#arthur morgan fanfiction

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Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Emma Griffiths (Original Female Character, Second Person Perspective)

Rating: Explicit

Tags: banter/teasing, past relationships, character growth, fluff, sexual tension, smut, communication, explicit consent

Word Count: 10.3K

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“Now, you ain’t never gonna get nowhere like that.”

You purse your lips, hearing Roland’s heavy drawl behind you. When you set out with the borrowed pistol and a few empty bottles, you’d wanted privacy to practice your aim. Seems you aren’t very good at not leaving a trail or shooting a gun. That, and about a dozen other things you’ve tried since he found you weeks ago.

“What am I doing wrong now?”

The words come out annoyed, whiny, and you know it. You shouldn’t be anything but grateful to this man for not turning you in for your bounty. Hell, he could’ve killed you for the money, even. Yet he’d done neither, and now you and Grace are running through a crash course of how to make it on your own. Away from society, away from towns.

This ain’t decent living, he’d warned you. But I don’t believe you got a choice. Sooner or later they’re gonna find out you ain’t as dead as they thought, and, well. You gotta be ready for it.

Living rough and wild like a common outlaw. You can’t say you’ve formed an opinion on the idea – as he’d said, you don’t have a choice in the matter. Every tentative plan you’d made to get out of the state and start over now hangs suspended, fading like a photograph in the sun. Your own face disappearing, soon to be unrecognizable.

Roland only laughs a little at your petulance. “Sorry. I know you didn’t want me hangin’ over your shoulder, but – it’s gettin’ dark. Jus’ worried where you’d gotten off to.”

He’s certainly done enough of that in the time you’ve known one another. Not that he’s been intentionally annoying, but it’s hard to adjust to living in such close quarters with a total stranger. The three of you share two tents, roaming the woods and moving every few days. It isn’t exactly what you’re used to, and God, the man snores. Still, you’re thankful for his patience. Cash wouldn’t have been half as kind if tasked with teaching you something new, especially something vital like shooting and hunting.

You’re a lousy shot. There’s no sugar-coating it. Grace, at least, has hit her targets by now. You continue to miss them like you’re trying to. You’ve wasted more bullets than you care to know, shame-faced when you have to reload, muttering that you’ll pay him back when you’re able. Roland doesn’t make you feel small for it. He just shrugs, saying that you can do that if you feel you need to.

A strange fellow. Tall and old and grizzled, though a glimmer of youth still hides in his smile. He’s been respectful, even cautious with the two of you, though you sleep with a knife taken from the Bellwood’s kitchen, just in case. You don’t exactly have love in your heart for men right now. Odd to think he’s a Beta. If you had to go on guessing alone, on the way he holds himself, you wouldn’t hesitate to call him an Alpha – yet his scent is neutral. A real enigma, this one.

“You’re too stiff,” he continues. “And I can’t blame you. S’like askin’ me to put on a skirt and walk around fine. You’re jus’ – not used to it yet.”

Roland puts his hands to his gun belt and sighs, looking up to the waking stars. The sky is a delicate shade of orange, the sunset teasing the coming dusk. You lower the pistol, feeling defeated. All the targets still stand, mocking, a reminder that if you can’t do this you’ll never make it out here. The gun is too heavy in your hand, awkward, as if it doesn’t like you.

It all feels so pointless. You’re never going to learn how to shoot or ride or steal. He’s wasting his time trying. Slowing himself down. Walking you or Grace beside his mount when he could be galloping. You don’t know a lot about Roland, but you know his past is checkered. He isn’t just a bounty hunter; he was or is an outlaw. And he’s capable of doing whatever he has to do to survive – like he’s trying to teach you to do. So why make himself vulnerable like this? Why do any of it?

You ask him. It’s not often that the two of you have had a moment alone, in your merry band of three. Hopefully he told Grace where he was going, so she didn’t have to worry. Roland perks up at the question, lit cigarette in his mouth and spent match in one hand. Here in the oncoming night he looks almost like a ghost, something older than the world wants him to be.

“Guess I jus’ wanted to remind myself,” he starts slowly, “that I’m not the killer the world made me out to be back home.” Roland blows out a stream of smoke. “I dunno. Couldn’t jus’ leave you two back there, knowin’ what was comin’ for ya. Knowin’ I could help.”

“You trying to say you’re not as bad as you look?”

He smiles. “Guess I am. If it puts you at ease.”

Both of you know you’ve been flinching away. Holding your breath whenever he comes near to help you adjust your footing, or help you line up a shot. And while half of you insists that you shouldn’t have to justify yourself, the other half marinates in guilt. No, you don’t owe him anything for choosing to help you aside from ordinary kindness. Yet you know your behavior isn’t quite on the mark.

Time passes in soft silence, not quite comfortable – or maybe it’s you. Roland keeps his eyes on the emerging stars, finishing his cigarette off slow, blowing smoke up to the sky. You almost wish you had one of your own, if only for something to do with your hands. Instead you settle for polishing the grip of the gun, one of his lesser-used pistols, the thing old and scuffed.

“He hurt you, didn’t he. The husband.”

It isn’t a question. There’s been no discussion of your former lives since he found you and Grace, nothing, except to ask what you knew of firing a gun or riding. Other than that, he doesn’t pry, and you’re thankful for it. You’re certain Grace is, too, even if it means leaving the happier pieces of your past in the dust. Not that there’d been much joy there for a while.

Roland puffs out one final breath of smoke, tosses the stub of his cigarette away in the grass. “I dunno about your sister, but you? You act like he damn near beat you.”

You grit your teeth.

“Did he?”

“So what if he did?”

It comes out defensive, a wound you don’t feel like picking the scab off of right now. He keeps pushing, and you’re not going to let this man see you cry. Goddamnit. You find yourself bitter to be alone with him, with not even his towering dark stallion for company. Only the crickets and the peeping frogs interrupt the heavy silence that follows your reply.

You can’t stand it. Daring a glance at Roland, you find him avoiding your eyes, too.

“I ain’t gonna lay a hand on ya,” he mutters after a while. “I know the situation’s different. And I don’t need the details. I done a lotta things wrong in my life, little miss. But hittin’ a woman ain’t one of ‘em, and it ain’t joinin’ the list.”

Roland folds his arms over his chest. “And ‘til you’re tough enough to look after yourself, I ain’t gonna let nobody else lay a hand on you, either. Think I’m gettin’ fond of ya.”

“That so?” you say, unable to help a small smile.

“Guess it is.”

“Huh. Well, I guess the feeling’s mutual.” You’ve never seen him grin so crooked; it makes him look about ten years younger, goofy and handsome all at once.

From then on, you don’t have as much trouble letting him touch you. As time goes by…you start to enjoy it. Days pass, weeks, months, and every bottle shatters under your aim. You hunt and skin what you kill, selling the pelts and paying him back for all those bullets you wasted. Roland shows you how to crouch and walk so quiet behind a doe that she never hears you coming, and you’re thrilled as she falls to your arrow – a clean shot to the neck.

It’s starting to look like you might make it after all.

————–

“There,” comes Roland’s hushed voice, carried along on the summer wind. “You see ‘em?”

The wild herd of horses would be hard to miss. They graze in the high grasses of an open field, seeming tiny from this distance, as if you could pick one up like a toy. Out here in this part of the country, watching them roam and gallop is one of your favorite things. They’re so untamed, unconcerned about civilization and its expansion. This land is theirs, and they pound it with their unshod hooves. Stamping out a claim. Though their manes are matted and their flanks covered in dirt, they’re free.

And as soon as Roland stops you to watch this particular herd, you know what he wants you to do. His voice is excited in the way you’ve come to recognize, eager to coax you into something.

C’mon, boss. Jus’ this one quick stagecoach with me, you’re faster.

Aww, lil’ miss. It won’t take but a minute. You distract the feller and I’ll clean ‘is pockets. We split the cash. How’s that for a deal?

Over time he’s found the best ways to wear you down. There’s no easy way to jump into outlaw life, yet Roland made it all seem like a series of little tests and adventures. Easing you on piece by piece until one day you were competent enough to be doing the work yourself. That’s not to say that you haven’t had your share of misfortunes – but whenever there’s a setback, he’s right there to pick you up again. Like he’d promised from the start.

Yet some things have changed since that first night you’d opened up to one another. Now, you’re crouched shoulder to shoulder behind the large rock that hides you from the herd’s sight, touching one another in the crowded space. His hair is mussed from where you’ve run your fingers through it, and the buttons on your blouse aren’t done up right. The thundering of hooves had called you out of passion, and now, it’s enough of a distraction to keep you from continuing where you’d left off.

“What’s wrong with the one I’m ridin’ now?” you say, defensive, prompting Roland to scoff.

“What’swrongwith it is that you ain’t ridin’ at all. You’re sittin’ in the saddle and makin’ me do all the work.”

You knew he was going to say that. For months you’ve been skating around riding on your own. Always making up an excuse whenever you, Grace, and Roland ride through a town with a decent stable. Grace had buckled down and learned how to manage herself on a horse ages ago. Her mare is a quiet old thing that can still haul tail if the need arises – she’d named her Butterbeans.

Roland had nearly laughed himself to death at the title, yet Grace held her ground and refused to change it. The mare was her horse, after all. (Even if the man still chuckles a little every time she calls her.)

There’s nothing wrong with horses. You admire them, and would go so far as to say you adore them. With their big heads and long necks, gazing down with elegant eyes brown or blue, they always seem like they know so much more than they’re letting on. But out of all the skills you’ve acquired in your months on the run, riding horseback isn’t one of them. While you can appreciate a horse with your feet firmly on the ground, and hang onto their rider fine, when you and the horse are paired together – it’s chaotic. And terrifying.

But to survive out here, you have to learn. There isn’t a way around it, and you’ve already procrastinated as long as you can. Both Roland and Grace have a soft spot for you, though you know if you were alone – if anything ever happened to them – you’d be as good as dead without a horse to run off on.

“Don’t look like that,” Roland says, giving you a light nudge. “Between the two of us, we’re bound to catch one of ‘em.”

Truth be told, there’s an undercurrent of excitement running along your anxiety. Because if you can actually manage to tame one of these wild ones, teach them and bond with them and make them yours – well, maybe it’s the missing link you’ve been looking for. And if not, you’re as good as screwed. There are so many fears you’ve either had to run from or learn to face on your own since you’ve left home. Taming a horse of your own is only one more to add to the list.

“Who’re you thinking?” you say, keeping your voice hushed as if the horses could hear from this distance, pick up on your plans.

He laughs once, a gentle sound. Fond even, as his blue eyes skate with yours. “Well, it’s gonna be your horse, isn’t it? Ain’t up to me.”

You smile when his lips land on your cheek, but you’re already searching, intent. There are six of them out there, a ripple of black and chestnut coats in the sunlight. From the way they’re playing, they must be young, eager and energetic without a care. Roland stays quiet with you, patient, letting you take your time to watch and see who you want out of the herd.

There’s one you’ve got your eye on; a chestnut horse with a blaze in the center of their forehead. It’s impossible to tell from this distance whether the horse is a mare or a stallion, but you imagine the former, imagine her breathing hard under the lasso. Taking that first tentative sniff at your hand. The weeks you’d spend taming and training her to take a saddle.

You’re ready. There’s money put aside for tack, and in the next town you can purchase it all. It’ll be a long, difficult process, hours every day you’ll have to put in. But the thrill of going after her is already pounding in your blood, though you haven’t moved or even told Roland your choice. Adrenaline makes you shaky, and right as you shift to stand, the herd moves.

And there he is. A horse you couldn’t resist if you tried. His white coat is covered in dirt and brambles, ghost-blue eyes staring in your direction as if he can see through the rock. Patches of ginger peek through on his face and hock. He’s well-muscled and stock-still, as if uninterested in what the other horses are doing.

“Oh, I see,” Roland mutters after a time, seeing where your gaze has gone. “You want a horse jus’ as wild as you are, is that it?”

“I want that one,” you say firmly, as if he hadn’t teased you.

“Alright.” The word is a sigh as he eases to his feet. “But I have a feelin’ he ain’t gonna make it easy for us.”

———–

“You’re not even trying.”

You swallow back your exasperation with increasing difficulty. Not that you ever believed that teaching Molly O’Shea how to shoot a gun would be easy…but sometimes she seems intent on being helpless.

It takes a lot of badgering to even get her out of the tent at all; the woman reeks of stale sweat and body odor. You offer to help her wash her hair, taking the heavy copper strands between her fingers when she nods. When she emerges from the water, she carries herself a little easier. Like washing away the dirt also scrubs off some of the sorrow. You’re grateful for it, and not just because she smells better. Molly’s mood was beginning to color your own, whenever you had to be alone in the tent with her.

With that done, you bring her a pile of laundry to sort and fold the next day. The stares coming from the rest of the women are as hot as mid-July. No one can seem to believe that Miss O’Shea is sitting out on a crate, her hair pinned back, regarding a pile of old stained undergarments. Yet there she is, a look of withering disdain on her face. You sit down across from her and pluck up the first piece of laundry, identifying it easily as Karen’s, folding it before reaching for the next.

Seeming to know that protesting isn’t an option anymore, Molly follows your lead. Of course, she has no idea what belongs to whom, and you have to criticize her folding so she doesn’t just ball clothes up before moving onto the next thing. But, hey. It’s a start. She keeps quiet as you work together, and that’s fine by you. The long looks coming from Tilly, Mary-Beth, and Karen speak volumes about the talking-to you’ll get once you’re alone with them, anyway.

You’re firm with her after that. Any time you have chores, Molly has chores, too. Even if it means cutting her finger as she learns to chop vegetables, or enduring awkward silence washing dishes with the other women.

After a few days of it, Molly breaks down in the tent, letting tears slip down her cheeks as you undress for bed.

“They don’t like me,” she whispers, pressing her thumb into her pan of rouge. It comes away red, bleeding color in a perfect semi-circle.

“Of course they don’t,” you say, hating how quickly you’d answered. Her lip wobbles in response, and you’re quick to backtrack. “I mean – Molly. Think of it from their point of view. They’re going to need time to warm up, alright?”

She swipes a hand over her face, smearing the color there, and you’re hit with a rush of sympathy. God, she’s just – young.Not only in years, but in experiences. What woman her age doesn’t know how to wash laundry, or cook a meal? She must’ve been very well off in Ireland. From the way she holds herself, you can only imagine how big of a struggle it was to adjust to living in tents, not being waited on hand and foot. Now having to do chores?Terrible.

“Yeah,” she mumbles. “I know.”

You find yourself wishing that Grace were here, all at once, and it makes the back of your throat burn. She knew how to make people feel better. How to distract from misery and turn it into sunshine – even when she was miserable herself. After what she’d gone through, Grace tried even harder to be the one people could come to if they had a problem, if they were hurting. You loved that about her. No matter if it was someone who’d been riding with you for months or a person who’d only been around for a few days – Grace was always keen to offer her shoulder.

“What’s your family like? Back in Ireland?” you find yourself asking, if only to break the silence that’s accumulated. Grace, too, was good at posing questions that distracted people from their sadness. You only hope you’ve learned a thing or two.

Molly looks up, her eyes wet.

“Big,” she says after a minute. “Loud.” She’s smiling a little now, dwelling on some memory. “With three sisters it feels like I never get a moment of peace. Got,” Molly corrects herself, staring down at her hands.

Huh. Looks like the pair of you have one more thing in common. You might not know what having a big, rambunctious family is like, but you know something about sisters. The conversation flows well enough from there. You speak of their bad attitudes and their tendency to be in the way when you want privacy. You speak of how they’re always borrowing things of yours when you’re trying to find them. Most of all, you speak of how you wish more than anything that you could see them again. Just once.

In talking of sisters, the sad cocoon of the woman who’s been taking up space in your tent slowly starts to break. And in the cracks, you can see a glimpse of the person she might become.

“Damn thing’s busted,” she says now, putting a hand on her hip.

