the hood down for you, and stands tall, satisfied with his little intervention.

"You're good t'go, darlin'."

"Thank you so much, Arthur." You don't know if you should be thanking him for the battery or for the litteral porn show he delivered you for free. It had been years since your hormones had gotten that wild.

And they weren't about to stop, considering how he had taken back his water bottle and drank straight from it, some of it beautifully streaming down his scarred chin, then his throat before getting soaked up by his already sweat-drenched shirt. He takes some of it in his right hand and wets his neck, and you have to contain a sigh. The base of his hair, all wet like this, makes you want to run your fingers through it more than ever.

"T'was nothin'. Am happy t'help a pretty girl in need."

There are a few seconds, just a few, hanging in the thick air between the two of you, where you both look at his other, his abyssal marine blue eyes sinking so deep into yours you're almost surprised he's not falling right into your soul. Maybe he is. But his gaze doesn't waver for a single second, not even by an inch, and you realize that only he maintains such intimate contact for so long without showing the slightest sign of nervousness. No one else does. For him, it doesn't have to be a source of discomfort like most people, and it becomes so intimate that you feel your legs weaken once again under the weight of that gaze. Just the two of you. Fucking with your eyes.

He gets closer to you, and you move back against the front of your car. You don't say a word. Neither is he. There's just his deep breaths and the deafening beating of your heart. He raises his arms around your waist, as if wanting to lean on the hood, trapping you. Your thighs and your aching core between them are just a few torturous inches from his jeans-covered crotch. You want to take a quick peek, burning to know if he's indeed painfully hard, if the blue pants are as tight as his shirt is on his bicep. But you can't, unable to break his eye contact, sucked into those blue seas. There's a small grease stain on his cheek you'd like to cover with your lipstick. You hold your breath. Your whole body freezes, which made no sense at all to you, considering how hot you were feeling, how ardent the atmosphere was with him almost bent on you. It's like those mind-numbing summer days, when the air is so hot and heavy and full of electricity that all you want is for the storm to finally break, never mind if the lightning strikes your whole body.

All the better if it does.

He grabs his wrench he had forgotten behind you, and pulls back. In an instant, it's winter. You don't want it to be. He looks at you with this knowing smirk, this hard jawline almost cheeky, this goddamn ballcap like a crown.

"H-hey uh -" You cough, unable to let things end like this. Searching for the thunderstorm. "I was... I was going to the Miller's Ranch for a barbecue. D'you wanna come?" You bite your lip at yet another double entendre. Shit. "I could... Offer you a beer, for all of that?"

Gently pulling the working gloves off your hands, he answers, taking his sweet time, his face holding this repressed mischievousness and desire, well hidden behind his smug expression.

"Well... I'd very much like to come. Thank you, sugar."

✧.*

Well, thank you for this amazing request that sparked this obsession in my brain I guess, Rhae! Also I won't lie to you guys, I was clearly inspired too by these amazing art pieces from @/altergoat02. Check out their blog, all of their art is prodigious.

And if Modern Arthur is your kind of boah just like me, I highly recommend you to check out Evie's Takin' care of business!! And yes I've completely looked for a tutorial on youtube about car motors. I'm just that ignorant.

He knew, knew, knew everything of that, of course he did. And still, his fingers opening his fly carelessly. Still, his eyes searching for this sublime silhouette of yours. Still, his cock hardening, itching, burning, begging to be grabbed. And still, his hands taking the doomed responsibility of answering the call. Still his muffled groans, his lips bitten, his silent words spoken in his head, your body joining him. Still, your hand, instead of his. His spend, less and less consistent, spurting quickly and spreading on his dirty clothes, the silence following, the emptiness, the shame, the guilt, the coldness amplified by his intimate fantasies. Like those dark loud nights of storms, air charged with electricity, and left in heavy disturbing quietness after the last lightning struck. Still, dreaming, wanting, longing. 

Still you.

He felt insatiable, like an enraged, mad dog, pathetic bastard. And paradoxically, as he finally had found sleep again after allowing his body what it needed, he felt weaker than ever. Weakened by you.

You hadn't left him after the first night he had succumbed to temptation. You had branded his spirit with a red-hot iron. Damned him to a lifetime of ache, a mortal succumbing to a Mermaid's melody and sailing in search of her on an infinite sea.

 A ruby, squared, soft form. 

It’s your shawl lying on a chair. You forgot it a few minutes ago, but he didn’t say anything about it. He’s still looking at it, hands fidgeting, mind pondering. What’s good and what’s bad. The ugliness of his self and soul. The risks, the benefits. 

He thinks back to the day you and him just shared. A job in Rhodes, “needing to be taken care of by two people”, Dutch’s words. He had sent him, which was predictable —the gang’s workhorse rarely knows rest. But you? It surprised him a whole lot more. Something about the job requesting some “feminine charm”. He hadn’t complained. Not when he had realized he would be able to spend some time alone with you. 

And his gaze had been wandering way more than what common decency was allowing him to. Staring and dreaming were all he had been doing lately, anyhow.

Looking at the delicious cleavage your fancy dress was offering when you got out of your tent and joined him back at camp, your breasts pressed up and round, almost impossible not to devour with his eyes. All he could do was make a sarcastic comment about it as the only defense against his urges. You moron Morgan, just say something nice for once. Luckily -or not- for him, you had wrapped your appealing shoulders in the sophisticated cherry-colored cape to prevent the coldness of the night.

Looking at your back as you both rode into town, looking at your neck when he helped you off your horse once into Rhodes. Looking at your lips as you two were sat in one of the Parlor’s house boxes, the job long-forgotten when he had noticed this little wrinkle next to your lips, that one you have when you laugh and find something funny. He would have to add it to his endless sketches of you.

Looking at your thin, sneaky hands from afar as they were slipping into that wealthy gentleman’s pocket to steal the papers you were both here for in the first place. It all felt distant and insignificant to him now, as a forgettable theater play set in the background. 

Later, you had been the one looking at him when he had come to your rescue. The “gentleman” was being insistent with you. As you both had crossed eyes from across the reception room, Arthur had read your apprehension and silent call for help in just a split second. And here he was, puffing out his chest, look dark and intense, muscles tensed. The perfect look of a man you don’t want to cross, that look he and Hosea had worked hard on building, scars and broad shoulders gained after all these years of intimidation. He was so used to it by now he wasn’t even sure he knew how to be anything else. His pointer finger tapping threateningly on the shiny Deputy Star he had on his jacket and his deep, menacing tone had acted as the final details. You should leave the lady alone and get some fresh air, pal. The fool had dropped the case and returned with his tail between his legs without any clue what had actually happened.

And then, your sweet voice asking for a drink. “Come on, we got to celebrate! Finally, a job well handled without a drop of blood.” How could he ever say no to that? It was almost too good to be true. Spending the evening with you, laughing, talking, philosophizing.

Arthur didn’t know he could be that talkative. Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was your presence. Maybe a bit of both. And he had paid for everything. A good hot dinner for both of you, your drinks, and two rooms the moment you told him you were too tired to ride back to camp. Oh, he could have given you all the Wolrd’s treasure if that meant you would keep looking at him with these pretty playful eyes.

As the evening passed, the gentle flow of your endless conversations had led you from the bar to the stairs, to the second floor, to the hallway, and eventually to his room, naturally and serenely, like a rowboat ride on a summer lake.

And finally, after a few yawns exchanged, some delicate eyelids rubbed by you, you had left him to sleep, completely forgetting about your shawl, hanging on one of his room’s chairs. And you had greeted each other goodnight. As friends. This was all he would ever be to you, he knew it. And it was better that way. Like this, he was preserving you from having a pathetic man and a pathetic life being his. He was like an infertile soil, anyway. Any seed you would plant and try to harvest with him would end up rotten, corrupted. Fruitless.

And now left in the stillness of the room, in this deafening silence without the sound of your voice, his vision fixated on your abandoned piece of clothing, the most sinful of all thoughts is digging its way through the fibers of his brain, fed by need and alcohol, gnawing at his neurons, eating up any rational reasoning. 

A ruby, tempting garment of yours.

He wants to grab it. To smell it. He wants your perfume to completely fill his nose, so much it would be like drowning in your scent. You wouldn’t be coming back for it anyway, considering how tired you looked a few minutes ago. And you’d never know about it. Just like you didn’t know he was watching you all this time through the fabric of your tent. After all, he was already so deep down into this rabbit hole of lust, what would it change?

And just like that, before he can even think about it more, his arm is already extending, his fingers wrapping around the forbidden fruit.

A descent into Hell he is not able to stop nor control. And at the same time, it feels like getting closer to Heaven.

He lays on the bed, back against the coarse sheets that still felt better than his cot back at camp, and brings your stole to his nose, almost covering his face with it. He closes his eyes.

And he breathes in.

Hell. If God wanted him to stay virtuous, why did he create such a temptatious woman like you? Your scent is without any surprise just as irresistible and bewitching as your whole self.

The fruity notes of it remind him of your skin and lips he wants to taste so badly, a mouth-watering gourmet scent. The floral and fresh ones, of this sparkling mischievousness in your eyes. And in the end, as he exhales, warm and spicy aromas rain on him. They fill his mind with a deep sense of comfort, as if scenting directly your hair. It’s intoxicating, spellbinding. Driving him deeper into his madness. He doesn’t try to resist, not anymore, this delightful fresco of fragrances painted just for him.

Naturally and almost subconsciously, his vicious right hand reaches his crotch. He’s already hard. Just by smelling your shawl.

This time you’ve really hit rock bottom, old bastard.

He doesn’t even bother thinking about it more, he already knows he’s too deep in; already knows he won’t be able to stop himself. 

Ah shit, screw it, jus’ a quick wank.

He quickly unbuckles his holster belt, then unbuttons his pants, and snakes his hand between the folds of his union suit. A silent swift dance he is used to repeating by now. 

He breathes again a long, deep whiff, and wraps his fingers around his cock thinking of you, once more. 

He sees you and your perfect body, and everything blends and blurs in his heated psyche. The form of your breasts and ass through the tent's canvas he knew by heart at this point. Your smirk, your eyes looking back at his, only his during this night spent together. Your heady, addicting scent surrounds him and fuels his fantasies even more, making them more vivid than before, the soft fabric of the stole against his skin a light caress he imagines yours.

He strokes and strokes and strokes, he needs it more than ever, even if, truth be told, every time is more than ever. His pinkish cock’s head is reddened and swollen from having been rubbed so many times lately, sensible and almost pained. But he doesn't care. It makes him feel even more alive. Even more here. Simply better.

He wants his body to feel pleasure. Pleasure, for once, instead of pain. Pain all the time, pain everywhere, bullets through his muscles, knives on his skin, cutting through his flesh, fists against his bones, breaking his jaws, his nose, his cheeks. Broken, used, beaten, ripped, bruised, overworked, abused. Oh, he’s tired of it. Only in those prohibited moments, he can experience pleasure. No matter how wicked and profane.

The room is now filled with those wet, fast-paced sounds, his rustling against the sheets, and the smallest of grunts coming from his unholy lips as he fucks his fist. Your name escapes him from time to time, muffled by your shawl he's still holding all against him with his left hand, and breathing the air from.

As if all the World’s oxygen would never be as good as breathing through it. As if everything else would feel thick and fusty in his lungs. No Mountains, no Oceans, no flowers, not the tastiest food, nothing could ever compete with smelling your scent. 

Stroke, stroke, stroke. Goddamn it, she’s perfect. A big, hard stroke. Oh God, yes, just a bit more…

Too absorbed by his delirious daydream, he doesn't notice right away the creaking of the door as you enter his room again, searching for the very thing he's using to masturbate right now.

“Arthur, I’m sorry to bother you again but I think I forgot my sh—”

You freeze.

SHIT! He instantly curses loudly and jumps from the bed so suddenly that he almost falls to the ground. A stumbling mess, his holster crashes on the wooden floor with a loud percussive sound as he shoves his member back into his clothes as fast as possible, looking like a disjointed chaos of limbs. He is mortified. There is no way in the world you won’t understand what was just happening. He ends up standing next to the bed, after having thrown your cape at the other corner of the room with such force it looked like the damn thing was made of burning iron. And he doesn’t even know why. Maybe to distance himself from his sins. To try and erase this horrible vision from your pretty eyes. His labored breath and fast-beating heartbeat are now ruled by panic instead of lust. For all his life he had never experienced such shame and felt so utterly stupid. 

There is a small moment of silence, heavy and embarrassed. A little time of denying. No, this can’t be happening. But your look turns in circles from the bed, him, and the scarf, circling him like a cornered animal. That’s it, his pride is dead right here in this stupid hotel room. You see right through him, he’s sure of it. Your piercing beautiful gaze lands on his ears a few times, and he knows they’re crimson just by the heat he can feel on them. But the worst thing of all is his bulge, obvious and raised up as a flag right in the middle of his thighs, under his badly buttoned fly. Like a Mausoleum to his Dignity. The damn thing refusing to shrink and obviously screaming loudly his offence to the whole World. All the contrary, your gaze falling on it produces the exact opposite of what he wants, his cock almost twitching in return. 

Damn it!

Damn it, damn it, damn it!-

“Where you… Hum…” You start, before clearing your throat slightly.

“ ‘m sorry, Am… I didn’t mean to… ‘m such a goddamn fool.” This is the best he can come up with. What excuses could he have anyway? Nothing could justify what he did.

You had never heard his deep asserted voice so chagrined. Utter fear and shame. You didn’t even know he could feel that way.