You don’t know whether to laugh or sigh. This will be the fourth time she’s tried to shoot her target without cocking the hammer of her pistol. From the outskirts of camp, you can see a few folks gathered around to watch, the looks on their faces varying from skeptical to amused. The girls, at least, have taken the time to warm up to her – being elbow-deep in dirty underclothes will bond people together, after a time.

Not all of it can be blamed on lack of experience, though. She’s due out soon for her first trip to the safehouse – her first heat without Dutch. You thought she would express more sadness about the occasion, but to your surprise, Molly hasn’t mentioned him much. She’s been almost silent on the topic, only examining her bondmark in a compact mirror and quietly asking you when you expected it to fade.

“Molly, the hammer, remember?”

Straightening up from where you’re leaning against a nearby tree, you close the distance to correct her. She mutters something about the gun being bloody useless as you take it from her hands, demonstrating again how she should be standing. Molly mirrors your posture and cocks the hammer, her eyes burning into the row of bottles as you take a step back. You can hear her shaky breathing – she’s no fool. She knows everyone’s eyes are on her, half of the camp probably hoping she’ll screw up.

“Just concentrate,” you add, settling back into your spot. “Breathe. Like we practiced.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see someone new shuffle into the growing crowd of onlookers. Your heart sinks; Dutch.He stands there with Javier and Hosea, lit cigar in one hand and his expression unreadable.Hoping against hope that Molly won’t smell him and lose her focus, you swallow hard, watching her every move.

Molly takes aim, keeping her arms straight. She couldn’t be any more tense. It feels like everyone’s stopped to hold their breath by the time her finger finds the trigger, and when the crack of the gunshot rings out, you almost jump. No shatter of glass follows the shot, but when your eyes go to her targets, there’s the telling mark of splintered wood next to the bottle in the center of the line.

A clean hole less than an inch from the bottle.

You gasp in delight at the same time Molly realizes she’s come so close to hitting one, and you turn to look at each other in obvious glee. Nobody else seems to know what’s going on, and there are murmurs from the group. That is, until Molly turns to Mary-Beth, Karen, and Tilly.

“I got it! I hit the crate!” She cheers, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Immediately they whoop back in support, Karen in the lead to rush over and investigate the bullet hole. Sounds of disbelieving laughter rush up from the men, peppered with reluctant compliments here and there. (All except for Dutch, who’s already turning to leave.) You’re certain you hear Sean saying something about the tenacity of Irish folk. Once it’s clear that she’s too focused on her small victory to do any more shooting, they clear off, leaving you to marvel at how she’s changed.

She’s smiling, for one thing. A broad, toothy grin you don’t ever remember seeing when Dutch had her on his arm. Molly mingles now with the other girls as they marvel at just how close that shot was at hitting the bottle, as she confides to them how nervous she’d been. She’s dressed plainer, her hair hanging loose at her shoulders. And it might be your imagination, but you think that bondmark is starting to fade. It’s dark red instead of the dangerous-looking purple it had once been against her pale neck.

“She looks happy,” comes a remark from behind you.

You don’t have to turn to recognize who’s spoken; you’d heard his steps in the grass, attuned to the way he walks. Even though you knew he was coming, your heart thumps out of control in a matter of seconds. If you thought Arthur did something to you beforehe started kissing you in every private moment…well. It’s nothing compared to now.

Arthur places his arms around your waist, locking his hands over your stomach. It’s impossible to hide your small noise of contentment at the physical contact, at his nearness and comforting scent. He chuckles a little when he puts his chin on the top of your head. In moments like this he often pauses to place his hand over your heart, pressing it flat to the skin, amused at how fast your pulse can pound simply by being close. No one takes any notice when Arthur presses his lips to your temple; they’re too busy chatting about Molly’s achievement.

“Did you see that?” you ask, putting your hands over his own. “She finally got it! Or close enough.”

“I did,” he says. “You’re doin’ real good with her. Can’t say I missed when she sat in Dutch’s tent and frowned all day. Glad she’s learnin’ to look after herself.”

“She’s – catching on.”

You know that your voice sounds far away, but that’s hard to help with Arthur all around you. His mouth is too close to your ear for you to focus on intense conversation, his body too warm for you to be rooted in the real world. Your mind keeps going back in time to a few nights prior, when he’d picked you up and put you on the back of a wagon, encouraging you to wrap your legs around his waist.

Every time you’ve kissed him since the first time has been gentle, so gentle, but this.This is teeming with barely restrained need as he slides his rough hands into your hair. The night is warm and loud with drunken song, allowing for both of you to slip away. You both freeze for a moment when the wagon creaks under your weight, but when no one comes to investigate the sound, you go on, eager to taste one another.

Arthur spreads your legs, standing between them, and kisses you with a hungry sound you’ve never heard before. It seems to travel from your ears and straight up your spine, sending goosebumps out across your skin. His lips collide with yours over and over and over, making you arch into his chest on instinct. Even in your imagination you never thought a man like Arthur could express such need with such a quiet little noise. It speaks volumes about how much he’s enjoying himself. His hands press against your back and hip, still, but firm.

“C'mere,” he murmurs, and the low tone of his voice colored with arousal makes it hard to think. “Sweetheart –”

You don’t think twice about scooting towards the edge of the wagon and wrapping your legs around him, throwing an arm over his shoulder with a needy sigh. Arthur breaks the kiss to press his mouth to your neck, teasing the sensitive skin, and he has to shush you when you let out a whine. You bare your neck for him so hard it achesthe next day, moving the neckline of your blouse to let him nip at your collarbone.

Then Uncle had come stumbling out of the bushes, startling you both into breaking apart.

“You got your head up in the clouds or what?”

Arthur’s voice draws you back to the present, teasing, and you wriggle free to catch the look on his face. He’s smirking down at you, fond, though it’s clear you’ve missed something he’d said. You have to resist the urge to muss up his beard with both hands; it’s getting long.

“Guess I do,” you reply sheepishly.

“Jus’ asked you if you were interested in takin’ a little ride with me,” says Arthur. “Pearson’s been naggin’ about the supply, you know how he is. Figured we’d head down to the woods, see if the deer are hidin’ out from the heat.”

Your first offer to go hunting for the gang. You can feel the broad grin spreading over your face, mirrored on Arthur’s own – because finally.Picking pockets with the girls is great and all. But you’re going to die if you have to chop one more carrot with Pearson breathing over your shoulder, insisting he’s “watching your technique”. Finally you’re trusted enough and well enough to be out there doing something useful, and going with Arthur, no less.

“That’s what I thought.” He reads your elated expression loud and clear. “Well, get your guns, girl! Let’s go.”

Sparing a second to yell goodbye to Molly and the rest of the girls, you dart off to your tent, leaving Arthur hurrying to catch up.

———-

The weight of two full holsters on your hips is comforting, like a piece of you that’s been missing for too long. Each gun is cleaned, loaded, and ready for whatever might cross your path; though you hope all you’ll come across is deer. It’s been ages since you were armed to the teeth like this, sent out into the world knowing you actually carry the tools to defend yourself, and it makes you feel like you’re riding on air.

The mood seems to be contagious.

Arthur won’t stop looking over at you as you ride through the open fields, even to his own detriment. More than once he’s swerved Brandy off the path in a wobbling line, too busy watching you to concentrate on where he’s going. Of course, you have to tease him – what happened to Dutch’s top man? Do you need to give him outlaw lessons now? He takes all the taunting with ease, telling you that if you don’t give him a break he’ll tell Pearson you asked for stew duty for the rest of the month.

This feels so normal.Riding Rev hard down the winding hills, leaning forward into the breeze. Your eyes scanning the treeline, aware that you’re coming up on the place Arthur had told you about. He was right; the deer would likely seek shelter from the sun in the cool shade of the forest, sticking to nearby streams.

The bolt action bounces a little in place where it’s strapped on your back, another reassurance. It’d be better for you to have something subtler on your person, like a bow. You haven’t had one in a while; your last snapped in two. If you’re shooting, you’d better aim true, unless you want to scare off the herd with a misfire. Hopefully it won’t be a problem.

“Should hitch the horses up right about here,” Arthur says. “We’ll go in on foot.”

You don’t roll your eyes, but it’s a close call. No, I thought we were going to go charging in and ride right up to one. Instead you hold your tongue, slowing Rev to a walk as Arthur halts Brandy under the shade of a large tree. He dismounts, giving the mare a hearty pat on the neck, and offers a hand to help you down.

Charmed by the unnecessary chivalry, you take it. He just looks too sweet standing there, waiting to see what you’ll do. Your boots hit the dirt hard, and you stumble a little, feeling Arthur place a hand on your back to steady you.

“Hey, careful now,” he says. “Don’t need you gettin’ all busted up before we even get started.”

He takes the opportunity to wrap both arms around you, settling his hands low on your waist. Arthur’s offhand holster presses into your stomach – among other things. The realization that coming this far from camp to hunt may have been an elaborate front hits you right as his lips touch yours, exploratory, gentle. Arthur’s hand travels up to caress your face as the touch deepens, his thumb running a slow circle on the line of your jaw.

Even though he’s being so careful with you, your heart’s still intent on pounding out of your chest. You wonder if you’ll ever get used to him touching you, wanting you, or if this is how it always has to be. His other hand wanders up to soothe the rhythm, palm so wide that it spans most of your chest.

“Listen to you go,” he murmurs.

You slide your face into the crook of his neck, edging up on your tiptoes. The collar of his shirt is becoming a familiar getaway. Arthur kisses the top of your head with a quiet laugh, probably aware of what you’re doing.

“Are we out here to hunt or not?” Your words come out sounding breathless instead of questioning.

“Mm…reckon we are.” Arthur tilts your chin up until you’re meeting his eyes. “You wanna stop?”

“I mean – we ought to do what we came for, first. Is all.”

“Well, aren’t you jus’ the painted picture of responsibility.”

Arthur’s voice settles into a low purr as he presses you deeper onto his cock. Your breath hitches at the feeling of having him close, of knowing that there’s no one but the horses for miles. If only you said the word, he’d give you what you wanted. Right here in the grass. Covering your body with his, laying his claim, filling you up.

He sighs. “You’re right. We wait around much longer and they’ll move.”

With great reluctance, Arthur lets you go – but not before stealing a few more moments of tender kisses. You soak them in, silently wishing you hadn’t said anything. There are plenty of other people to hunt for the gang – so what if you come back empty-handed? It might be days or longer before you get alone time with him again.

The damage is already done. He’s unstrapping his own bow from Brandy’s saddlebags, placing the strap over his shoulder. Looks like you’re bringing home dinner tonight after all.

Arthur moves with what can only be called surprising grace, crouching low to the ground as his eyes scan the brush. There’s no more room for conversation. You’d spotted the first shape of a buck moving in the green distance, and to speak now would risk startling the whole group of them away. Starting over. So you communicate in only glances, light touches, nodding as you note signs of where deer have been.

By the time you’ve inched forward toward the deeper parts of the creek, the buck’s vanished. That’s fine – there are more deer waiting, cooling themselves in the shade. You spot a pair of fawns, their backs freckled, spindly legs splayed as they bow their heads to the water. A mother lingers near them, unconcerned. Good. They don’t know you’re here yet.

At your side, Arthur breathes smoothly, passing over the little family group. You have a feeling he wants that buck back, something larger to feed the gang. Something he doesn’t have to make a pair of orphans for. You haven’t had many chances to see him in his element like this, in dead silence, studying his profile with nothing but the trees for company. It could be ages before the buck ambles over again, and you’re fine with that. Arthur’s hand finds yours, squeezing once, and you squeeze back.

Time passes in the trickling of the water and the calling of birds. Your hands grow warm and a little sweaty, clasped together. You find your mind drifting when it should be staying still, wondering what would’ve happened had you not called Arthur’s attention back to the task of hunting. You can’t stop thinking about how nice he smells, how warm he is, crouched so close to you. How you could still turn to him now and tell him to forget it – to lay you down amidst last winter’s fallen leaves.

A massive shape steps forward, disturbing the undergrowth and shaking your daydreams loose. This is not the buck you’d seen before – he’s bigger. His antlers sit like a branching crown atop his head, liquid brown eyes speaking of quiet wisdom as he parts the herd. For a moment all you can feel is awe. How old is this deer? How quick and smart, to have grown this large and survived this long?

Arthur’s brows are raised in appreciation when you turn to him, and from the way he’s leaning forward, you know that this is the one. Carefully, he bends and puts his mouth to your ear.

“Whatchu think, sweetheart?” His voice is no more than a breath. You fight goosebumps. “You wanna shoot him or skin him?”

“Shoot him,” you whisper back. You can make it from here.

He nods.

Moving as quietly as you can, you sling the bolt action off your back and load it, feeling the thing sit heavy in your hands. Dangerous as any predator, it’s a gun you’ve grown to love after long months spent hating its kickback and heft. Now you sink into it, pushing the bolt forward and wrapping a hand around the grip. The group is downwind, unaware that they’re about to be scattered into panic. You cradle the butt of the rifle on your shoulder, knowing you’ll feel the shot later.

The buck is in your sights after a few seconds of less-than-calm search; the stakes feel high with the gun in your hands. Yet Arthur trusts you. He could’ve easily shot the thing himself, taken the lead. You can feel his eyes on you as you pin the buck down, lining it up. Your finger grazes the trigger, knowing that the silence is about to shatter. From here…best to go for the neck.

Enough stalling – the buck won’t wait around forever. You fill your lungs, breathe out, and fire.

The quiet explodes, so loud you won’t even feel the sting on your shoulder until the next day. All you know is that the buck drops, sending his herd running in every direction at the disturbance. You wobble to your feet, uneven after sitting on the ground for so long, and Arthur offers a hand.

When you walk together to where the deer had fallen, he’s definitely dead. His glassy eyes stare up to the patches of sky visible through the trees, and Arthur crouches to examine your shot. The body lurches as he turns it with a grunt of effort, head lolling to the side.

“Damn,” he says in appreciation. “Clean shot. Reckon we’ll get some good money for the pelt on this one.”

He grins up at you. “Who taught you how to shoot like that?”

You shrug. “An old friend.”

“Mysterious,” says Arthur with a light laugh. “Well, a deal is a deal. You call the horses for me? Gonna be here a minute.”

The horses appear at your sharp whistle, stepping forth from hidden paths and flicking their tails eagerly. Gunshot doesn’t startle them anymore; in fact, you’re certain they know in this situation it means they’ll soon be heading home. Both of them are expecting treats for their patience, you’re sure, spoiled as they are.

Once it’s all skinned and the body of the deer is hauled and tied to the back of Brandy’s saddle, Arthur hands the pelt to you.

“Looks like rain,” he says. “You about ready to head back?”

Again his instincts are keen. The trees around you are starting to sway in a cool breeze, leaves dancing, showing their undersides. You’d rather not get caught out in a storm if you can help it – and judging by how fast the weather’s changed, it’s going to pour. No low rumble of thunder shakes the sky yet, but you wouldn’t be surprised if it starts soon.

“Yeah,” you answer. “Yeah, we’d better go.”

————

The storm keeps you hanging in anticipation long past suppertime. With the sky brewing a dreadful purple, the whole camp hangs on edge, waiting for what’s to come. And of course, Miss Grimshaw puts you to work making sure that every tent is extra secure in the face of the storm. At least now you have one more person to complain with – Molly has a sharp tongue hidden in that pretty mouth.

Jesus, you think, swirling the spoon in your stew a little too fast. Are we going to get this storm or not?

At this point the wind has stopped, leaving everything at an eerie standstill. Conversations around you feel strained as folks stop every few minutes to peer up at the sky, knowing that soon they’ll all have to duck for their tents and hide out for the night. There’s even talk of turning the horses loose, so they can shelter in the deeper parts of the woods. Waiting for it all to happen is the worst.Like knowing a predator has you in its sights, you’d rather see it attack than be stalked. Have the dread past you than hang suspended.