His gaze is fixated on his dirty boots, refusing to cross yours. Just as goddamn dirty as me. 

“Were you pleasuring yourself, Mister Morgan?” You ask, your tone slightly playful. He doesn’t see it, but a mischievous grin settles on your face.

He takes your tone as a mocking one. You would have all the right to mock him. That’s all he deserved.

He tries to answer but doesn't even dare to admit it verbally, as if it would aggravate his situation. He just nods slowly, as seriously as if he was at a funeral. 

“With one of my clothes?” You ask again, your grin widening.

Another nod, his eyes shutting as if he had been hit by something, your sentence making the whole thing even worse. Oh, just a few seconds ago, he was feeling more present and alive than ever, and now all he wanted was to disappear or die.

He hears more than he sees your steps on the parquet. Every stomping sound hurt him a bit more. He doesn't even dare to move. As if everything he would do from now would offend you. Even breathing, no, even existing is too much.

She’s going to slap me. A step. She's going to yell in my face. Another step. I’m dead. A final step.

You’re so close to him now he’s holding his breath, eyes closed, ready to face the well-deserved punishment of your choice for his trespass.

But he's only met with stillness until you speak again.

“Arthur, do you really think I was that hot in my tent, every night?”

The words reach his ears but his brain refuses them. His mouth opens in astonishment. He closes it to swallow loudly and opens it again as if trying to speak in utter confusion.

“You… I… Wait, really?”

“I never thought you could be that naive, honestly.” You answer, a little chuckle escaping you. One of your hands slowly reaches the side of his face, but he still shivers slightly when it touches him. You guide his head back up for him to finally look you in the eyes.

Arthur's two blue sapphires are topped with anxious brows. A bright confusion and a soft vulnerability. They don’t settle too long on one point of your face out of nervousness, as if they could burn you.

“M-me neither.” He simply whispers, a bashful, nervous smile settling on his mouth. He still doesn’t move.

“Do you really think I wasn’t aware of what I was doing, mmh?” You continue, your fingers traveling from his face all the way down his neck, gently caressing the base of his hair.

You can’t be serious right now.

“I… I don’ know…” And he really doesn’t. This is all so unbelievable to him that he’s persuaded this is all a dream and he’s going to wake up any moment.

The only thing anchoring him to reality is your fingers exploring him, making him slowly let out the breath he had been holding in his chest.

“Let me help you finish what you've started…” You murmur, voice low and obvious to what you’re implying, sultry, suggestive.

He feels his shaft pulsing again instantly in answer, his body once again taking the lead. He’s about to say something, to ask you if you’re sure you want to do this with an old bitter moron like him, but one of your hands is already reaching straight to his crotch, palming his warm, needy erection.

“Anh…!” The moan turning into a groan he lets out duplicates your own arousal.

His hips rock against your hand involuntarily, the need for contact of any sort getting more powerful than his shame. He still doesn’t dare do much to you though, not wanting to cross any more limits. He lets you handle him just like you want. He lets the flow of life take him instead of fighting against it, for once. The only gesture he allows is settling his big hands on your back, sweaty and almost shaking.

Oh, your sneaky fingers. They touch and grope and palpate, and he sighs louder. It feels so much better, to have your hand touching him.

After a few more teasing caresses, you sway in a smooth motion and playfully push him backward, making him fall on the bed. He sits there, looking up at you with those two adoring cerulean pupils, as if you were the Sun itself. A distant magnificent star, impossible for him to reach, condemned to only contemplate.

“Get your clothes off.” You order, his reactions making you more confident and straightforward than usual. 

He is quick to obey. You could have asked him to jump off a cliff and he would have done it without even thinking. His clothes fall one by one on the floor and you feast on every area of skin he’s offering you. He ends up entirely naked for your eyes. This Titan, cascade of virile hairs everywhere, prominent scarred muscles carved into stone by Ares himself, gorged with raw powerfulness and designed to kill. To survive. And between those open thick thighs, his aroused member. The one he thought of as the triumph of his shame a few minutes ago, is now the Apotheosis of his Glory. Thick, long, hard like him, surrounded by a crown of tawny curls.

“Look at you…” You let out, almost licking your lips. But he doesn’t answer. He doesn’t see what you do at all. Instead, he let his gaze wander on your chest, and you can almost hear the silent plea in his gaze for you to join his nakedness.

Standing right in front of him, you begin to strip yourself out of your clothes, agonizingly slowly, your face displaying this provocative grin that turns him on so much. It’s purposeful, and you feel your own arousal rising as you notice the red coming back to his cheeks and ears.

First, your boots and socks, discovering your delicate legs. Then your blouse, showing your shoulder and chest, then your skirt. He stays silent all the while, enjoying your little show more than you could imagine. Your hips swaying, your arms gracefully dancing, each piece of clothing falling on the ground, this is all a trance he's getting hypnotized by.

Seeing you undress just for him after all those nights spent on his cot touching himself watching your shadow is like adding all the missing color from a masterpiece, enhancing and fulfilling.

“That’s what you’ve been thinking about?” You purr proudly, now in your undergarments.

“God yes. Yer a real’ angel.” He praises in a fevered-like whisper.

You smirk as all answer. “Come on now, show me those dirty things you’ve been doing.” You speak while nodding at his crotch in an almost challenging way.

His hand instantly reaches for his cock. It was itching him to since you had looked at it earlier. He presses his fingers hard around it and he grunts softly, the sound incredible to your ears. Obeying you and surrendering fully to his depravation, he slowly starts stroking himself again while watching you intensely. What did he do to deserve such a splendid spectacle?

That’s when you decide to slowly bend inward and undo the last pieces of clothing you still have. Just a few gestures and your breasts are bare and hanging for him to look at. Jeee-sus. You see and hear his hand speeding up. 

Lastly, you reveal your own sex to him, a pearl between those gorgeous thighs of yours, and he curses out loud this time.

“You're so goddamn beautiful. I could... Damn, I could finish right now jus' lookin' atchu.” He confesses, his cheeks, ears, and chest getting even redder at his own words.

“Really, uh? You're quite easy to tease, Mister Morgan.” You taunt, before turning around and bending again, wanting him to see your bottom, taking a more than suggestive position with your ass up.

“Oh, for God's sake.” He nearly chokes, his rhythm accelerating again; almost frenetic. This is all he ever wanted during those cold lonely moments. All he ever needed to see. And he can’t help but engrave every little detail in his mind; the little scars you have here and there, the different tone and grain of your skin, your hairs, your body’s hollows and bumps. Every little imperfection. And they make it all even better. Better than any fantasies he had ever pictured in the past few weeks. Because they are making you yourself.

You turn again to face him and straddle his lap, unable to resist your own urges that had been building and building since you had found him touching himself to the thought of you.