Yet not a drop of rain falls until everyone’s bid an anxious goodnight. The wind picks up to a swooping howl, trees around you creaking in protest. Your shared tent with Molly holds strong, though the two of you exchange worried glances in the lantern light. You’re sure that both of you are thinking the same thing – that this tent is uncomfortably close to the woods. If any trees are going to come down, you’re the ones at risk.

“I’m goin’ for Mary-Beth’s,” says Molly over the clamor. “Before this whole mess gets started. You comin’?”

“I, uh…”

“Oh, I see.” Her smirk couldn’t be wider. “Ditchin’ us girls for a night alone with Mr. Morgan, are we?”

“Well, I didn’t want to sayit.”

“Go on, then, maneater.”

Your indignant reply is lost in the first few drops of rain. There are only seconds before it melts into a downpour. You and Molly dart out into the cold sheets of water, each in a different direction, fighting not to shriek as you get drenched. Sprinting to get to Arthur’s tent, running half-blind, you hope he’ll forgive you for letting in some rain. Sparing a moment to knock or trying to yell over the storm would mean getting even more soaked than you already are, though you don’t think that’s possible.

Instead you fumble for the tent flaps, ducking as low as you can before crawling inside. You land in an awkward stumble, hurrying to slide the canvas back into place. Looking up, you find Arthur rising off of his cot, placing a leatherbound book down as he stands to get you.

“What the hell you doin’, woman?” he says in a tone fraught with concern. “You’re soaked through.”

“I’m well aware,” you answer, teeth chattering. “Didn’t – plan on running in the rain. It j-just happened.”

“Shit…”

Arthur pauses to give you one more look before opening the trunk at the foot of his bed, digging around as you drip all over the grass. He emerges with another union suit and a few rags. You note the way his eyes seem to glance around you, a show of modesty – your nightclothes aren’t exactly hiding much right now, as wet as they are. They cling to your chest and legs, made almost transparent by rain. You’re too freezing cold to care about the way you look; all you want is to get out of them and into the warm clothes he’s offering.

“Ain’t ideal, but not much I c’n do about it now,” he says. A thunderclap booms above you, so loud it shakes the ground, and you both flinch a little. “Least you know it’s clean. I’ll turn around while you change.”

“Okay. And thank you.”

He turns his back as promised, though in the small space it’s still easy to hear him, to feel his body heat. You peel yourself out of the soaking nightgown, letting it land on the ground in a shapeless pile. Using the rags to wipe down your legs and arms, you unbutton the spare union suit and re-dress. It doesn’t even come close to fitting right. The legs are miles too long, and your arms are lost in the sleeves. Still, it’s warm, and it covers you.

“Alright, I’m – well, kind of dressed.”

You turn back to Arthur, who’s grinning with a hand over his eyes.

“Do I wanna know what that means?”

“Look for yourself.”

To his credit, he doesn’t laugh at how silly you look in the thing, though you would’ve if the situation were reversed. Arthur only looks you up and down, shaking his head a little, and gestures for you to join him on the cot. You gladly close the distance, pressing yourself into his lap, letting him put his arms around you. You’re still freezing, and Arthur always manages to be warm.

“Coulda jus’ asked to wait out the storm with me,” he mutters, hugging you tighter. “You’re always welcome here.”

The rain still pounds the canvas above your heads, making his words for you and you alone. Even though the sheer power of the storm is frightening, working itself up to a wail with the wind and the rain and the thunder, you can’t bring yourself to be terrified. Not when he’s right here. Even if the tent overturned and left you both exposed to the elements, you’d feel safe with Arthur holding onto you.

“I don’t know. Guess I didn’t want to bother you? We already spent the day together.” You rest your head against his shoulder.

He scoffs. “Bother me? Darlin’, I don’t think you’re capable. I’d like to spend as much time with you as I can, if you’re willin’. ‘Sides, we was out huntin’. Wasn’t like we had time to really…talk.”

“Yeah,” you concede, fighting a stupid smile. “Guess you’re right.”

“I know I’m right.”

You hum in amusement at that, arching into the kiss he presses to your still-damp hair. His heartbeat thumps quicker than usual between you, a result of your body pressed so close. Now that you’ve gotten over here, you’re unsure of what will happen. This is about as private a moment as the two of you have ever had, now that you’re – well. Whatever you are. Together.Pursuing something. The realization washes over you as Arthur shifts back, scooting you off of his lap.

“Lie down with me?” he offers. “There ain’t a lot of room, but then again, you ain’t very big.”

“We can give it a try,” you say, wondering if you sound eager.

Arthur scoots back even more, stretching out on his side and allowing you to do the same. He wasn’t lying; there isn’t a lot of space to work with. But it only brings you closer to him, forcing you to lie chest-to-chest in the small space, and you won’t complain about that.

Sliding your leg between his, you wriggle forward, placing an arm around Arthur’s shoulder. He responds in kind, and you feel the comforting warmth of his palm against your back through the material of the union suit. His other arm lies underneath your head as you work to get as close as possible in the limited room, until you’re glancing up into his warm blue eyes.

When you’re settled, Arthur meets your glance shyly, asking if you’re comfortable, and you nod. He pulls the blankets over you both, creating a shelter of warmth. You sigh, content for a moment to let the sound of the rain beat down from above, and Arthur presses a kiss to the tip of your nose.

“Glad you’re here,” he says quietly.

The confession touches you. He’s been doing that more and more lately – shoving aside your layers of hurt and hardness to put his hands on the part of you that still wants to love. Making you soft when you don’t want to be. Undoing years of self-preservation in just a touch, a look. Being kind and funny and making you helpless in your fondness for the man.

“Me too. I mean – about you.”

He chuckles. “I know what you meant, bunny.”

Outside, the rain shows no signs of stopping. It gives the illusion of only you and him for miles around, pressed tight into one another. The thrill of having him all to yourself eats away at anything you might say, any remark or sharp response. That’s fine by you; the storm creates an ambience, an atmosphere. You find yourself growing restless the longer you’re tangled up with him, heart pounding in the way he loves to tease you for.

The time gone without speaking lasts only moments before you place your mouth to his, needy for what you’d denied yourself earlier in the day. You can feel him smile a little into the kiss, his hand curling into the material on your back. Such a strange thing, when you stop to think about it. Where in the process of evolution did humans decide they needed to press their lips together? Why does it feel so good? Kissing Arthur occupies so much of your waking thought, though you’ve done it with him less than a dozen times.

Maybe it’s because he’s so good at it. Following your lead, communicating in the smallest nonverbal gestures to let you know that he’s enjoying it too. At the moment he’s pulling you in deeper, arching into where you have him tangled up. Making a soft sound of pleasure when the cradle of your hips bumps his hardening erection. You let your fingertips wander into his hair, deepening the kiss as he swings a leg over your body. Another roll of thunder shakes the tent, and you’re glad for it.

“Arthur,” you say quietly. “Are you – I mean – you’re not mad that all we’ve done so far is kiss?”

The question feels stupid, but you’re still willing to ask. Part of you worries that he’s going to get bored and want more – and leave if he doesn’t get it.

He takes a moment to look at you. “Darlin’, we c’n go at whatever pace you want. And if kissin’s all you want, then we’re gonna get very good at it.”

“Mm…” You press your lips back to his, once, twice, sliding your tongue along his bottom lip and tasting tobacco and mint. “I want – more.”

His breath falters. “Be more specific?”

You hesitate to say the words out loud, as badly as you want to take the next step further. “I’d like to touch you.”

God, the look that crosses Arthur’s face almost kills you. Carefully restrained passion spreads over every inch of his fine features, like sunlight after clouds, and you feel goosebumps break out on your arms.

“Touch me how, sweet girl?” he murmurs, the low tilt of his voice going right between your legs.

Wordlessly, you draw your hand out of his hair and let it trail down, down his shoulder to his side, letting it linger to where your bodies meet. Though you’ve never seen him, you can feel the weight of his cock.

“You sure?”

Nodding, you arch into him again, feeling his length twitch.

Arthur allows you to undo the buttons of his nightclothes, leaving his bare chest exposed. Then his stomach, his hips. The further down you go, the more the buttons strain against his solid cock. Playfully, you grasp it before pulling it loose from the fabric completely, prompting a hitched sound of want from him. When the buttons are dealt with, you hold his shaft in your hand, hot and pulsing, taking care to pull it free as Arthur’s breath shakes in your ear.

“You ever, uh – done this before?” he asks, and you have to laugh.

“Arthur. I was married.”

“Well, I know,” comes the mumbled response. “But some fellers are picky ‘bout what they like and what they don’t and I j-jus’ – oh –”

Hopefully that answers his question. You take Arthur’s cock in your hand and stroke him hard a few times from base to tip, keeping your thoughts about howbig he is to yourself. Easier to save those musings for later, and focus instead on what you’d asked to do for him. Arthur lets his legs fall open to give you easier access, naked from the hips up, looking like the picture of lust as you let your eyes roam his body.

A shudder runs through him as you set a nice, steady pace. Arthur presses his lips to your forehead with a quiet groan, squirming in the small space, his scent almost overwhelming. You turn your head and kiss him on the jaw, encouraged by the way he holds you close, keeping your rhythm as you go lower and place your mouth to his neck. He sucks in a ragged breath, tilting his head to this side, baring his throat. The easy show of trust shocks you for a moment; it’s not something you’ve seen an Alpha do so readily. But then again, Arthur isn’t like most people you’ve met.

Spurred on by his enthusiasm, you stroke him faster, rewarded with a soft whine of your name. Arthur’s free hand goes to your breast, cupping the skin as if he’s eager to reciprocate. His thumb swipes over your covered nipple, just the lightest touch, and it’s still enough to make you jump.

“That okay?”

“Yes,” you answer, before the question is hardly out of his mouth. Arthur huffs out an amused breath in response.

And so the dance continues, with nature’s pounding roar as your song. You grow slick between your legs as Arthur falls apart for the attention you’re giving him, and you don’t think about soaking his nightclothes until it’s all over. You’re lost in the simple pleasures of kissing him, touching him, experimenting with what he likes and letting him touch you in return. He doesn’t so much as undo a single button on your borrowed union suit, but he still manages to incite hot need in your core, cupping your breasts and tugging at your hardened nipples with varying pressure. Arthur’s doing his own experimentation, sussing you out, getting to know what you like from the volume of the little noises you make.

Bit by bit, you have him unraveling. You can tell by the way he moves his hips into your hand, faster, more urgent, praising how you touch and work his cock. Every compliment makes you blush in the dark tent. He’s so – how do you describe it? – earnest.

“Doin’ so good, sweetheart,” he breathes, rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “So good, jus’ like that. Faster – c'n you –? God yes –”

He’s panting, stomach muscles tense as you glance down, clutching at your back. The smell of sex and need hangs thick in the air, smoky as it melds in with his regular scent. His ankles wrap around your legs, anything to bring you closer, the cot creaking dangerously underneath you.

“Emma,” Arthur says, and it’s a plea, a warning. “I ain’t gonna last.”

“Who said you needed to?” you reply, grinning, feeling almost shaky in your desperation to watch him spill over.

His shaft is slick under your hand, obscene from the spit you’d put there to ease the motion and the fluid he’s leaking from the tip of his cock. When he comes, he tenses against your body, gasping out a quiet sound – like he’s used to stifling the noise. Hot pulses of release flood over your hand and wrist, and you’re careful not to let any spill on the cot between you.

“Here,” he pants, getting up almost at once. “Lemme, um, getchu cleaned up –”

You take full advantage of the view as Arthur moves off of the cot, handing you one of the rags you’d used to dry off from the rain. His union suit hangs loose at his waist, leaving nothing above it to the imagination. Now that he’s standing, you can see him much better. Goddamn, what a man. His broad chest and arms are a sight when he’s clothed, but without them…well. You’re having a hard time drawing your gaze away as you toss the soiled rag aside.

But you manage to blink back into reality when Arthur sinks back onto the bed to join you, cross-legged in the minimal space.

“That was –” he chuckles a little, taking one of your hands in both of his. “That was real good, darlin’.”

You snort. “Glad I got your seal of approval.”

“C’mere, you little brat –”

He jabs his hand under your arm, and it takes you a beat too long to realize he’s tickling you. You shriek in protest, halfway to flying off the cot, but Arthur holds you steady. In the resulting flail of legs and limbs, you end up in his lap, held close to his chest, choking on laughter and feeling a little stupid. Arthur wouldn’t just grab you up like that because of a backhanded comment. This is safe. You’resafe.

Finally, the storm seems to be wearing itself out. The rain slows to a tired patter, and the wind gives up its howling game. Hopefully when the morning comes and it’s time to survey the damage, nothing’s been blown too far away from the camp. Hosea had plenty of stories to tell about getting caught out in nasty storms, the kind that shredded whole tents and ripped the wheels off of wagons. From the peace that follows the downpour, it doesn’t sound like anyone’s missing their tent. If you’re lucky, the worst you’ll have to deal with is mud, maybe a few crates tossed to and fro in the wind.

“Glad it’s over,” Arthur muses, like he’s thinking the same thing. “But we needed that. Ground was gettin’ dry. Critters get more active after a nice heavy rain.”

“We’ll be more active, too,” you say. “Miss Grimshaw’s gonna have us all out there soaking up every wet blade of grass from sunrise to suppertime so no one tracks mud.”

Arthur only grins. “Well, it wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Ugh…” You lean back against him with a weary sigh, not looking forward to the prospect. At least you’ve got the rest of the night before that whole mess starts.

“You gonna get some sleep?” His thumb strokes a gentle pattern on your forearm, tracing over the freckles there.

“I’m not really tired,” you admit.

All the excitement of running over in the storm and touching him in this small bubble of privacy had left you wide awake. Though it’s cozy with his arms around you, his chest at your back, you aren’t sure you could settle down enough to sleep if you tried. There’s just too much going on.

“I can leave if you want to get some rest.”

“No,” Arthur says quickly, “I mean. You don’t have to go nowhere.”

His scramble to get that answer out makes you smile. “Okay.”

It’s nice to be held like that for a while, to know that he wants you there, would postpone sleep for it. You let yourself relax against his chest, and Arthur makes sure you’re comfortable. This is the first time you’ve been able to curl up together and relax. Breathing in one another’s scent and being close just for the sake of it. And even though you told him you weren’t tired, some time after adjusting to lie in his lap, you fall asleep anyway. The sensation of his hands running through your hair just feels too nice.

————-

From the journal of Arthur Morgan

Dutch is getting restless about our financial situation. And apparently, going back to Blackwater for the money we spent so long saving up is out of the question. So we’re stuck here, trying our best robbing cattle farmers and stealing sheep. Not much has come out of it so far. But I saw him and Hosea with their heads together last night, and if I know those two, it means they’re cooking up a scheme to get things going again.

Hopefully it’ll go better than the last big job we took on, but now that Micah’s dead, I feel a little better about Dutch’s state of mind. Even if it means we’re out here in the woods a while longer. There’s been no sign of the law thus far. Folks in town have no problem buying up the lie that we’re misplaced factory workers, or whatever Dutch told us to tell them.

Mary-Beth and the girls got a good reputation going there in Valentine, a steady stream of income from what I can tell. Half the time just one of them puts more money in the box than Bill or Uncle combined. And now that Emma’s getting back on her feet, hunting and shooting and whatnot, we’ve got one more person among us to take along for the more complicated jobs. Not that I’m certain I want her along for things like that.

Strange how we try to protect the people we love care about from the things we know they’re capable of handling. Just an instinct, I guess.

She’s tough.

(On the opposite page, a sketch of the buck Emma and Arthur hunted. His head is raised, sniffing the air.)

————

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Summary: The sweetest man you’ve ever dated has what he considers a problem. Together, you work towards a solution. 

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Gender Neutral Reader (Second Person Perspective), no pronouns used

Rating: Explicit

Tags: soft Arthur, modern AU, pwp, premature ejaculation, multiple positions, edging, orgasm delay/denial, dom/sub elements, praise kink, sex toys, masturbation, fluff

Word Count: 1.6K

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Ohhh.

Now you get it.

Arthur slides out of you slow, his face still flushed, though now you’re not sure it’s just from exertion. You blink up at him with a lazy smile, hoping it’s reassuring, and he ducks his head as he returns it. Because although the man has spent close to an eon between your legs, opening you up with his fingers and worshiping your body with the sweetest filth, he’d come in a matter of minutes once he was inside you.

That’swhy he’s not taken yet, married and off the market. And it’s a goddamn travesty.

He bends, kissing up your thigh to avoid eye contact. The scenario plays back in your head in the quiet afterglow – how quickly his breath had hitched and faltered, how your name had become an ecstatic mantra in his mouth. His eyes had fucking rolled back in his head when he filled you, pulsing over and over until he couldn’t anymore.

God, it was hot. But it didn’t last long, and you know it embarrassed him. You can feel it in the air, can tell by the way he’s acting. You’ve had enough conversations over the dating app you met him on to guess that thisis the ‘problem’ he’s been talking about in his sex life.

You’re determined not to make him feel small about it; tonight’s date was wonderful, and finally meeting him had you walking on air. Arthur is a real sweetheart, just as he was in your texted conversations. It’d taken him a minute to open up at the start, but once the two of you got going, he was fine, and you loved hearing him talk about his work and his friends.

And he’s so gentle with you. Polite. Treating you like no other man has in years – like you’re important and worthy of his full attention and care. Well, you give just as good as you get, and you know a good man when you see one. If this is the only 'problem’ Arthur has, you’re not bothered.

“That was amazing,” you say, leaning up to tousle your fingers through his hair.

“Don’t have to lie,” he mumbles, face still pink.

“I’m not!” You insist, frowning. “You spoiled the hell out of me, Arthur. Not everything is about – about penetration.”

“Mmm.” Arthur makes a noncommittal sound as he presses his forehead into your thigh, obscuring his expression from view. He says something else that you can’t make out, and you sigh in quiet sympathy.

“Hey,” you begin. “I wouldn’t lie about something like this. I had a great night. This was great sex. And I don’t care how long you can stay inside me. But if you want…” You bite your lip, considering. “I know a few ways we can try to make it last longer. If that’s something you’re interested in.”

He peers up at you, propped on an elbow in the sheets.

“I – yeah,” comes his flustered answer. “If you really – if you want – to do that again. With me. I’d love to.”

You smile, your mind already teeming with possibilities. “Then it’s settled. You’re stuck with me.”

————-

The bedroom is filled with Arthur’s desperate noises, rough whines and moans that get higher every time you thrust your hips into his. His wrists are tied behind his head with one of your scarves, and the stopwatch sits somewhere lost in the blankets. You straddle his cock, taking it deliciously deep, lost in the look on his face as you ride him. You’ve learned that he’s a somewhat traditionalman, and no one’s ever done this for him before.

Well, you’re about to rattle his world.

“Sweetheart,”he gasps, arching up in an attempt to match you. “Please, please,I can’t – I need –”

You slow the rhythm of your thrusts, casually checking the time on your stopwatch. Three minutes, forty-eight seconds. Not yet.

“No,” you tell him sweetly, flashing a smile. “Five minutes, Arthur, don’t you remember? We’re not at four yet.”

He growls at that, screwing his eyes shut tight in concentration. You wish you could memorize this moment, the way his muscles flex with every breath, the look on his face. The way he begs for you. Your agreed-upon safe word sits on the edge of your mind, yet he doesn’t seem anxious to use it any time soon.

“Please,” Arthur says again, his words colored with lust. “I – f-fuck!”

Only seconds later you feel him shudder, watch that look of utter bliss cross his handsome features. Arthur spills inside of you, long and warm, choking back curses as you ride him through it.

“Sorry,” he pants, running a hand through his hair. “I, I didn’t mean – sorry.”

You lean up to kiss him, soft and tender. The stopwatch sits at four minutes, thirty-two seconds – better. “You don’t need to apologize.”

Besides, you have plenty more ideas you’d like to work through.

———–

Arthur’s fucking you from behind, his quiet whimpers every bit as rhythmic as the slap of skin on skin. You’ve asked him to keep the pace slow, but you can tell he wants to go faster, can feel it in the death grip he has on your hips. On the pillow, your stopwatch ticks along, cheerily proclaiming that five minutes have passed.

“Doing so good, Arthur,” you praise, turning to look over your shoulder.

His eyes are glazed over, but you see him blink back into himself to meet your glance, his expression rooted in determination. Arthur gives you a shy little smile, and you turn back around wearing one of your own, sinking down onto your forearms. He hums his approval at the change, kissing the center of your back.

It’s not long before you get his warning.

“Darlin’,” he says shakily. “I – I’m gettin’ close, I don’t think –”

“You can do it,” you encourage. “Ten minutes for me, Arthur, you’ve got this.” Arthur sighs in answer, pressing a fiercer kiss to your skin, and you know he’ll try.

The stopwatch says seven minutes when he comes to a sudden halt, fingers flexing out in the sheets, choking on the first syllable of your name. You wait, ready to help him ride through it, to roll over in the post-orgasm afterglow, and – nothing. You can feel him holding his breath, every muscle tense as he fights not to come before the watch hits ten minutes. Trying like hell.

“God,Arthur, you’re such a good boy,” you breathe in awe of his restraint, and that does it.

Arthur comes with a shout, an honest-to-God exclamation that bounces off the walls of your apartment and has him rushing to muffle the sound in the palm of his hand. He fills you with his seed until it drips down the back of your thighs, each thrust long and frantic, his voice breaking as he tells you how goddamn good your body feels clenching around him.

As he pulls out of you, you show him the watch with a grin. Nine minutes, twenty seconds.

————

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he says in your ear. “Oh, fuckyes.”

So the cock ring was the best idea you’ve ever had in your life. You’ve been sitting in Arthur’s lap for so long you’ve lost track, letting him bounce you on his cock for what feels like hours. His shaft is thick and heavy inside you, even bigger than normal, and neither one of you can seem to contain yourselves. He slams you onto your back, never sliding out.

“Arthur!”You whine, hurrying to wrap your arms and legs around him.

Arthur takes your nipple in his mouth, sucking and licking the bud into tenderness with his tongue as you writhe for more of him. Out of all the sex you’ve been having – and in your months together, there has been so much sex – you’ve never seen him this confident. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t adore seeing him like this, in his element, eyes scorching with lust.

“You feel sogood,” you tell him.

“Yeah?” Arthur replies, breathless. “You like me fuckin’ you like this, gorgeous?”

There’s not enough air in your lungs left to answer him, though you gasp out a series of garbled sounds. He’s taking you to the edge of another orgasm, mounting that painstaking high, and your fingers turn to claws in his skin. Arthur realizes that you’re close and keeps going, a low sound of appreciation leaving him as he watches your face contort.

“Oh, god, Arthur – ”

With your whole body tense, you come hard, aware that he’s peppering your neck with kisses all throughout. Muttering praise as you slowly relax, stunned, feeling him pull out of you. Arthur’s still incredibly solid, the simple black cock ring sitting snug at the base of his shaft.

“Your turn,” you say slyly. “Come on me, cowboy.”

His breath catches. “Where?”

“Anywhere.”

He couldn’t move faster to straddle your chest, gently prying the cock ring off and taking himself in one hand. Arthur’s eyes slip closed as he chases his own pleasure, his length dark red and weeping at the tip as he strokes hard and fast. In only moments, he moans and bucks and spurtsacross your bare skin. Some of his spend hits you on the cheek, and you reach to wipe it off, chuckling a little.

A few months ago, he might’ve apologized. Now Arthur just grins a little, leaning in for a quick kiss. And as you clamber into the shower together, getting clean under the warm spray, you’re looking forward to falling asleep with his arms around you just as much as you’re looking forward to the next romp.

To think that people were overlooking him. Well, their loss. You’re definitelykeeping Arthur Morgan.

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Part One here

Pairing: Arthur Morgan (Third Person Perspective) x Original Female Character: Ziva Courtee

Rating: Explicit

Tags: smut, teasing, banter, they’re Switches Bitches, dirty talk, vaginal fingering, explicit consent, praise, multiple orgasms, cunnilingus, overstimulation, edging, cowgirl, PiV, emotional hurt/comfort, grief, happy endings

Word Count: 5.7K

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They kiss. And kiss. And kiss.He could taste her for hours, getting lost in the way her mouth moves slow and easy. She tastes like whiskey and coffee and something a little sweeter behind it all, something he’ll probably never know. At some point, she loses her own belt, letting whatever dangles from it hit the ground with a soft clunk.Arthur doesn’t think to ask what it is – right now it’s the furthest thing from his mind. All he knows is the way she traces her tongue along his lips, enticing him to open. He lets his body go slack against the back wall, lets her in, and they tangle. A long, drawn-out, intoxicating motion of tongue against tongue that makes him groan into the sensation.

It takes a huge amount of self-restraint not to buck his hips into her waiting body. Arthur feels so hard it hurts, straining the material of his jeans and wanting more like a second heartbeat. Yet he doesn’t want to push, won’t rush her any more than he already has. She calls the shots tonight – it’s only fair. After what she’s gone through, trying to push anything on her would only be taking advantage.

But she seems to realize he’s growing restless. With one hand, Ziva undoes the buttons of his shirt, and he can feel her smile against his mouth the further down she works. It might have something to do with the fact that he rises into her hand, asking silently for something, anything. All he knows is that he hasn’t had sensation beyond his own fist for years, longs for tenderness, and only gets more aroused with every sweet touch.

“Arthur Morgan,” she pauses to whisper in his ear, “are you a gentleman?”

It makes him chuckle a little, a breathless noise. “Been told I am,” he answers. “Though I ain’t so sure some days.”

Her grin is warm as she pulls away, tracing a line with one finger down his bare chest and stomach. “I think you are. And I’m glad for it. But you know what I want?”

Arthur swallows, his eyes never leaving her roaming hand. “What’s that?”

“I want you to tell me what you’d like to do to me.”

Goddamn.His breath catches in his throat at the confident way she says it, all sultry eyes and lowered voice. This is a woman that knows what to do to a man, and Arthur has no doubt that if they let this go longer than tonight, she’ll have him wrapped so tight around her finger he’ll be liable to do all manner of stupid things. She’s not even undressed, simply sitting pressed close in her plain outfit and bright, mismatched socks. Yet Arthur can’t remember the last time his heart beat this hard when he wasn’t in a gunfight.

“I want…” he begins, cursing how the words tremble. “I want t’ undress you.”

Ziva smiles again. “Well, I counted on that.”

He presses his nose to hers, a chastising nudge, and she lets him continue. “Wanna know every inch of you. I want –” and here he hesitates, wondering if he’s being too bold, fearing this could ruin it all “ – want to taste you. Work you open on my f-fingers. Takeyou.”

Halfway through, she’d pressed her lips to the sensitive skin of his neck, coaxing a whine from his open mouth. Arthur lets his head fall to the side out of instinct, enjoying the feeling too much to even think about asking her to stop. Her breath is hot on his skin as she works her way to his ear, taking the lobe between her teeth playfully. By the time she gets there, Arthur’s a squirming mess, clenching and unclenching a loose fist.

“Then by all means,” she murmurs.

Arthursnaps.

He flips her flat on her back to the mattress in one fluid motion, delighting in her little squeal of surprise. Ziva’s hands tangle in his hair, giggling as he takes histurn to attack her neck with fierce kisses. The sound sharpens to a moan as he does his best to remove her shirt. The buttons and clasps aren’t at all like what he’d have on his own garments, hidden in places he wouldn’t expect. Ziva has only one breast free before he gives up and lets her do it herself.

And oh, her body. Round and soft laid out beneath him, though her small hands are as calloused as his own, speaking of years of hard work. She looks up at him without shyness, lying there on that simple bed, too gorgeous for it. Arthur doesn’t have a damn clue what to say, how to touch her, feeling suspended in time. She’s really here, waiting for him to keep his promises.

“Your turn?” She suggests, tugging at the tail of his open shirt.

He blinks hard, coming back to himself. Well, that’s a start. Arthur struggles out of his suspenders with little grace, and loses his shirt and jeans shortly after. The sense of reliefthat comes with having his cock out of the restraining fabric is soon lost in the burning look she gives him, propped back on her elbows.

“See somethin’ you like?” He finds the nerve to tease, and her eyes dart away, as if she’s embarrassed to be caught looking.

“We’ll see,” she replies with a smirk.

“Now is that any way to get yourself pleasured, ma'am?”

Naked now, Arthur scoots up on the bed, positioning himself between her legs. He can see the anticipation glinting in her eyes, doesn’t need some supernatural ability to know how badly she wants to be touched. That’s all instinct, something primal in the air between them. She may have had the gumption to be smart with him, but now that he’s in place to give her what he’d promised, Arthur has a feeling that her wit is about to dry up.

On his knees between her legs, Arthur gently moves her thigh open wider, exposing more of her dusky blue folds. His hand lingers on her, moving slow circles into the skin.

“God, you’re pretty,” he says under his breath.

“You say that to every woman that falls out of the sky?”

“Guess I do, seeing as it’s only you I’ve said it to,” Arthur replies, giving her a broad smile. Even in the middle of this, his blood hot with arousal, she feels easy to banter with.

Arthur lets his hand glide higher, taking his time. Her pubic curls are soft under his fingertips. Ziva twitches a little when he touches her folds, a subtle jolt, and he pauses in place to check on her.

“That okay?”

“Mmhm,” she hums. “Just been – a while.”

“Well, you keep me posted, darlin’. Ain’t about to do somethin’ you don’t want.”

She says nothing to that, only watching him continue his work. Arthur finds her glistening wet under his middle finger, spreading the substance around when she lets out a little noise of approval. He slips in up to the second joint, watching her face, and finds it blank with enjoyment.

“Like that?” He whispers.

Ziva’s only answer is to close her eyes, letting her head fall back against the pillow, and Arthur takes it for the yesthat it is. Smiling to himself, he works the single digit in deeper, going to the knuckle with ease. She’s so goddamn warm, everywhere, but especially here. He curls the finger in with expert precision, his cock twitching a little to feel her clench around it. Arthur doesn’t hesitate to add a second; she’s ready for it.

He thrusts them up into the welcoming suction of her body, pleased to see her legs clasp together in an attempt to bring him closer. This is very far from the first time he’s pleasured a woman in this manner, yet he finds himself hanging onto her every reaction all the same, eager to help her reach her bliss long before he does. Arthur gets comfortable, shifting on his side next to her – all the better to watch her face.

It’s been years since he’s touched a woman, yet all the old familiar motions seem to fall right back into place. Patterns and muscle memory, as easy to his mind as riding a horse. Ziva’s soft skin feels so right under his hands, her little sounds of pleasure all the guidance he needs to continue. She grinds her hips into his hand now, spreading her slick onto his palm. When Arthur pulls his fingers from her body, she tries to protest, only to gasp as he finds her clit and draws the lightest circles.

“There we go,” he says, voice soft. “That’s a good girl. This what you want?”

“Yes,” she’s quick to answer. “Please.”

The single word is painted with lust. Arthur could tease her, reply with something about how she’s so eager to beg for him, but he decides to go easy tonight. The tension is hot in the air, building like a summer storm. He presses the pad of his pointer finger down on her clit as she watches, eyes wide and golden and mesmerizing.

“Arthur,” Ziva mewls out, twisting on the blankets. “Don’t stop.”

His name turns to something precious on her lips, sending goosebumps down his skin at the wanton way it leaves her. Like he’s something to be desired, a bringer of pleasure, a lover – not the cruel beast of burden he often sees himself as. Immediately he wants to hear it again, could get drunk off of those two simple syllables he’s been addressed by his whole life. Arthur touches her with more intensity, hoping to draw the word from her once more.