That’s when something finally lights up in his mind. The moment he feels your soft, warm thighs around him, and how you’re soaked in between them, it hits him. You’ve been wanting him just as badly as he wanted you. As odd and surprising as it sounds to him. This new reality is right there against his tip as you start rubbing your entrance against it, teasing, playing, pressing just a few inches in, gently praising how big he looks and how good it would be to have him inside of you. 

That thing inside of him explodes.

Suddenly his hands are all over you. Touching everything they can, discovering, molding your curves under his fingertips. Hands on your thighs, hands on your hips, waist, neck. Each part of you touched is breaking every chain that was holding him back, one by one. These perfect sensations blind him to any reasoning, any sense of restrain, and push him to palm your breasts. God, the softness, the warmth. He sighs in appreciation as he kneads both of them and you join his pleasured breathing.

More.

One of his hands leaves your chest to grab your ass, roughly, and he squeezes, hard, while he sucks on the breast that has been abandoned. “Arthur!” You moan out in return, pleasured and surprised voice, mouth left open in delight. Oh, he will satisfy you. Those renewed vows appear as clear as day between the mess of his head as he keeps devouring your nipple endlessly, almost suckling at it. He will push that voice of you to its limit, break it until you won’t be able to scream.

“That’ what you wanted all this time, uh? Drivin’ me insane?”

You search for something clever to throw back at him but the calloused hand on your breast suddenly reaches your cunt and you gasp instead. 

“That’ what you do? Torture poor devils like me until they can’t help but fall for you?” He asks again, his confidence heightened by your sweet sounds, his tone getting darker and darker. Touching your folds pleasures him almost as much as you, his brows furrowing into a needy and intense expression.

“J-just you… ‘Just wanted you to notice me…” You admit, your hips rolling on his lap and against his hand. His fingers part your cunt and trace their own way through this little Heaven, exploring this place he had craved so much; and it makes him more excited than any thoughts he could have had on his own.

“Well, that sure worked, girl.”

He lets go of your pussy and you squeal in protest, almost ashamed of your own sound. He smiles triumphantly at you, feeling satisfied to give you a taste of your own medicine. He wraps both of his arms around your waist, your chest ending up pressed against his face; his nose is shoved in it and he sighs louder this time. 

He can’t wait any longer. Not when he has been dreaming of this for weeks. Not after discovering your unforgettable perfume. Not after having felt this wet, warm promise of your entrance. He looks up at your face, searching for any trace of disgust or apprehension but you're completely free from any. Mouth agape, breaths deep and hips shamelessly searching for his, you're even more gorgeous than before, and he snaps.

He guides you carefully, his hands warm and hard against your bare skin. And he pushes.

His sex entering you slowly is deliciously hard and hot. His cockhead is big, way bigger than what you’re used to, and feels so good already. His arms hold you in place as he pushes again, wanting to be completely stuffed in, a long, low growling sound accompanying his movement. Oh, Christ Almighty. He had never felt so good than buried like this in your warm, silky, divine cunt right now.

Once fully settled, you both sighs and breath loudly for just a few seconds, your gazes meeting and silently agreeing on how fucking delicious this feels. Then you move up, wanting to ride him, feeling his shaft pull out as you do, but his arms grab you tighter and put your hips back in place.

“God!” You whine as you feel his length plunging again and hitting that spot inside of you.

He starts to buck his hips up against yours, unable to resist anything anymore. His rhythm, he wanted slow and meaningful at first, is quickly turning fast and hard, a remnant of how incredibly frustrated and needy he had been all this time.

“I’m gonna -Ohh, shit- I’m gonna show ya what ya get teasin’ me like that.”

Arthur's southern drawl is even more prominent, his voice hoarse and deep from effort. His thrusts up are more and more powerful, making you jump up and down on top of him and for the first time in days he thanks himself for having pleasured himself so many times lately, otherwise he would have come instantly right there in your heat. Your breasts bounce in this erotic, irresistible dance that he’ll remember for every future night he'll spend alone.

“Oh Arthur, don’t stop!” 

His cock pulls out and shoves into your cunt so fastly it's rubbing perfectly how you want it deep inside and you reach for his shoulders, needing to hold onto him, already so close. “Yes, yes, yes, right there!”

He hears your accelerating breathing, your higher-pitched moans turning into screams and he searches for your lips with his. Your tender petals against his dirty mouth. But he doesn’t care, there’s only your pussy right now, and your incredible smell he’s filled with once again, just like you’re filled with his tongue and his dick inside of you.

Both his hands grab your ass and he fucks frantically, his balls slapping against it with each thrust, making your plump flesh jiggle and those hitting and smacking sounds resonating throughout the room. Again, and again, and Damn it again.

It’s too much for you. 

You cry out loudly as your fingers dig into his shoulders and your head tilts backward, and his big, solid arms keep you pressed against his chest, completely wrapped around you; and he finally, finally feels it. Pleasure, pleasure, pleasure, instead of pain. This irresistible release, your pussy clenching and squeezing all around his cock. “-Ngh, s-shit yes angel, give it t’me!”

You give it all to him without any resistance and in a obscene scream. And it’s too much for him.

“Ah, God…” He hisses as he feels it coming, quickly pulling you up —as effortlessly as if you weighed nothing— and pressing his cock against your clit, well nestled between your lips.

He reaches your lips again, needing to finish while kissing you, both of your bodies almost sewn together, his moans sounding more and more like primal growls and hisses at every rubbing movement against your core, movements getting faster and faster, impossibly faster, So fucking good, Jesus so goddamned perfect, Perfect, perfect!- Until he finally comes, translucent cum leaking all the way down his shaft and spreading on your lower belly, all panting and grunting, a complete mess; a satiated beast.

It’s better than any of the dreams he ever had, waking or sleeping. And it’s not just the release of this one and only time, it’s the pinnacle of all these lonely pleasures shared with no one in regretful secret.

For the second time that night, he thinks he’s dead. 

He falls backward, back against the mattress, and you follow, unable to stand without him. In that silence only disturbed by your exhausted breaths, he turns and grabs the first piece of clothing that he has at hand’s reach, his flannel. He gently uses it to clear your belly from his seed and seeing it, on your smooth and soft skin, makes a wave of culpability crash onto him once again. Shouldn't have done all of this. Should have taken care of her properly.

A dark, glum expression settles on his face and he wraps himself in a deep silence instead of your arms as he finishes to clean the both of you. God, did that man ever know rest for more than a few minutes? At this thought, you bend over to put a small kiss on his forehead, as a thank you for his aftercare.

“Satisfied enough?” You finally break the silence, getting up from the bed –not without stretching your back slightly and swaying your hips before bending to reach for your clothes on the floor.

Arthur cannot help but think of a Nymph as you do all of this still naked. Those irresistible, divine beauties that lure men with a simple move of their finger, as they say in books. He knew it was all stories from another time, but he was more and more convinced they would look exactly like you if they did exist.

“More than in a long time. You?” He replies, voice neutral and features closed as usual. He stays on the bed and put only his pants back, his cock finally softening under the coarse fabric. He never stops looking at you all the while.

“Couldn’t be better”. You assert, your blouse falling back on your upper body. You then roughly fix your hair in this casual, impish way that was yours.

That was driving him insane.

“You’re a little minx, ya know that? Gettin’ naked on purpose every night…”

“Oh, please. You didn’t really complain as far as I know.”

“Nah, but ya did make me insane. Teasin’ littl’ thing y’are.” He says with a fond voice he would have preferred less obvious.

You innocently shrug your shoulders, cheeky grin on your face. The way you're playing with him that easily should have been shaming to him, but he doesn't feel any shame anymore, not after what you have shared.

"Goodnight, Arthur." You throw as all answer, leaving him as you walk through the door of his room. He greets you back, the trimmest trace of longing in his rough voice.

Once again alone, once again cold, Arthur grabs a cigarette from his pocket to smoke before falling asleep; maybe to keep this lingering warmth just a bit longer, the sensations of your body, and especially your sex squeezing around his, still remaining on his skin. Lying completely in the bed, he smiles to himself as he notices you have forgotten your shawl —again. Or maybe you had left it on purpose. Maybe you had both times, now that he is thinking about it. The ruby fabric had landed wrapped all around his old, worn-out leather jacket, like a flame dancing around, enveloping, lapping at a tree.

It looks great that way.

Maybe you were only playing with him. Maybe this was only a one-time thing. But who cared? Tonight, Arthur had been taken care of by a Nymph. And no other mortal pleasure, no other solitaries delights, not even the most lustful and depraved images he could have pulled out of his tormented mind could ever compete with that slice of Olympe you had given to him.

→ Part III

a/n: Yeah, 5K words, I knooow! I'm hopeless. It's quite a lot, but I didn't feel like cutting, nothing felt right. What can I say except thank you, so much, for everyone's interest in the first part, for your notes, comments and reblogs, and for reading all of this! I am in utter PANIC rn because I feel like nothing I could write would be as good or as well received as the first part, but here it is! I really hope it didn't disappoint!

Also, to give Caesar what belongs to Caesar, the holster falling was completely inspired by my dear @zae-heeyyy's Piquancy (II)! I thought it would fit the comical aspect of the scene eheh (go check it out)

And also go check out this amazing piece Moons drew from this fic! Thanks again for this delightful treat! 💙

YOU

Dutch had returned alone with that blonde snake. Something is off with this whole mission; you knew it from the start. The moment you had seen them leave camp together, you had inquired for information from Pearson and Hosea. The older one had also shared his doubts with you about the nature of the interview requested by Colm, his gray eyes gleaming with concern. A trap. It had to be one.

You try to busy yourself with something, anything. To suppress the heavy and overwhelming minutes of time, stretched out by the effect of anxiety. It's funny how time always passed differently when it came to Arthur. Normally, it would have seemed shorter, though. But this time… This time, time is like an endless fresco stretching on and on.

Night comes. You don't sleep well.

ARTHUR

Colm had left the dark room after twisting the knife in the wound. Strutting around him like a devil dancing around a bonfire, he had confided in him the details of his diabolical plan.

Setting up a false meeting with Dutch to lure him in. Search for him, knock him down and capture him to bring in Dutch and everyone else in his trap. Warn the law, throw all the gang into the lion's den. Quick and easy. Proper work. All his enemies gone, plus the benefit of having the Law occupied by a way juicier fish.

Realizing it, that's when something lit up deep inside his guts once again.

They were going to come. They were going to rush straight into danger. His family. They were going to die because of him. Most of the men, at first. And then, once all the fighters had been caught, hanged in a shabby town, and buried six feet under, what would happen to the others?

No. That's out of the question. The silence and coldness of the few square meters of his prison receive his promise. Between grunts of pain and fatigue, and a few cracks of his bones, he promises himself. He will get out of here. He will never be the burden that destroyed his kin.

He would live to see your lively eyes again and beg them to grant him one last glance.

✧.*

Swinging then swinging again. Like the pendulum of a clock. He then feels his heavy, aching body crash against the shapeless floor. The inside of his head is a shapeless mush after hours of pressure. His movements are punctuated by deep wheezes. He feels the chains being removed from his feet and heads toward the tiny office lit only by candlelight. Yes, yes! He would be fine, but only if he removes the bullet and heal the wound. "Ya always have to burn a bullet wound, Arthur. Otherwise it gets infected from the inside, and then there's nothing you can do but die of fever, I'm tellin' ya." Hosea's words guide him more than his own fried brain. The file burns through the flame of the candle. He twists it in the wound, the pain unimaginable, the sounds of his destroyed flesh disgusting. The horrors of this reality are overwhelming him. He feels his mind wandering elsewhere as his body, moved by its own will, executes the pain necessary for his survival.

The silhouette of your body through the fabric of your tent, on that very first night when it all began.

He presses on the hole in his skin, blood spurting from it like a mountain source.

The red of your shawl, left deliberately in his room, then its softness in his hands.

He grabs a rifle bullet left there, like a twist of fate, and pulls out the base with his teeth.

Your lips capturing his, all the times you did.

He sprinkles the powder on his wound. Half of it joins the blackness of the ground.

Your two bodies dancing with lust, his cock plunged deep into you.

He slowly, atrosioucsly slowly, brings the candle closer, the warmth spreads through his hand.

A bliss like no one had ever given him before as he comes, the pleasure almost too good for him to bear.

A white pain splits his muscles and skull as the powder ignites, burning the damaged cells and eliciting a cry of pain from his dry throat.

It's done.

Voices from his captors can be heard from the outside. Adrenaline rushes through his veins like tree roots sink into the earth.

Now he must flee back home.

*

Blackness, and then, when he came back to his senses, he was on his horse, riding through the night.

A stupid thoughts crosses his mind. Could he be able to speak about all that happened to someone? Could anyone understand how destroying it was?

No.

No, this was between him, his horse, and Death. What he had experienced was like a dive into Hell and one hand tearing it out. His own hand. He had escaped on his own. His body, pushed to its limits, was nothing but suffering flesh and creaking bones. Sa peau, chaleur et effritement. His eyes, bouillant and so tired that he could no longer keep them open. His hands, only joints vaguely made of nerves that he keeps on his horse’s neck out of pure self-preservation. His insides, a tangled knot of anxiety and anger. His soul? A remnant, a shred of what had once been a difficult life filled with misery and struggles—for survival, always for survival.

To live one more day.

Always live one more day.

At least one more day.

YOU

The characteristic sound of hooves on leaves at the camp entrance suddenly pulls you out of your dark thoughts. A silhouette slowly takes shape, staggering. A groan escapes it, barely human. A mass falls from what turns out to be a horse. Arthur's horse.