Her toes curl as Arthur bears down, clit swollen now from all the attention. Arthur can tell from the way she breathes that she’s getting close – he just has to keep up the pace. A warm feeling of satisfaction sits in his chest as he watches her get restless, trying to squirm and clamp her thighs and chase the release.

“Arthur – fuck!”

All at once she tenses up tight, slapping a palm over her mouth as if out of instinct, though there isn’t a soul around for miles. In the safe privacy of the cottage, Arthur feels like he can see every pulse play out. Ziva’s eyes go unfocused as she stares up at the ceiling, her whole body going lax once the contractions ease.

“Didn’t know they said that word up in space,” he muses, scooting up until he’s leaning over her.

His cock drags along her belly, leaving warm fluid behind on her skin, and Ziva’s lips part in anticipation. He could have her now, press his mouth to her neck and muffle his own sounds as he slides inside and feels her body take him. Yet Arthur doesn’t want it all to be over so soon. He is a gentleman, as she’d insisted, and a gentleman doesn’t go seeking his own pleasure so readily. A gentleman makes sure that the woman he’s treating is thoroughly satiated before he sets about taking care of himself.

“We do when it feels that good.”

That gets a smile out of him. Seems she isn’t finished with the backchat yet. Arthur leans in to capture her mouth in a slow, burning kiss, tasting her simmering hunger like a palpable thing. She’s not ready to be done, either. He lets his mouth ease down her body, hovering over her like a predator, kissing her throat and her collarbone and her chest. Licking up her dark blue nipple before sucking, drinking in her desperate sound. Ziva’s hands are careful in his tousled hair, though he wouldn’t mind if she pulled.

When he playfully nudges the line of his nose down past her belly button, she seems to understand his intentions. Ziva’s breath hitches as his lips play with her inner thigh. From there Arthur spreads her folds with two fingers, letting the bristle of his beard rub up against her center. One of her hands travels to his shoulder, fingers digging into his sun-freckled skin.

“You ready for me?” Arthur murmurs there, his breath hot on her most sensitive place.

It takes her a minute to answer. Not that he minds – the view is outstanding. He can tell that Ziva wants so badly to arch up and have his lips on her body, that it takes some deeper level of restraint to wind her hand tighter in his hair and be still. When she finally speaks, her voice shakes.

“More than.”

Arthur places the first delicate kisses to her weeping slit, surprised to find that she tastes sweet on his tongue. Brighter than honey or fruit, nothing like the sharp tang of any woman he’s ever had the privilege of putting his mouth to before. His lips are coated in the stuff, and Arthur finds himself licking them clean, letting his tongue dart out to lap at her folds quicker than he’d meant to. Ziva twists underneath him, again fighting not to buck into the touch, and he places a warm hand to her thigh. Gentle.

He settles on his belly between the cradle of her hips, determined not to leave this place for a good, long while. There’s a rhythm to this, he knows, a patience, different from the steady pace of penetration. Better to let yourself get lost in it, reading her pleasure in gasps and sighs and tensing muscles. To be honest, half of his own enjoyment is found in giving it to a partner, getting off on the knowledge that he’sdoing this to them, and no one else.

So he lets himself wander. Up and down the wet trace of her folds, kissing light and then kissing fierce, humming his enjoyment when she clings to him any way she can. The sharp tug of her fingers in his chestnut curls is Arthur’s only anchor to this world; otherwise he floats, with only one goal in mind. He slides the tip of his tongue inside her, curling up, tracing light patterns, up and down. Arthur has to keep his hips slightly raised so his cock doesn’t press into the mattress, but he can still feel it, aching and leaking.

“Arthur,” she whimpers again, and heat blossoms in the pit of his stomach. “Feels so good, please, Arthur–”

Oh,God, how he wants. Wants to spread her open wide and press inside her, knowing exactly how wet she’d be. Would she cry out his name then, as he reached his own orgasm? Cling to him hard enough to leave marks, reminders of what they’ve done here tonight? Arthur pushes it down. Keeps his focus.

“What do you want from me, sweet girl?” He purrs against the line of her thigh, looking up at her with a glance hot enough to burn. “Tell me.”

“More,” she says at once. “Harder, faster, I just – need you.”

How could he resist giving her what she needs?To be wanted is one thing. Needed – that drives an entirely different shiver of arousal down Arthur’s spine. He grasps her thighs in each hand, encouraging her to wrap around his back, to spread herself wider. Ziva adjusts in an instant, breath coming in excited little pants. Arthur reaches up for one of her breasts, taking the nipple between his fingers, and places his mouth to her cunt like a starving man.

“Oh!”

That’s the only word Arthur can make sense of. The rest is a string of gibberish that might or might not be English, little gasps and torn sighs that fall on his ears like music. He takes her clit in his mouth and sucks, growling when she finally loses that sense of self-control and arches against him. Arthur lets her, grappling for her ass and urging her forward. His whole lower face is covered in her juices; nose, mouth, beard.

That’s it, sweetheart, he thinks. Doin’ so fuckin’ good for me.

There’s no answer on the psychic spectrum, but Ziva sobs out his name, and Arthur thinks it might be the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. He presses the flat of his tongue to her clit, desperate for her to come against his mouth, wanting to taste it when it happens. Ziva doesn’t disappoint him. A fresh flood of her juices hit his tongue. She arches up one final time, gasping out again prettily, and he kisses her all throughout.

Ziva hits the mattress hard, making it squeak upon impact as she comes down from the rush.

“Arthur,” she pants. “Need you inside me. Now.”

Yes!!his mind screams back instantly. He’d take her with her legs still wrapped around his waist, spreading her out and fucking her deep.Getting every inch of his cock inside of her pussy that he could, feeling her feet curl around his back, rutting into her, breaking the goddamn bed –

“You c'n do one more,” Arthur says instead, lowering his mouth back to her oversensitive body. “One more, sweetheart. I know you got it in you.”

“I – I don’t know,” she trembles out, already putting both of her shaking hands back to root in his hair. “I – oh, oh my God –”

“One more time. Let me see it,” he coaxes between kisses and licks.

Now he presses his hips flat to the blankets, anything to relieve the mounting pressure. Together they move, frantic, his mouth on her folds and Arthur’s stiff cock against the mattress. The friction is clumsy but something, and he can feel Ziva’s eyes watching him. They’re brimming with lust, dark enough with it to make his face feel hot. Even as she tenses one last time, assuring Arthur keeps his promise. He showers her with low murmured praise, kissing up the line of her thigh.

Knew you could do it. See? Such a good girl.

Ziva only lets out a low hum in response, pulling the now very loose ponytail out of place. Her hair comes cascading down in ink-blue waves once again as she catches her breath.

Silence, for a little while. A chance to recuperate. Arthur moves to sit up, wiping his face on the blanket, and Ziva mirrors the action. He’s surprised when she crawls into his lap, as if craving closeness. Nonetheless, he doesn’t mind; it’s easy to tuck his chin on the top of her head, effortless to put his arms around her. Like she fits there. And all the while, the night stays dark, pinpricked with thousands upon thousands of glittering stars.

“You know what I think?” She says.

“What do you think?” There’s a gleam of mischief in her eyes, and Arthur can tell that the fun’s about to start up again.

“I think…” Ziva rises up and over him, placing both hands to his chest. Arthur willingly goes where she’s trying to lead, wearing a goofy grin at the fact that she thinks she can move him. “I want you on your back. While I ride you.”

That wipes the look off of his face. Arthur can hardly stammer out his agreement, lying there on the mattress the opposite way he got onto it, wide-eyed and eager. Truth be told, he loves a woman unafraid to take charge. Whether he’s the one on top or not doesn’t matter. So long as his aching cock gets some sort of attention before the night ends. He’s been patient – despite what some folks in the gang seem to think, it’s something he’s good at. But as Ziva positions herself on top of him, he feels it quickly slipping away.

“Hel-lo, handsome man,” she sings, settling her hips right below his straining length.

“Hi,” is all he can say back, no space in his mind left to be clever or funny.

Ziva smirks at his lack of wit, pleased with the effect she’s having. If Arthur thought the view he’d had before had been nice, it’s nothing compared to seeing her sit astride him, her breasts dangling loose, her expression contemplative, like she’s deciding what to do with him. His breath catches as she adjusts her position, hips rising off the bed. Ziva spreads her legs, taking his shaft in one hand, teasing just the tip of him against her velvet folds.

“God –” Arthur chokes out, struggling not to place his hands on her hips and slide in. To do the savage thing. The slippery feeling of her body against him is a test of willpower, and he gnaws at his lip trying to pass it. Ziva peers down at him with a searching gaze, something he can’t exactly place, and nudges her hips into him once, twice. He makes the softest sounds of need with each motion, leaking at the tip, anticipating.

“No,” says Ziva. “Only me.”

And with that, she lets herself sink down. Arthur isn’t sure he’ll fit, even after all the work he’s done. She’s so small, barely making it up to his shoulder when they stand eye to eye. Yet her body swallows him up, and Arthur’s certain to watch every goddamn second of it. He stretches her out, and the sweet moan that falls from her lips is an echo of his own.

She places a hand on his chest to anchor herself, nudging her hips forward before sinking to the hilt with that first amazing thrust. Arthur knows that he says something, a curse or praise, but if asked later he won’t recall exactly what. There’s nothing but her body, so warm and tight and taking him like it’s the hundredth time, not their first joining.

After waiting for so long, every motion of her body is pure bliss. Ziva rocks against him soft and smooth, her lips quirking into a grin whenever he makes a small sound of pleasure. Arthur’s hands gravitate to her waist, intent on keeping her there, drunk on the low, warm pleasure she’s giving him. She makes love like it’s art, something to stop and appreciate – flowers on the mountainside, silk between his hands.

“Ziva,” he says weakly, mesmerized with the way his hands look on her skin. Sunlight and the stars, an eclipse, so rare and yet bound to happen. “You feel – so goddamn good –”

The compliment pleases her – Ziva clenches around him ever tighter and Arthur closes his eyes with a quiet moan. He’s certain that he won’t, can’t, last like this. Pleasure builds tighter and tighter at the base of his cock despite her moderate pace; it’s been too long since he’s been with someone like this. Despite himself, Arthur nudges his hips against her own, wanting more, being greedy, chasing the high after they’ve barely started.

He says her name again, painting it in desperation, a warning. Gasped out as he’s certain he’s reached his peak, cresting, cresting –

And she stops. Ziva halts in place like she’s been frozen there, reaching down to cradle his jaw.

“Not so fast.”

He smiles. He can’t help it. Even as the bright pulse of orgasm teases and fades from the lack of stimulation, Arthur can’t be angry with her. She’s a card, this one.

“You’ve been so good to me,” she continues, voice no louder than a murmur. “Let me make this last for you.”

Arthur stammers out his affirmation of that plan as she shifts her hips, taking him deeper. This time her pace is a little slower, each thrust lasting. Ziva never takes her eyes from his face as she works herself on his cock, and he does his best to look right back, though he feels his cheeks burning. There’s something intense about maintaining eye contact throughout the act, truly seeing someone, and he’s never been the best about it.

Then there’s the added, confusing layer of knowing that she can sense his thoughts and feelings in the air, grab them up like loose string. He wonders what he feels like to her right now. How does she do it, on top of sensing and feeling everything that a person already does?

She doesn’t give him more time to ponder it. Ziva presses herself down onto his cock, deep, tearing a startled moan from his lungs. They dance like this. For what could be minutes or hours, she leaves him there, upping the speed and then lowering it. One time, then another, another, until Arthur’s sweating against the blankets and certain he’ll never come before the sun rises. He goes beyond what he thought he could stand, and then past that threshold again. Still she grinds down onto him, tireless, watching.

“Please,” he finally begs. “Please, please let me finish –”

“You want to come for me?” Ziva’s words are clear and precise against the quiet of the night, leaving no room for indecision, and it only leaves him more desperate.

“Yes – yes –”

Arthur knows how he sounds, and how he probably looks. He can’t bring himself to care. All that matters is finally letting go and arching up into the warmth of her cunt, her tight gasp, the way she moves in response. Now the bed protests underneath them in earnest, and in the back of his mind he wonders if they really will break it. That doesn’t matter, either. Damn the bed. He’s falling back back back against the pillow and coming in one long pulse, so hard and hot it feels like it’ll keep going on forever.It’secstasy.

And he’s finished inside her without even a thought for the consequences. Too late, a weary voice reminds him in the back of his mind. Too late now.

Still he holds onto her, skin-to-skin, drawing gentle circles there as if it’s her anxiety he has to ease. Ziva leans forward to kiss his forehead, then his lips, drawing away with the smallest of frowns.

“What’s wrong?”

Unnerving, one might say, to be read like an open book. Or perhaps his expression was too obvious. “Sorry,” he says. “I – I shouldn’t’ve – finished. In you.”

Putting words to the problem lights up his nerves like a spark to a dry field. Stupid – even in the midst of passion he should’ve stopped, known better, said something. He’s too old for mistakes like this. The last time he’d gotten carried away and lost his head like that, it…it hadn’t ended well. There had been consequences.

Ziva only blinks. “It’s fine.”

That might be the most confusing thing she’s said so far. “What d’you mean, fine?”

She twists to show him her upper arm, grabs his hand to place it to the skin. “You feel that?”

There’s the slightest bump underneath the flesh. Arthur doesn’t see what it has to do with her flippancy surrounding the situation. “Yeah? What about it?”

“It’s…pregnancy prevention,” she tries to explain. “It’s an implant that puts a dose of hormones into my body; that keeps me from being able to get pregnant. So we’re fine. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Again, he doesn’t see how any of that could possibly work. But he’d seen her fall from space, so Arthur reckons he’ll have to trust her word that this could be feasible. It’s better than worrying himself to death, anyway. He only nods, the burden in his mind lessened, and sets about getting both of them cleaned up. What an extraordinary, crazy night it’s been.

The threat of dawn is purple, like a shiner. By the time they’re both sorted and back under the sheets, Arthur knows the sunrise won’t be too far off now. Still, Ziva stays. She doesn’t vanish with the night like some sort of fever dream. Instead she tucks herself under his arm, cuddling up there, tracing nonsense patterns on his bare chest. Arthur has to fight sleep to keep looking at her, and he can tell that she’s growing drowsy, too.

If not for the words she mumbles, he could swear she hadfallen asleep. He asks her to repeat herself, and the sentence that she utters is laced with quiet distress.

“Said, ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do’.”

Arthur sighs, deep, giving her a gentle squeeze. “Well, miss stargirl, I don’t know either.” She smiles, like she likes that name. “But if you want…I can try and help you figure it out. It’s a rough ol’ world out there, but I’m a rough ol’ man. And if anyone tries to put a hand on you, I’m gonna have somethin’ to say about it.”

“I think I can look after myself,” she replies, her eyes bright with amusement. “But I – I like the idea of you sticking around. I like you, Arthur Morgan.”

He ducks his head. “I like you too.” He thinks for a moment, watching the sky lighten from the window. “Reckon the first thing we oughta do is haul your ship outta that wrecked house, find someplace to hide it. In case anyone else finds it that shouldn’t see it.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“Mmhm,” Arthur hums. “I’m full of ‘em, sweetheart.”

She looks away, biting her lip. Like that was the worst thing he could’ve said to her. Something in her eyes goes dull and flat, and Arthur’s close enough to see the vague shimmer of tears dusted in that mesmerizing golden shade. He perks up at once, startled by the change, placing a gentle hand to her shoulder.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m sorry,” she replies, blinking hard. “I – it’s stupid.”

“S’not stupid if you’re hurtin’.” He twists a strand of Ziva’s loose hair around his finger, already so entranced by her.

Ziva nods in agreement, taking a deep breath to calm herself. “I just knew a man – who called me that. And I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with him.”