Wearing only his union suit, the man collapses on the ground with a cry of pain, unable to go any further, having finally reached his destination. His El Dorado. His salvation. Your legs move before you can even think about it, driven by a protective instinct you didn't know you had. You almost slip as you run to him, then fall to your knees beside him, the underside of your previously immaculate dress stained with mud.

His eyes barely open, he only seems to react when you call his name, fear and dread spilling from it like swamps during the most abundant floods. "Arthur!" The camp goes silent at your heart-rending scream, just a second of stillness and surprise, during which you can hear his hoarse voice whispering your name in an almost imploring whisper in disbelief.

Then, everyone's on him, as if a dozen crows had swooped down on their prey at the same time, crowding around him.

Mary Beth, then Karen, both echoing you by repeating his name in desperate calls for his sanity. Then a much deeper one —Dutch. It is only then that Arthur speaks again, focusing his last strength to croak the words out of his parched lungs.

"Told ya it was a set up, Dutch…"

"My boy, my dear boy, what?" His voice is genuinely concerned. You search, but you doubt you have ever heard him in such a state.

"They got me… but I-ah I got away." He still keeps his eyes shut. You can't help but place your hand on his. It's ice cold.

"Yeah, that you did!" Pride. One of Dutch's hands gently caresses his forehead for a brief second. Then, the commanding tone of the gang's leader is back. "Miss Grimshaw! I need help! Reverend Swanson?!"

Miss Grimshaw is the first to answer his call. You can hear her hurried footsteps in the leaves without even seeing her. Your eyes dart to the rest of Arthur's body. That's when the color strikes you. Red on red, peacock butterfly on a Dahlia —blood covering his union suit. The gaping hole that digs into the flesh between his collarbone and shoulder. A shiver of fear runs down your spine, and you force your gaze back to his face.

"He was gonna set the law on us…!" He exclaims louder, voice still as raspy as a razor on stones.

"Oh, of course he was!" Dutch spits as he slowly gets his most loyal soldier to sit. Arthur's face contorts in pain with every move.

You feel his hand closing around yours. Out of a survival instinct? Out of love? You feel guilty for thinking such a thing in a situation like this. He was alive. In critical condition, perhaps, but he had made it home, and he was alive. Hisfreezing fingers, even rougher than usual, cling to yours as if it were his way of clinging to life.

A new person bursts onto the scene of this distressing situation. A distressed Pearson apologizes profusely when he sees Arthur's condition. Dutch is quick to retort, bitterness at its peak, "It's a bit late for apologies! SWANSON!". The wanted Reverend finally joins you around Arthur, providing words of comfort.

Under Grimshaw's order, Dutch and Pearson lift him up, Arthur screaming from pain, the gut-twisting sound sending a shiver down your spine once again. They drag him to his tent and put him to bed. Arthur sounds almost delirious, laughing with his breathless voice, as if his lungs were made of coal.

"That's pretty Dutch! Ah, that's real pretty." He's out in only a few seconds, eyes closing again.

There's real worry on the gang chief's face. He asks Grimshaw to stay by Arthur's side. You don't wait for his permission to stay. As he retreats from Arthur's tent, the matriarch doesn't question your presence either. Seems like everybody, not only Mary-Beth, had totally understood what was going on between the two of you in the end. Were you the only one oblivious to your own feelings all this time? How fucking stupid you had been. Regret laced with shame settled deep in your belly as you sat next to Arthur to watch over him, unable to leave his side.

✧.*

The first five hours are the worst.

Arthur's condition isn't improving one bit. He's in a weird state, sometimes sleeping, sometimes barely opening his eyes, delirious, muttering words that only he can understand. A terrible fever causes beads of sweat to form on his forehead, and Grimshaw sends you to get water, several towels, and specific herbs from Hosea. The old man steps in several times when the matriarch needs to take a rest. Overall, a bit of everyone comes to take a peek at Arthur, the girls whispering kind words to him, the men standing awkwardly and wishing he would get better soon. Charles helps you clean his wound with an ointment of his own.

The only constants in the tent are you and Arthur's miserable health.

The first day passes.

Fortunately, neither Dutch nor Grimshaw asks for your help. Arthur’s fever is finally starting to break., after hours of agony. When he seems more awake, you try to feed him a very light broth specially prepared by Pearson, spoonful by spoonful. He still doesn't open his eyes nor talk, though.

You bring a few books and some sewing supplies to his bedside. Sometimes, when he’s too restless, you gently take his hand and hold it for several long minutes, thinking about the moment he left the camp for the last time. Other times you gently run your fingertips over his forehead or cheeks, hoping that the softness of your touch might bring him some comfort.

Once his fever has broken, he seems to sleep like a log—almost too soundly not to worry you— for hours on end. You hold your breath every time he does, wondering if he’ll make it through the night.

Regrets still surround you like vultures as you begin the second night.

✧.*

Arthur isn't exactly dreaming. His weakened mind strings together shapes, sounds, and memories. Faces also come and go, blending the past and the present in an unsettling dance. Hosea and Dutch, both young then old, Mary, Abigail, John. Jack's face turns into Isaac's, which turns into a grave topped with a peony. Mr Mason takes a photo of an injured deer and raves about the creature. Mary refuses his marriage proposal. His mother kisses him on the forehead. His father places his hat on his hair.

The bright dawn sun envelops him as he camps in the mountains. Its disk turns into a Cattleman revolver's cylinder. He fires hundreds of times as Dutch places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. The bullets fly like silver butterflies before exploding into a cloud of smoke.

Suddenly, a bright crimson color catches his eye. It's a bit like being disturbed by a glare from the light's reflection. He turns his head and sees a twirling shape escape and disappear into the darkness of his feverish delirium. He follows it.

The shape guides him through the different scenes of his life. Through his pains, through his joys. He reaches out to grab it. He runs after it now, the shape whirling and sparkling like a bird of paradise in the darkness. It is so close, he can almost feel it beneath his fingers. He closes his fist around it and...

A flash of light.

His eyelids open with difficulty onto reality, heavy and numb. His voice from beyond the grave shatters the deathly silence that had reigned in the tent until then:

"Wh-what the… [Name]?"

The sharp sound of an object suddenly being dropped on the floor rings in his ears.

"Oh my god -Arthur!"

You're looking at him with an infinite and desamring care he isn't used to, especially from you. Arthur doesn't understand right away. He takes a moment to acknowledge where he is —okay, his tent, on his cot. How his body feels —definitely bad, especially his bullet wound. And what he's doing —lying there in the dark, only an oil lamp illuminating the surroundings softly, and he's holding your hand. He's holding. Your hand. The precocious panic linked to his survival gradually subsides as he comes to terms with the fact that he is no longer at the O'Driscolls', that he has made it home. That it was over. He feels the warmth of your skin and gazes at your silhouette in the dim light, an angel after his ordeal.