“I’m sorry,” he offers, sincere. He’s had his heart broken too many times not to be sympathetic to the pain when he sees it. “Was he – like you? A Jedi?”

“He was.” Ziva smiles a little. “He was an outstanding Jedi. A Master. I fought beside him in the war, we – we went through so much together.” She pauses. “When the attack on the Temple came, on all the Jedi and the Padawans and the children, he vanished. It’s been ten years.”

Neither one of them says it. Still the notion hangs in the air, thicker than her grief, a pain worse than a gunshot – as good as dead. If she’s been out there all this time, looking, waiting, then the man she knew is gone. Arthur pulls her closer, knowing there’s nothing he can say that will do any good. He knows too from experience that the years might go on, but the pain doesn’t leave. It just finds new corners to creep into. Pretending it isn’t still the aching monster it was at the start.

It’s enough to lie together, to know one another, to have the promise that there’s plenty more to learn. And when the morning dawns warm and bright over Roanoke Ridge, Arthur Morgan keeps his promises. The little cottage becomes a temporary home as more and more excuses are made to the Van Der Linde gang. Arthur can’t bring himself to rob and shoot and kill when she looks at him like he’s carrying the sun on his shoulder.

A good man, she tells him, as they settle down to ponder what remains of her ship. Knew it from the start.

————-

The seasons change. And though they try – they search and scour the country for anything that might work, even inventing certain parts for her strange flying machine – nothing fixes it. For a time, Ziva finds another thing to grieve; the life she’d known, out there in the vast universe. But for everything the Force takes away, it gives another gift. That’s what she’d been taught. And while there are struggles, and hardships, and prejudice, she finds hope in the very first man who’d ever laid eyes on her. She finds love again, when she thought it was lost to her for good. She knows she loves strangely – too quickly, too fiercely, for the life she once committed her life to.

But that’s alright; cowboys consider it a virtue. Together, they paint the sunsets.

————–

“They say there’s a witch, living alone on Roanoke Ridge.”

“No, no, a man lives with her.”

“Well, that’s not the important part. Let me tell the damn story. There’s a witch living up on the ridge, and she’s got coal-black skin and yellow eyes.”

“No, I’ve seenher – she’s ‘bout as blue as a bluejay!”

“Would you shut up!

Anyway.

There’s a witch. She lives in a little cottage out on the Ridge, and they say she only comes out in the nighttime. And if you try to peek in her windows during the day, she’s never home! No one knows where she goes.”

“Some people think she’s a curse. One time a bunch of men from the nearest town went up there to root her out, kill her – but they couldn’t do it. They just wandered back with their guns bent in half, couldn’t remember where they’d been. Couldn’t remember much of anything for the next few days. No one’s messed with her since.”

“But she helps sick folk – no one knows how or why. If you show up at her door alone, she’ll take you in, fix you. Don’t matter what it is. Smallpox, cholera, yellow fever. She just – bam! And I guess all she asks for in return is peace and quiet. Damndest thing. If she is a witch, then I guess she’s the nicest witch we could ask for.”

“Remarkable,” mutters the stranger, stroking his beard.

It’s flecked now with bits of silver, longer and more unkempt, but he still touches it in times of deep thought. The men he’d stopped to interrogate pay him no mind; he doesn’t stand out in the simple robes, after all. He’d made sure of that. And he’s waited too long to find her to have her ripped away again.

If this really is Ziva, stranded out here on this nowhere planet, then he’s not going to rest until he finds her.

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Part Two here

Summary: Arthur just happens to be in the perfect place to see something extraordinary fall from the sky one night on the lonesome trail. His curiosity leads him to its crash site, and changes his life for good. 

A Red Dead x Star Wars crossover. 

Pairing:Arthur Morgan (Third Person Perspective) x Original Female Character:Ziva Courtee 

Rating:Explicit

Tags:crossover, crossover pairing, High Honor Arthur, soft Arthur, canon-typical violence, drinking, Force Healing, fix-it, fluff

Word Count: 6.5K

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If Arthur were not seeing it with his own eyes, he would not dare to believe it. If he’d had even a drop to drink, he’d find the quickest way to blame the sight before him on the alcohol, sleep off the illusion, and try his best to put the whole thing out of his mind. But he knows for a fact that he’s as sober as they come, and no matter how long he stares, the image before him refuses to fade. His other senses aren’t lying, either. The sharp, burnt smell of charred flesh and smoking wood sting at his nose, along with something nauseating that he can’t identify.

He’d been having what seemed like any other night ride through the cool forests of New Hanover, trying to find the best spot to settle down and camp. The stars were so bright in the sky that they looked like pinpricks of summer, scattered in handfuls by a carefree child. Beautiful country, he pauses to think, glad for a moment of respite. Earning money for the gang could be anything from tedious to perilous, and Arthur takes the breaks where he can. Any day now he’ll be due back, hauling in the cash for another bounty.

Arthur’s mare pins her ears flat to her head, bringing his reverie to an end. He adjusts his grip on the reins, steadying himself in the saddle as she slows and snorts. Arthur gives her a reassuring word, aware that she sees and senses more than he ever can. He’s watched some men get hateful with their horses for “acting up” in moments like this, only to have a predator emerge from the brush mere seconds later.

The horse will tell you, Hosea had taught him. You have to be smart enough to listen.

With a hand reaching for his pistol and his eyes on the ground, Arthur prepares for that exact scenario. Maybe a black bear passing by, a lone coyote. A snake – known to startle her. Ginger is a fine mare, and doesn’t spook at the drop of a hat. He’s starting to grow nervous himself at what could get her so worked up. At this point, Arthur is ready for anything.

Anything but the screaming ball of light that appears on the edge of the sky, lighting up the world like noon. Arthur has seen many things in his life, one would argue too many – but nothing compares to this. He freezes, jostled as his riding instincts lag. The sound grows louder, louder than any gunshot, any train. It takes everything Arthur has not to jam his hands over his ears to stave off the agonizing noise.

As fast as it came, it’s already waning. Fairly rattled and in as much need of reassurance as the mare underneath him, Arthur pats Ginger’s neck with a trembling hand.

BOOM.

The impact shakes them both. Only decades of riding keeps Arthur from losing his place in the saddle, legs squeezing Ginger tight on either side as she rears up in terror. Whatever that thing was, it’d fallen out of the sky and crashed close. And though Arthur had started this ride a little tired, ambling his way toward a resting place, there’s no way he can sleep knowing that whatever fell from the sky is in such proximity.

Or perhaps it’s curiosity that overtakes him. Whatever he’s seen won’t ever happen again – Arthur feels it. If he turns and rides away now, he’ll be missing out on something. For better or for worse, he doesn’t yet know. He takes the time to settle Ginger, shushing her with soft praise for her bravery in the face of the unknown. An oatcake goes a long way in persuading her to get her hooves going.

When she’s ready to move again, he points her in the direction that the blaze of light had gone. He can still see it behind his eyes as he navigates the moonlit world, leaving spots in his vision with every blink. Arthur has always had a keen sense of direction, helpful when tracking game, but the nighttime hides things. Makes you work for what you want. He has to look twice when he sees the plume of smoke coming from the little house on the cliffside, uncertain at first of what he’s seeing.

Yet the fumes aren’t caused by some late night campfire or a pot on the stove. They’re coming from all around the house, inside it, eating it, letting Arthur know at once that that’s where his blazing ball of fire crashed. It doesn’t take long to get Ginger up the cliff, and Arthur’s heart races as he hitches her in the trees. What is he about to walk into?

It’s a nice house. Whoever lives (lived?) here had taken the time to build a sturdy fence around the property, though Arthur isn’t sure it’ll do them much good now. The door stands before him, innocent, unassuming. He pushes it open slowly, letting it fall back on its hinges before he dares take a step inside.

What awaits is unfathomable. Charred, steaming bits of flesh lay scattered around the remains of what was once a kitchen table, and Arthur takes an instinctive step back. Smoke rises from a deep crater in the floorboards, concealing what fell from the sky. The pit is still putting off an excessive amount of heat. Poor bastard, Arthur thinks, letting his glance run over what remains of whoever lived here. Never knew what hit ‘im. As gruesome as the sight is, there’s no denying that the death was quick.

A quiet hiss emits from the hole, not like that of an animal. Arthur puts a hand on the grip of his pistol and stalks forward with abundant caution. Again, he hasn’t got a clue what could be dwelling down there. What could’ve fallen out of the sky with such deadly velocity? A piece of a star, some sort of debris from beyond the Earth?

He’d picked up a few books on space over the years, eager to get his hands on whatever he could read once he had the ability. Though fiction and poetry and books on nature excited him, Arthur couldn’t get a grasp on the concept of space. It all seemed so vast and speculative, vague in a way that bored him. If the man writing the damn thing didn’t know what was out there, what made him qualified to pen a book on the subject?

No author mentioned the possibility of what Arthur sees when he crouches down, peering into the churned and smoking earth. There’s – and he squints, sure that his eyes are fooling him – a machine. A hunk of twisted metal twice as big as Ginger sits in the crater, with some sort of orb stretched over its top. Tiny flecks of light flare and glimmer from within the bubble, in all manner of colors – red, purple, green, yellow. They distract him enough that for a moment he doesn’t actually see what’s inside.

A woman.

Or what very much looks like one, though Arthur can’t say he’s ever seen a woman who looks like the person in the strange aircraft. From the glow of all those flickering lights, her skin almost looks, well, blue.Though that’s impossible. She’s touching some lever in front of her, hands urgent, frustrated. Her hair falls in waves, darker than the night, hiding her face. Her other hand slaps the side of the machine, a dull thud, and he can almost sense her irritation.

Arthur watches for a time, for once completely unsure of what his next move should be. In any other circumstance he wouldn’t hesitate to help a woman, but this one has just fallen out of the goddamn sky.He has no idea whether she meant to land here and destroy this house or if it was an accident. Arthur knows alarmingly little about anything at all right now, and it’s making him wish he’d never followed this trail of light to its end.

She stops struggling all at once, craning her head. Before Arthur can think to back away, he locks eyes with the woman – creature – alien – a cold stripe of fear running up his spine. Her eyes are dark yellow. Shit shit shit shit shit.

“Goddamn it,” he breathes.

It’s time to leave. Whatever curiosity had driven him here has officially been fulfilled, dried up. Adrenaline floods into his veins, lurches him to his feet, but not before the ear-piercing scream of metal ripping apart sounds from the crater beneath him. It’s like something out of a nightmare. He’s locked eyes with the monster and now it’s coming to tear him open. A creature unknown and deadly, here to kill him in a place no one would ever think to look. Far from the camp, far from the gang. They’ll think he died hunting, or in a shootout, or something honorable. Not like this.

Somehow he gets the pistol in his hand, knowing he’ll never make it out the door in time. Whatever’s coming up out of that hole is fast– he can hear it climbing. His only chance is to shoot it and hope it bleeds. One hand grasps for the edge of the decimated floorboards, as blue as Arthur had guessed, and then another. Quicker than he would’ve thought possible, she – because try as he might, Arthur can’t stop thinking of the creature as a woman – is up and out of the hole.

“Stay back,” says Arthur, the threat sounding empty even to him.

Though she had been so foreign upon first glance, there’s plenty to recognize in the features Arthur takes in. Nothing about her screams extraterrestrial the longer he looks, though her color had startled him. She has no extra limbs or wings or fur or anything bizarre like the speculations on alien life had always led him to believe, though strange silver marks decorate her cheekbones. She just looks like…a person.

Her hair isn’t black, like he’d thought, but the darkest shade of blue. It flows down her shoulders and back in loose waves, framing a heart-shaped face. She stands there in garments that Arthur can make no sense of – a simple blouse and pants that nonetheless speak of fine craftsmanship. Her peculiar eyes regard him with a steady gaze. A long object dangles from her belt, reflecting the lantern light.

“Was this your home?”

The words couldn’t throw Arthur off any more. Not only can he understandher, but she’s asking him something so neutral, out of nowhere. Admittedly, he hasn’t spent a lot of free time dwelling on what a being from another planet might say to him, if he ever encountered one. She doesn’t seem to care about the gun in his hand, or perhaps doesn’t understand that it can be used to hurt her.

“I – it – no,” he manages, flexing his fingers on the pistol’s grip. “It’s not.”

She closes her eyes, only for a moment, the slightest tremble shaking her shoulders. Splatters of blood frame her knee-high black boots, and he’s certain she’s seen the mangled body lying in pieces surrounding the crater. Though a piece of the mess lies close to her foot, she keeps her eyes trained over Arthur’s shoulder, like she’d rather do anything than look down.

“Saw you, uh, crash,” Arthur continues. “C’n I ask what you’re doin’? Here?”

It doesn’t hurt to keep the conversation as friendly as possible. As unthreatening as she may seem, Arthur still doesn’t know a thing about her. He isn’t that quick to let his guard down; he’s been around for too long to be so gullible. Especially not on a night like tonight.

“I…” she takes a deep breath, those unnerving eyes losing focus as she follows her thoughts. “I lost control of my ship. Fell out of hyperspace – hit a purrgil, I think – and blacked out against the dash. A giant mess, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

The woman rubs her temple and gestures with her free hand at the ground, like she didn’t just spout a mouthful of nonsense so bizarre that Arthur fears he might be losing his mind. And she says them all like he should know exactly what she’s talking about. Instead of trying to address any of that, Arthur spares himself the headache and continues with the line of questioning.

“So you’re lost, is what you’re sayin’?”

She spares a glance for his gun, still held down by his side. Wary, but not intimidated. “Yes, I suppose that’s the best word for it. And not going anywhere soon with my ship the way it is. Would you happen to know where I could buy some parts? Maybe a used starfighter on the cheap? I’m not made of credits but I –”

Arthur stops her there, overwhelmed with all the new vocabulary she’s slinging around.

“Listen…ma’am. I don’t know what things are like where you’re from, but you’re not gonna find one of those ‘round here.”

The words seem to disappoint her. “Within this region?”

Arthur laughs a little. “I’m talkin’ the entire country, at least. Far as I know, anyway.”

“Then it seems I’m stuck here longer than I’d like to be,” she says, brushing a loose strand of hair out of her face. After a moment of silent deliberation, she circles around to the crater, peering down into its depths. “And nothing on that damn piece of scrap metal is working,” she adds, almost to herself.

All in all, she seems less worried than Arthur would be if he found himself in the same situation. He’s surprised and a little amused to hear her curse as she kneels at the edge of the hole, and the familiar language is enough to make him holster his pistol after all. Arthur edges a little closer, still keen to keep a distance should something go sideways, and peers over with her. Her ‘ship’ sits broken and empty down below, its twinkling lights faded now to black.

“Anythin’ I can do to help?”

The words come out on instinct. Regardless of how he feels about this woman, now that she’s proven she isn’t going to slice his head off or eat him it seems Arthur can’t help but offer some sort of assistance. He gets caught up in these sorts of situations all the time. Never with a woman from the far reaches of space, though – that’s something to cross off the list.

If he’d known just how entangled he’d become with her the moment he chose to follow that falling star, would he still have done it?

Yes, he thinks so many nights later, with his hand on her warm back. Watching her breathe. Filled with wonder that the two of them could be so alike, when they were born millions of miles apart. She’s filled with more light than the stars above them, hardened by the hand life has dealt her and yet still so gentle underneath it all. Wouldn’t trade this for anything.

For now, she only turns to him, hesitating a brief moment before giving a nod. “That would be nice. Thank you.”

“D’you have a name, Miss…?”

“Ziva,” she answers. “Ziva Courtee. And you?”

Ziva Courtee. He takes several tries at tasting it in his mind, letting the peculiar syllables roll over in their up-and-down rhythm.

“Arthur Morgan.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, though I wish the circumstances were different.” says Ziva. “I hate to ask this, but do you know of a place that I can go? I can’t exactly – I don’t think I can stay here.”