That's when it strikes him. It was a shawl.

The red shape was a shawl.

"Y-you…" He loudly clears his throat, as if it could help get out the sounds more smoothly. "How long have I been out there?"

"Oh God, at least… At least two days."

"And asleep?"

"Two more."

The soudns of the night takes over for just a few seconds as he lets the information sink in.

"And you've stayed here?" He pauses, as if weighing his words, studying your face. "All that time?" Something in him already knew you did.

"Y-yeah, I mean, everyone came to check on you, you know, Dutch, Hosea, Grimshaw…" You realise you're lying to yourself. Nobody stayed at his side as you did. You push away your desire to lie. No more of that after losing him. After days of thinking he could die any second. You sigh, looking directly at him, "I mean… I guess I did."

Arthur's eyes are wide open for the first time in days. Their color pierces your soul. You had almost forgotten how bright they were. A blue so fierce and rich it could almost have come straight from the ocean. Except that instead of a storm raging through his irises, this time they evoked a sense of unexpected calm. Like the paradisiacal turquoise waters of a cove known only to the sea, where secrets and confessions are welcomed and sheltered in the warm sand.

There's a comfortable silence again. It holds everything between the two of you; his realisation that he was safe and sound again, that he had been out for so long, and your relief to find him in good health again. His deep, unused voice gently breaks it.

"Thank you."

Your fingers press his harder.

There's something in you that wants to jump and hug him so close, so dearly, just to make sure he was really there talking to you. There are so many things you wanted to say. You had thought about it at length, back when you were avoiding each other, and then he had left on that damn mission. But now that it was finally time, you couldn't. Nothing crossed your lips. You looked at him, pushing yourself, doing your best to shut down all the voices in your head that kept repeating you shouldn't.

"Arthur there's… There are things I want to say but-"

He patiently waits.

He always is, so patient. His kindness towards you after your rejection is too much, and you feel your defenses gradually crumbling until… You burst.

"I was so stupid! God how stupid I was, I never should have pushed you away! I just -I thought about what Mary-Beth told me and, and…" You feel the characteristic scorching on your eyelids starting, but it's too late now. You're launched like a locomotive, and there's no stopping you now. "And I was so scared I would hurt you, or you would hurt me, so I decided to get away from you but it was the worst decision of my life and now," Your voice quivers at the words, too grave to be said straight, "And now you almost died-"

"Hey. 'S okay."

"N-no, it's not! I've been horrible to you for nothing and-"

He calls your name in a more domineering way, making him wince in pain at his wounded muscles. "I said, it's okay, women. Don't make a sick man yell now, would'ya?"

He carefully lifts himself up on his elbows, just enough to reach your face with his hand. He wipes your tears, attentive as if he were painting the most beautiful piece of art he could dream of. He sighs.

"Just… Jus' come here."

And he pulls you close against him. And suddenly there are no more words needed. His arms close around you as you lie all against him, your own hands snaking his body. It's like you both need to press the other as hard as you can. His face buries in your neck, and he stays there as his hands hold onto your flesh hard. He breathes your smell, that same one he had fantasized so many times before. But now it was more than that, now it was like coming back home after being on the run for weeks and recognizing the spices of your kitchen, the cotton scents of your sheets and the woodsy aromas of the fire in your fireplace.

"I thought- God, I thought this time would be the last." His words are heavy with meaning, and it's not only the dehydration that makes them quiver. If you didn't know any better, you could almost feel him trembling against you.

You don't try to push him to talk more. You gently lace your finger in his hair, caressing him tenderly, receiving his feelings and words as they are.

"It's okay now. You're home. You're safe."

A heavy sigh, almost like a strangled sob, blurts from him, but you don't feel any tears against your skin. His hands hold you like you're the last person on Earth. Your own thoughts come back in your mind. Can a shattered heart nurse another one? You thought it was impossible. And yet, Arthur was the living proof it was possible, because he was the one mending yours piece by piece. You had looked at the whole problem in the wrong way.

The words cross your lips before you can think more about it:

"And… I love you."

You can feel him freeze, breath stopping for a few seconds before leaning back so he can look at your face.

"Ya mean it?"

"Yes, I thought about it. A lot. Those last days were… the worst days of my life. And not only the days when you were gone. I also mean, erm… Before that."

He hangs on your every word with an intensity that only he could muster. His blue eyes sparkle in the lamplight, shimmering with golden highlights against their blue backdrop, like thousands of stars reflecting off the waves. He palms the side of your face. You can almost see your words sink inside of him as his face gets closer, not darting away from you for one second.

Men crush under his stare. Girls fall in love. You, you find your way home.

"I love you too."

Your lips get back to one another as the caged bird comes back to the sky; impetuous, inevitable, liberating. You're both a pile of mingled limbs, touch searching, legs intertwined, chest and hips pressing. It's like everything left unsaid between the two of you had been sliced by the gravity of what had happened. Far from the soft sensation they're usually offering you, his skin is dry and cut, and you're wondering if it hurts him. He doesn't seem to care at all, touching you everywhere, tongue searching for yours, desperately.

His hips grinds against you, but a groan of pain cuts his move. You stop, worried, and ask him if he's okay.

"God damn it," He hisses, visibly frustrated. "I'm fine, I'm fine." He soothes you, but his eyebrows are crunched, his jaws tight. "I'll never forgive Colm for ruining our reunion."

He's joking of course, but you know him. Your fingers gently stroke his forearm.

"Take it easy, alright? You're still hurt, sweetheart."

"I know but…" His eyes dart away from you, a light blush that had nothing to do with his health spreading on his face, his mouth crooked in a pout. His pupils come back to you slowly, almost shameful. "I want ya."

"Arthur…"

"We'll do it slow."

"Arthur!"

"Don't worry, I'll stop if anythin' happens. Jus… help me get rid of this."

Stubborn as a damn log. At least he's still himself, you laugh to yourself. With a resigned chuckle, you carefully strip him from his union suit. It's still covered in sweat and blood, a reminder of what he had lived only two days ago. Once bared, he let out a sigh of relief, feeling like a snake shedding off its old skin. He turns to you as you take care of your own clothes.

His stare follows your every move, devouring your curves, mentally drawing every detail of you as if to compare with his memories. There's still this adoration, this burning passion, just like the very first time in that room in Rhodes.

You're naked now. The fresh air prickles your skin. He curses out loud, swearing he had never seen you that beautiful, not even in his wildest dreams, and Lord knows he had some real' nasty ones.

"Turn your back t'me." He asks in a drawl, opening his arms for you to settle against his chest.

He's spooning you from behind, cock pressed against your ass, that familiar torrid sensation spreading everywhere in your body. His big, strong arms, even though tired, cage you in and press your back against his chest. He leaves love-filled kisses on your shoulder, tracing a line of veneration in its crook. His right hand starts to wander on your chest to palm your breast, kneading gently, reverently. It's almost like he's discovering you again, and maybe after what he had been through, he really is. Like remembering how it feels to drink water after days in the desert. His fingers play with your flesh as he lets out an appreciative groan against your shoulder.

"God I've missed ya." He simply let out, and you can feel his cock twitching in neediness.

"I missed you too, so much, Arthur. I'm so sorry for what I've…"

"Shh." He hushes you, now heading for your belly, drawing circles there, dangerously close to the lower part of your body. "Don't talk about it anymore. S' okay, it's forgiven."

As if to prove his point, he palms your core, slipping the tips of his fingers between your folds. You both sigh in unison. Funny, how even in this state, he was the one taking care of you in that moment. Maybe that's what he needed to recover completely. His thumb settles on your clit, rough, hard, perfect like him. He presses and starts stroking it as he knows you like it. He relishes in your sounds, feeling a bit more alive each time he drags one out of you.

"That's it, girl. Thaaat's it." He encourages with a low rasp, hips slowly rolling against your rear, "You ready for me?"

"Y-yeah," Is the only word you can mutter, too deep in your pleasure already.

His hand reluctantly leaves your pussy as he aligns himself, pushing one of your asscheeks up. His cockhead penetrates you softly, slowly, and doesn't stop until he's in to the brim. God, does it feel right to be full of him again. He must feel the same, because his face is back in the crook of your neck and his breath is burning hot, tingling you there.

He slowly withdraws and shoves himself back again. It's slow, it's intense, it's everything you both needed. It's intimate. Despite having laid together so many times, this one feels like it's the first you truly feel each other's, making one, making love. He sets a gentle pace, but goes balls-deep each time he thrusts back into you. You can't remember any man hitting a spot that deep inside of you before, whether it's its length or the position, you don't fucking care, each time his cockhead bumps into the end of you, it drags a muffled scream from your throat.

Arthur is losing himself in you. Skin against skin, he can feel every inch of your body against his, and he couldn't die happier than buried like that inside of you. Your walls, wet and hot, are too incredible to feel after his descent into hell. It's almost too good to be true. Maybe he actually died, and that was Heaven opening its gate for him.

"I love ya". He repeats in your ears, before increasing his rhythm, just slightly. "Loved ya for so long. Damn, you're perfect t'me."

His praises have the effect of an electricity wave inside of you, making your back arch back, your ass pressing back against his hips, meeting his thrusts. "Shit, yeah," he curses in answer, "Ya better be prepared, cause we're doing this every god damn night to make up for all the days we lost."

You whine in acquiescence, lifting a hand to the side of his face. It's so different from a quick fuck, where you need him to go as fast as possible. There, he's building your pleasure gradually, every move of him inside feeling so good all along. His right hand is back on your clit, index and middle finger coiling against this delightful bud as he keeps pumping in from behind you.

"Arthur," You gasp, body tight and so ready for him to deliver you, "Honey, I'm so close."

"D'ya want me out or…?"

"N-no, you can come inside. I'm ready."

The implication of your answer makes his heart jump, from love, from desire, from joy, from too many feelings he can't even sort.

"Aah shit, shit!" Feeling his own relief coming, he can't help but indulge in bigger moves, balls and legs smacking against your ass, his forehead pressing against your neck in pure pleasure. A wave of sharp pain pierces back through his wounds, turning his grunts of pleasure into ones of ache, but he can't stop. He doesn't want to. He wants to make one with you until you're spent to your bones and purely satisfied.

Ignoring the distress of his wounded muscles, he concentrates on the only one that matters right now, shaft relentlessly plunging in and out of you, again and again and again. That last thrust so deep you scream out loud, and he finishes right there, shoved so deep inside of you, voice cracking in a hopeless moan. Your own orgasm crashes into you as your walls clench him, and it's perfection, reaching your peak with your pussy filled to the brim by him.

Bound together. Bodies intertwined. Heart intertwined. Souls intertwined.

Completely spent, you both melt in that blissful state of satisfaction. Arthur stays inside, feeling so great like this, wanting to stay as long as he can. You feel him softening as your sounds turn into quiet sighs of fatigue and relief. His arms don't leave you either, instead holding you around your waist in a tender embrace.

"Mmh, ya still feel so good." He murmurs, eyes closed, on the verge of falling asleep like this.

"Could say the same about you." You retort, adding your hands to his arms.

The silence of the night cradles you both. You feel your own eyes closing. Minutes pass before Arthur finally gets himself off you, not without wincing.

"You alright? I did hurt you, right?" You try not to think about the double entendre of your question, turning your head so you can look at his face.

"S' nothing. And I was too close to jus' stop." He answers with a little chuckle.

You turn to completely face him. He hitches when your knee bumps into his and you instantly apologize. There was something so odd in seeing him so hurt when you're used to his body being a pile of marble. You feel him starting to drift away, but sleep doesn't come for you. Still, there's something that doesn't feel right, that still tightens your heart. You spoke out before he drifts completely into Morpheus's arms.

"Arthur… I really am sorry." You begin, wanting to continue, but his rough voice stops you.

"I said t'was forgiven, woman. And I always mean what I say." Unequivocal. There's still no point in arguing with a tree log.

You let his words melt happily into your brain, softly removing the chains tightening your heart. You bring your lips to his for a kiss, a tender one.

A loving one.

"I know."

✧.*

It takes Arthur two complete weeks to be back on his feet. You're by his side all this time. It's as if this ordeal had brought you even closer together than before, and in a way, that was exactly what had happened. Arthur is only too happy to be able to take something positive from it all. Like a sapling sprouting from the dark ashes after a village had burned down.

He didn't tell you what he saw when he dreamt during his fever, until a very long time.

Until, in fact, he is standing before you with a knee on the ground, a bright red bouquet in one hand and a gorgeous ring in the other, looking up at you with this devoted stare that melts your heart every time.

That's when he tells you. That this night, when he thought he was about to die, he thought about you to find the courage to burn his own wound. That it was you who carried him through sickness. That he had found his way back to life thanks to you. And since then, it had been true for every little moment with you, bringing him back the joy to be alive just as an angel of the Lord touches the damned with grace. Oh, how could he have known? That what had started as one of the most sinful acts he thought he had done would turned into the purest and most wonderful thing in his life.

It was more than he could have ever imagined.

And it was perfect.

Please consider interracting if you enjoyed! Reblogging and commenting is what get us going 🫶

a/n: Jesuuuuuus this is finally over. I can't believe I finally published this last part after all this time. I really hope it won't disapoint. I'm so grateful forthe love you all showed to this silly little series, and I really can't say thank you enough for all your comments and reblogs! Love you all!!

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