Taking her from this place feels like something that Arthur can’t undo. To see her and speak to her is one thing – to guide her out of this wrecked building is another. It speaks of commitment. Under the cover of night, in the shade of isolation, she would be safe – but what happens when the sun rises? When the horses and their men take to the trails? At best, she’d be taken to some big city, captured, studied. At worst, shot on sight.

A dilemma. And she speaks as if none of this is an issue to her, like she can go waltzing out anywhere. He wishes he didn’t have to be the one to tell her that this world is cruel, calloused, as likely to chew you up and spit you out as it is to accept you. There’s a sense of optimism about her, hope.

Thankfully, Arthur knows of a cottage not far from here where she can remain out of sight.

———-

He must’ve been a fool to think that the strange lingo would stop once he took her from the cliffside. All throughout the midnight ride, the woman – Ziva – makes observations on the beauty of the planet and the temperament of his horse. The bag she’d pulled from her ship rattles on her back with Ginger’s every stride, making Arthur wonder what the hell could be packed inside. She tells him that she’s never seen a horse before when he asks if she can ride, but that she’s ridden a few other creatures. Arthur doesn’t even attempt to commit their odd names to memory. He’s having a hard enough time keeping up as it is.

And Ginger loves her. Ginger isn’t exactly an unfriendly horse, but she at least needs to sniff someone’s hand before deciding if she’ll let them pet her or not. Arthur swears that the two of them had made eye contact and formed an immediate friendship. His mare pricked her ears forward for this complete stranger and tossed her head eagerly, like the woman was a walking treat dispenser. Ziva responded in kind by placing her hand to the horse’s velvet nose. Like they already knew one another.

Not that Arthur minds. Horses have sharp instincts, and he’s more likely to trust who Ginger trusts. Even if that particular person happens to be the strangest woman Arthur’s ever met, and he’s rubbed elbows with some strange ones in his time.

The little cottage has been a safehouse of sorts for Arthur when he’s in the area. When he found the place abandoned but comfortable, he made an effort to stock its cabinets with cans of food should he ever need them. A few personal touches. As far as he knows, no one else has ever used the cottage in his absence. Four walls and a roof aren’t always things he gets to indulge in, so he makes use of the place when the chance arises.

They find the house as he left it, to his relief. He isn’t in the mood to deal with anything else after what’s already happened tonight. Ginger comes to a halt by the hitching post, and he feels Ziva shift out of the saddle before he can dismount and help her. Arthur twists his head to the side, ready with a warning. Certain she’ll fall. But Ziva lands light on her feet, hardly making a sound when her boots touch the stone path. At this point he shouldn’t be surprised; rather, he should be open to the idea that she’ll only continue to astound him as time goes on.

“Thank you for letting me into your home,” she says as they enter. “It’s nice.”

Arthur can’t tell if she’s being kind or genuine. There’s not much to the cottage, though it’s suited him well for times of rest. A bed pushed up against the far wall, a chest of drawers and a cabinet. On the back wall, a sturdy fireplace. A small stove, some pots and pans. Some rugs to keep your feet warm in the wintertime. The bookshelf is Arthur’s favorite; he’s slowly been filling it with all the novels he can’t carry or keep in his chest back at camp. Whenever he stops by, he fills the tin cup on the windowsill with a handful of wildflowers – the last bunch is still drying on the sill. A small way to mark the passage of time.

“S’not really mine,” Arthur mumbles, closing the door behind them. “More of a… safehouse, I guess.”

She’s already toeing off her boots, intent on being polite regardless of whether Arthur owns this cottage or not. Her bag goes to the floor, as well. Her socks don’t match. Arthur watches in mild amusement as she places her shoes by the door, smoothing a hand over her loose hair once she pops back up.

“Well, thank you for bringing me here anyway.”

They glance at one another, blue eyes caught on what he now sees are gold, for a long moment. Arthur can’t quite explain the way she looks at him, but it feels so scrutinizing, like she’s searching for something deeper than what he can offer with words. The longer he looks, the more he wants to let his eyes wander down, to the curves of her body. In the rush and panic of discovering one another, there’d been little time to appreciate her beyond the fact that she had no plan of harming him. Now, however, it’s clear to Arthur that she’s a woman in every sense of the word.

It occurs to him that he’s been quiet for too long, gawping like a fool.

“C’n I offer you something to drink?” He blurts out, sounding like the perfect housewife. “Got water, coffee, gin, prob’ly some bourbon…”

“If coffee is anything like caf,” says Ziva, “then I’d love some.”

They settle in at the small table, seeing one another better by fire and lantern light. Ziva takes the coffee he pours gratefully, blowing on the surface of her tin cup. It’s only when she lowers her head that he sees the dried blood clinging to her scalp, as dark as beet juice and blending well with her hair. There’s no way of telling how deep the gash runs – she had mentioned hitting her head.

Arthur feels a stab of worry stick in his chest. If she’s truly injured, running off of the shock of some deeper wound he has yet to see, then there’s no way to get her to a doctor. He can rely only on himself to patch her up, and whatever skills she might possess.

“You okay there?” he asks, keeping his voice calm. “You’re uh, I think you’re bleedin’.”

“Hm?” Her eyes are closed in warm bliss over the rim of her cup, drops of coffee clinging to her lip. A swallow. “Oh – kriff –”

Delicate hands seek the line of her scalp, and when she finds the dried blood he’d been speaking of, Ziva sucks in a sound of pain. Making use of another curse he doesn’t understand, Arthur watches her get to her feet, retrieving her bag from the floor and opening it. She’s wrist deep before Arthur can ask if she needs any help taking a look at the cut, pulling out a tube of thick green liquid. Next comes a little circle of some sort, and a square packet.

“Do y’need me to –?”

Ziva’s already stretching the circle over her wrist, running it through her hair until it’s tied back in a loose ponytail. She tears the corner of the packet with her teeth, easing out a strong-smelling little rag that she runs over the dried blood. She pulls the tube open with a wet-sounding pop, squirting some of the jelly-like substance onto her fingers to massage into her skin.

“Alrighty then,” says Arthur.

“You don’t have bacta here?” she says casually, re-capping the tube.

“What-a?”

“Bacta,” Ziva repeats. “It’s been in use for centuries?”

Her brows knit together at the utterly lost look on Arthur’s face. As if she’s trying to understand. Well, it’s about time she was as confused as he is. Staring hard at the tube still in her hand, she seems to think on something, leaving Arthur sipping his water and wishing it were whiskey.

“What about comms? Basic tech? Interplanetary travel?” Her voice has gone quiet, like she already knows what the answer will be.

“Ma'am,” Arthur begins, trying his best to be gentle. “I’m gonna be honest with you. Most every word outta your mouth has been nonsense to me since you came up outta that hole in the ground. If you weren’t – well – you know – I’d think you were a little soft in the head.”

“If I weren’t what?”

Arthur flushes, aware of the faux pas. Shit.“Well it’s just – I ain’t ever seen a blue lady before,” he manages, addressing the tabletop between them and hoping he isn’t about to get slapped.

“Well, what have you seen?”

“Pardon?”

Ziva gets up with her coffee in hand to pace, and the long metal object on her belt clinks against her side. She drains the cup in one long swallow, and when their eyes catch again, hers are urgent.

“What other sentient species live on this planet? Aside from humans, who lives here?”

He blinks. “That s'posed to be a trick question?”

“Shit shit shit,” she hisses. “Kark.”

Pity swells in his throat for her now. As much as he doesn’t understand most of what she’s said up until now, they’re both beginning to realize what’s going on. Wherever it is she came from, it’s unlikely that she’s going to be able to go back. That thing she flew in looks completely wrecked. And without the parts she’d asked for to fix it, Arthur doesn’t see her leaving.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I – I don’t know what things are like where you’re from. But here, if we fall upon bad news…”

Arthur walks to the cabinet and reaches for the top shelf. “We drink.”

————

She’d wrinkled her nose and refused the first finger of whiskey he’d poured her. But as time goes on, she seems to grow more anxious, and grabs the glass with a long sigh. Arthur chuckles at the look of disgust on her face as she drains it in one go, amber liquid dribbling down her chin. Like she’s seen it done before, but isn’t used to drinking herself.

He feels pleasantly buzzed, floating, light. Now when she tells him things about her life up in the stars, he can nod along, letting go of the anxiety that had sat upon his chest like a boulder. It was all making him think too hard – is all that really out there, in the sky? Other species like her, human-ish? Whole other planets, sprawling worlds, technology he can’t even begin to understand? So he stops trying.

Her voice is nice to listen to. Low and musical, like she’s used to speaking for the sake of distraction. Tonight it’s like she’s rambling on to distract herself, and it’s easy to sense her own worry. Arthur can almost hear what she thinks. How will she get home? She can’t be trapped here. Compared to what she’s used to, this will be misery. They’re both certain of it. He stares at her from across the small table, head cradled in his open palm, listening to her talk about how she was a no-good pilot and that was probably how she’d gotten into this mess.

“Hey,” he says, straightening. “You’re not – you’re not.”

Ziva laughs once, small, bitter. “How would you know? You’ve only seen me crash.”

Well, fair enough. But he doesn’t like the sound of her beating herself up like that. She’d only had one shot of liquor (while he’s had three) before the bottle was stowed away again. No need to get shit-faced on top of everything else. Yet that one shot seems to be enough for her to open up a little. To put aside the regular demeanor and let her fears show.

“Guess you’re right,” Arthur admits. “Still, you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. You’ll be alright.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.” She lets her head drop down to the table, onto her folded arms. “This is a disaster. I – this planet is gorgeous, but I can’t stay. I have a job to do.”

“What’s that?”

He’s looking at her lips now, plump and a darker shade against her light skin. The bottom one is chapped, probably from the nervous habit of scraping her teeth against it. It occurs to Arthur that he shouldn’t know that about her after only a few hours. He also shouldn’t be taking in every detail about her that he can. And yet.

She glances up to him, as if holding back a secret.

“You’re a good man,” says Ziva. “A kind one. If I tell you, can I depend on your silence? Lives rely on the answer. No matter if I’m lost out here or not.”

Flattered by her honesty and somewhat taken aback by the serious turn, Arthur ducks his head. “I’m pretty good at keepin’ secrets,” he answers.

“Okay,” she says, taking a deep breath. “Okay.”

What she tells him continues to make no sense. Arthur doesn’t have a single clue what a Jedi Order is, or Empire, or about any war that followed the end of the former. He only knows that when she reaches out a hand and takes the hat off of his head without moving, he’s too stunned to speak. She places it on her own head with a light laugh; it’s too big for her. Next she takes the pistol from his belt, floating it through the air like a goddamn parlor trick. She’s curious about it, weighing it in her palms and examining the engravings.

If Arthur believed in any sort of God, he might claim it was the devil’s work. Witchcraft. Something.But he’s seen so much of the world, enough to know that there’s still much more out there – things he’ll never begin to understand. Ziva Courtee is simply another, a marvel brought to him by timing and coincidence. And when she tells him about the Force, he believes it. In a way, it makes more sense than any religion he’s had thrust upon him. Life is everywhere, and the fact that some people are more sensitive to its ebb and flow makes sense. Or maybe that’s the whiskey talking.

“Now there’s something else,” she says, her tone turned more serious.

“What, somethin’ better than you showin’ off?”

Arthur feels lighter with her now, a little relieved that she actually can do something terrifying and remarkable. As if he’d known it all along, and seeing it displayed makes the air between them easier.

Ziva rolls her eyes in answer, smiling a little. “No. Though that was kind of fun, to be honest. I need to fix your problem.”

“‘Problem’?” Arthur repeats with a scoff. “What problem?”

“You don’t feel it?”

“Girl, jus’ how drunk did you get off 'a one shot of whiskey?” He grins, but this time, Ziva doesn’t smile back.

Instead she leans across the table, her chair protesting with a creak. With Arthur’s heart thumping madly all the while, she places her palm to the center of his chest, eyes narrowed in concentration. The tips of her petite fingers touch his exposed chest where his shirt is open at the collar, and Arthur feels like the skin there may as well be on fire.

“You’re telling me you can’t feel that?” Her voice is laced with concern now.

He has a few precious seconds to wonder if she’s coming onto him. If this is just how it’s done, up there in her hidden network of stars and planets. Well, he can’t deny that he’s interested in the offer – if that’s what this is. She’s forward and capable and unlike any woman he’s ever met – for an uncountable number of reasons.

Arthur licks his lips, boosted along a little by liquid courage. “I feel you…touchin’ me,” he offers, leaning into her warm hand.

“Well, maybe it’s not that far along yet,” she mutters. “Even so. I’m getting it fixed here and now.”

Now Arthur’s mind has all kindsof ideas about the problems she could fix – particularly the one hardening between his legs – but she doesn’t seem to be on the same page. Ziva pulls her hand away and gets to her feet, expression impassive. As she circles the table, she takes the chair with her, dragging it along behind without the need to touch it at all. Like a kite pulled on its invisible string.

“Right,” she sighs once she’s seated at his side. “Hold very still. Sometimes it’s easier if you close your eyes.”

Now he’s starting to worry. This does notsound like the kind of business he was hoping for, though she places her hand back to the center of his chest. Arthur watches as she closes her own eyes, thick brows scrunched together in concentration.

Almost at once, a cool, numbing feeling spreads out from where she touches him, and Arthur jolts in alarm.

“Shh,” she says. “You’re okay.”

Normally he would object to being soothed like a child, but as soon as the words leave her mouth, he believes them. He is okay. Arthur lets himself sink into the chair, feeling soft and relaxed. His eyes drift shut as Ziva had suggested, and under his closed lids, a blur of good memories float by like a slideshow. Hosea giving him his first horse. Purchasing his first journal. Holding baby Jack for the first time. Only good things, all the while her hand to his chest.

He doesn’t question what the hell’s going on. All he knows is that it feels nice. His body’s been so tired lately, sore and aching. Arthur had been quick to chalk it up to getting old and living hard. Now that Ziva’s fixing his problem, however, he’s starting to wonder if it isn’t – wasn’t – something more. Something serious.

There’s no telling how long they stay like that, suspended in a simple touch. But when she lets him go, Arthur swears that the color is brighter around him. The nagging ache in his joints has finally gone, and each breath in feels deep and clean. He looks at her in amazement, and Ziva offers only a small smile.

“Feel better?”

Arthur nods, mystified. “What did – what the hell wasthat?”

She shrugs. “A Jedi way of healing. I’m just glad I caught your issue before it got you.”

He doesn’t like the sound of that. Swallowing back a lump of anxiety – seems she’d sucked the buzz right out of him, too – Arthur bites his lip.

“Well, thank you,” he says, unsure of where to look.

“You’re very welcome.”

How to begin to repay her? She has no use for his money, of anything on this planet. No use for him. Here she is, this stunning woman with all these abilities, and she’d ended up stuck with him on her first night on Earth. Arthur suddenly feels incredibly insufficient.

“Now who’s being hard on themselves?” She says softly, leaning in closer. “I like you, Arthur. You don’t owe me anything.”

“You’re readin’ my mind,” he says in return, trying to ignore how hot his face feels at the lack of distance between them. “Thought you said that was – considered impolite.”

“Well, your thoughts happen to be very loud,” she teases. “Try whispering them.”

Arthur takes a deep breath. Ziva’s moved in even closer now, her body angled toward his. Her eyes are soft on his mouth, lingering there for a moment before tracing their way back to his own. Now he knows he’s not imagining things – his thoughts may have been loud to her, but her body language screamsflirtation. Telling him that if he wants something, now might be his only chance to get it.

I want to kiss you, he thinks, placing a hand on her knee.

Then do it, she says back, right in the center of his mind.

Their eyes lock, hot and longing. Ziva breaks the distance first, arching up and across the space to press her lips to his own. There’s nothing shy or timid about the way she kisses, and Arthur can feel heat coiling in his stomach as she allows him to respond in kind. The first few touches are gentle, but when it’s clear that both of them are eager for more, Arthur finds himself bringing his hands to her waist as she reacts. Each small sound from her mouth is just kindling for the flame.

She lands in his lap, rising out of her chair and into his own. Arthur spreads his legs to accommodate her, practically purring at the feeling of her weight against his body. It’s been so goddamn long since he’s held anyone like this. There’s no time for it, living the way he does. No chance to stop, to breathe, to love – yet here he is. Nestled away in this pocket of space with an impossible woman, doing exactly what he’s longed for.

Ziva touches him like she’s been waiting, too. This time when she brings a hand to his chest, her fingers sink in to grasp at the material of his shirt, nothing clinical about it. Her urgency surprises him, leaves him wondering if every time he’d been sneaking glances at her, she’d been doing the same. When her mouth opens against his own, Arthur makes a quiet sound into the embrace, twitching in his pants.

“Would you –” he pants, trying to form the words. “Would you be more comfortable on the bed?”

The implications of that question dangle for only the span of a few breaths as she gathers her thoughts.

“Yes,” she decides. Her face flushes darker, and Arthur can’t help but think it’s cute. “I think I would be.”

They don’t waste time getting there. Arthur kicks off his boots in a much less tidy fashion than Ziva had lost hers, and together they sink to the weary mattress. He finds himself wondering if the beds where she’s from are anything like this, or if the place he’s chosen to lay her down seems primitive, unappealing, and –

“Arthur,” she says with a hint of a laugh. “Relax.”

Ziva sits cross-legged across from him, her face bright in the moonlight brought in from the window. She’s sitting so close that her legs touch his, their body warmth intermingling, robbing him of any clever thought or quip. He’s terrified of doing something wrong, even more than he would normally be. The stakes feel higher here, somehow. The reward of her touch grander.

“Sorry,” he musters, setting his gun belt on the floor. “I – well – I jus’ want you to enjoy yourself. That’s all.”

“You’re very sweet,” Ziva replies, and the note of honesty in her voice touches him. “I want that, too. For you.”

She places her hands to his face, calmer than their first contact, letting her thumbs stroke the scruff of his beard. Arthur closes his eyes at the tender feeling, aware that something in his chest feels dangerously loose and soft. Ziva’s mouth brushes his again, so light he might’ve imagined it if he weren’t so awareof her, and he reaches out to cradle the back of her head. His hand tangles in the dark blue waves, careful not to pull, and Ziva clambers back into his lap like she never left it.

———————-

A/N:What better day to release this than the day the Kenobi show airs? (I haven’t watched it yet, no spoilers please!) I am SHAKING!!

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Thanks for the idea, @sadcowboah​! He does need to be spoiled. 

Summary: It’s come to your attention that Arthur is working himself too hard. You aim to change that – or at least give him some of the care and attention he deserves.

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x AFAB Reader, she/her pronouns (Second Person Perspective)

Rating: Explicit

Tags: modern AU, established relationship, high honor Arthur, drinking/alcohol mention, pet names, fluff, porn with plot, reader has hair long enough to grab, healthy communication, lingerie, smut, blowjobs, sub Arthur/bottom Arthur, face-fucking, come swallowing, dirty talk, rimming, handjobs, multiple orgasms, mild gender fuckery, doggy style, praise kink, anal fingering, pegging 

Word Count: 9.9K

Requests are currently closed! Thank you for understanding!

If you like what I write and can afford to do so, please consider buying me a coffee! It would be much appreciated.

There’s a very annoying sound coming from the kitchen every five minutes, and it’s disturbing your morning peace. In your state of semi-consciousness, you’re not able to grasp what it could be – only that it’s sharp and grating before engulfing your house in silence again, leaving as soon as it’d come. Only when the noise interrupts your on-again, off-again attempts at going back to sleep for the sixth or seventh time do you give up and roll out of bed.

It’s the goddamn microwave.Someone left something in the microwave, never took it out, and the thing’s been beeping for what could be hours now. Desperate to remind you that there’s food still inside. Blinking the sleep out of your eyes, you pop it open, and find a plate of last night’s leftovers. They’ve long gone cold.

You think you know where this is going.

Sure enough, when you round the corner into the living room, there he is. Still dressed in his work clothes and sleeping hard despite the ray of sunlight falling on his face, Arthur’s passed out on the couch after another overtime shift. Even though it disappoints you to know that he didn’t even eat before he ended up here, you can’t say it surprises you. This is the third day this week his job’s asked him to work late, after promising that it would be “a one-time thing”. Not to mention all the times it’s already happened this month. You feel like you barely see him sometimes.

Yet Arthur rarely complains, knowing that overtime brings in better pay, and feeling guilty leaving his company short-staffed. God, sometimes he’s too nice. If that were you, you’d agree to extra hours once or twice and tell them to deal with it once it started interfering with your home life. But no – not Arthur. Despite his tough outward appearance, he’s a big softie.

Hard to believe there was ever a time when you didn’t know that about him. Especially when you’ve been together so long, sharing space and a bathroom and meals. A bed. (Most nights, anyway.) Yet you can still remember him as the man with the mean scowl – and how it melted when you shyly asked him if he’d like to dance. He’d tripped over his own tongue, until finally managing to tell you that he couldn’t dance for shit. Looking equal parts embarrassed and terrified that you’d come up to him with such a question.

The bar is a little hole in the wall joint, with all the fixings you’d expect from such a place. Sticky countertops, neon signs advertising beers you’ll never drink. A jukebox that hasn’t been used in a decade. “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” playing in earnest about once an hour. Almost from a different time, still trying to hang on. It wouldn’t surprise you if this bar goes out of business soon. The few lonely souls still drinking here seem like no more than ghosts themselves, relics of a different age.

You sip on your mango daiquiri, feeling the cherry on top bump your lip, and take another weary look around the place. Not exactly the bar you’d had in mind when it’d popped up on your phone, though there isn’t much you can do about it. You’re new in town, trying to get familiar with what there is to do in a place so rural. You’re quickly learning the answer; not much. I’ll finish this and go, you think to yourself. Head back home.

You’re down to the whipped cream in the bottom of your glass when the cowboy walks in. Heads turn as he lets in sunlight through the creaking door, a few exclamations of recognition ringing out as he moves across the room. The man only raises a hand in response, nodding at folks as he makes his way to the bar. He’s younger than everyone else in here, you note, the old souls come to drown their sorrows. Closer to your age.

This man wears a dusty flannel shirt and real cowboy boots, tapping across the hardwood, each step pronounced. Jeans that fit him well. Brown hair tousled to one side. He takes a seat at the bar, says something to the man behind the counter that you can’t make out over the low country blues playing from the speakers above you. The bartender grins in answer, handing him a beer.

Your glass is empty now, with only whipped cream residue clinging to its sides to show that there was ever anything in it in the first place. Sure, you said you’d leave after one drink…but what’s the harm in staying for one more? It’s not like you have anywhere to be tonight. Your belongings are more or less unpacked, back at your new place. There’s nothing urgent to attend to in the next few hours. You’re free as a bird, as the saying goes. Does your newfound desire to stick around have anything to do with the man that just walked in?

Well, yes.

Feeling somewhat shy, you amble up to the counter (steering clear of the handsome stranger for now) and order yourself another daiquiri. Letting the first sweet sip melt on your tongue, you settle in the back of the bar. It feels weird to watch someone like this, but you have a feeling you need a bit more alcohol in you before you can find the courage to walk up and say hello.

Two drinks later, your feet are tapping along to the music, though you’ve never heard the song in your life. The neon lights shimmer a little brighter under your pleasant buzz, your confidence bolstered after each fruity drink. Now you’re not trying to hide the way you look at the man sitting across the room, though he hasn’t glanced over at you once. He seems content to sip his beer and scroll through his phone, keeping to himself. That, combined with his simple good looks, keeps you lingering at your little table for much longer than you meant to.

Why is it so hard to get out and meet new people? To take that first leap? For a split second, you almost leave the bar, worried that you’ll be bothering him. But you swallow down the strike of fear; you’ve waited this long. You can at least go over and say hello. Leaving your half-full glass on the table, you get to your feet, ignoring how the world tries to wobble around you. You’ve got this. The worst he can do is tell you to fuck off, right?

Shouldn’t have thought of that. But the man is only feet away now, close enough to touch, and you tremble out your greeting.

“Um, excuse me.”

He turns, putting his phone down. “Yeah?”

Your first thought is that you’ve made a terrible mistake. What were you thinking, walking up to a stranger with no game plan? As soon as you see the suspicious frown on his face, every conversation topic you’ve ever heard of vanishes from your head. It occurs to you that although this man’s handsome, he’s also…frightening. Your heart skips, wondering if perhaps he will tell you to fuck off, dashing all your hopes of making a friend – or more – in such an unfamiliar place.

Above you, the music changes, the track sliding into another uptempo number meant to get people out of their seats. There is something of a dance floor here, though you doubt it’s actually been used in years.

Without much thought, you use the shift in song to your advantage. “Would you like to dance? With – with me?”

Oh, smooth. Real smooth.

The music plays on for a few beats while he stares at you, eyebrows raising as if he hadn’t heard you right. When he realizes that you’re going to keep standing here until you get an answer, his eyes dart down to his lap, almost shy, before taking a last swig of his beer.

“I can’t dance for shit,” he admits at last. “You sure you got – the right feller?”

He twists to look around the room, answering his own question. No one else in here looks much like him. There are a few old-timers nursing whiskeys hanging around the edges of the room or sitting at the bar. To be honest, they aren’t the type of men you’re interested in.

“We don’t have to dance,” you amend, wishing you hadn’t abandoned your glass back at the table. It would be nice to have something to wrap your hands around while you humiliate yourself. “Um. I’ve just – been sitting over there working up the courage to say hi, and that’s the first stupid question that popped into my head.”

The man’s face goes soft.

Not much for dancin’,” he says, “But if you want to sit and talk, I don’t mind. Name’s Arthur. You new in town? Don’t reckon I’ve seen you around.“

Arthur pats the barstool beside him, and you pull yourself onto it, numb with relief. That could’ve gone so much worse, even if you’d fumbled your way through it.

For the next few hours, you nurse a bottle of water, getting to know the man beside you. Turns out, he isn’t as tough and scary as he looks. Once the two of you break past that initial awkward layer of first-time conversation, Arthur has plenty to say, plenty to ask you, all without making you feel uncomfortable or pressured. Talk flows easily – about the town, what you both do for a living, how you’d ended up in this bar. Turns out Arthur – Arthur Morgan – is kind, and a little funny, and very easy to get along with.

Funny how one little chance encounter can lead to deciding to share your life with someone. Years later and now you’re staring down at his sleeping face, deciding whether to wake him or let him rest a little longer. He’s spread out across the couch that you bought second hand in a Goodwill, after deciding to move in together. Sleeping in the living room decorated with your mishmash of belongings. His wooden carvings of animals, your prints from local artists. Everything signaling that your lives are mingled in a way that’s impossible to pull apart. Your home – this physical place – belongs to the people inside it as much as you belong to one another.

"Arthur,” you say softly, crouching down. “Honey. Hey.”

He stirs after a few shakes on the shoulder. And though Arthur seems confused – and still tired – upon waking, he doesn’t fail to smile when he sees your face. That’s worth more than all the extra money he’s intent on bringing home. Arthur leans in to give you a kiss on the forehead, and you pull him into a hug. It’s warm and familiar, and though you wish he would’ve been there to join you in bed the night before, there’s no denying that the man’s cozy in any capacity.

“Mornin’, sweetheart.”

“Morning,” you answer, letting yourself melt into the smell of him.

Sawdust, cedarwood, and a hint of leather, all combining to form your favorite man. When he told you he was a carpenter all those years ago, you thought it suited him. His hands were calloused, hardened from work but dexterous, too. He’s been doing carpentry since he was just sixteen, apprenticing under two men who were kind enough to take him on for a summer. You know he’s lucky to be so experienced in the trade, yet you can’t help but resent it a little, too. Arthur’s company can never resist taking advantage of his spare time or his expertise.

“Didn’t get to your dinner, I see.”

“No,” he says, with a hint of guilt. Arthur pulls away, sitting up with a stretch and a wince. “Never quite – made it there.”

“But you’ll be home in time for dinner tonight, right?” His hesitation is all the answer you need. You sigh in frustration, getting to your feet again. “Arthur… I miss you. Are you at least off tomorrow, still?”

“Yes!” he’s quick to assure you. “Yeah, I wouldn’t – wouldn’t go in on a day off.”

When you don’t reply, Arthur sighs too, wringing his hands. “I know, it’s gettin’ pretty bad. I keep tryin’ to talk to Dutch about it, but he always says he’s busy, to have faith that we’re gonna get through this bad patch. I dunno, darlin’. It sucks.”

“I’m worried about you.” You move to sit down beside him, leaning your weight against his shoulder. “All this overtime isn’t healthy. Did you even get lunch yesterday?”

He mumbles out something unintelligible. You have a feeling that means no. Damn it, this man sure knows how to stress you out, doesn’t he? You take a steadying breath, determined not to take your frustration and worry with the situation out on Arthur. The two of you can discuss this like adults – after you’ve both got a meal in your stomachs.

“I can make breakfast,” you offer. “How about you get in the shower?”

“I’d love that.” Again Arthur’s lips land on your face, teasing kisses on your cheek, the bridge of your nose. “Thankyou.”

You part ways. Humming along to the playlist you start from your phone’s music app, you reach into the cabinets and pull out what you’ll need to make pancakes. Chocolate chip for you, blueberry for him. Arthur won’t be expecting you to be making anything fancier than eggs and toast, but you don’t mind working a little harder. God knows he’s been busting his ass here lately.

By the time you get the batter mixed up and the skillet hot, you notice that Arthur’s left his phone lying on the kitchen counter. Not unusual; you both leave yours to charge out here overnight. What catches your eye is his screen lighting up, right as you ladle the first circle of batter down, scattering a handful of blueberries into its pale center. You don’t mean to be nosy. But the glance you get of the screen tells you that Arthur has an email, and you’ve read the first line on instinct.

We adore your work, and the position is open if you’d ever consider –

The notification vanishes, leaving only one more clue behind it; who’d sent the email in the first place. Maker’s Art Studio. You know the name. It’s a place outside of town; one or two of the paintings decorating your house have come from the artists who work there. You didn’t know that Arthur sent them some of his own stuff. Not that you don’t think it’s a great idea; he’s an amazing artist. Whether it’s woodwork or done on paper, Arthur has creative talent far beyond what you can manage.

What you’d seen stays in your mind as each pancake cooks, flips, and makes its way to a plate. By the time Arthur’s out of the shower, you’re almost done, sorting them into neat stacks and getting the syrup out of the pantry. He thanks you for the extra effort put into making them, insisting you didn’t have to go through the trouble, and you reply by telling him it’s no trouble at all. A routine you know all too well – the man has a hell of a time taking a bit of kindness when it comes his way.

As you eat together in companionable silence, you struggle with whether to remark on the email. Do you admit to seeing it and tell him you know he’s thinking about leaving his job? You’d be nothing but supportive. At the same time, it might spark defensiveness in him. Knowing Arthur, submitting anything he’s drawn or made to the art studio would be something he did on a whim, without expecting a real response from them. And now that he’s gotten one, he’ll be keen to ignore them, conflicted about the opportunity they’re presenting.

Staring at your chocolate-chip freckled pancakes, you decide to let it be, for now. He’s still got one more overtime shift to get through before his day off tomorrow. Maybe after a little rest, he’ll be more open to talking about something like that. You don’t want to spring that on him when he only has a few more hours before going right back into work. It’s difficult enough to navigate talk about all the extra overtime he’s taken on here lately. He’s tired, you’re frustrated, and both of you sorely miss one another.

“What do you want to do tomorrow?” you spear your last bite of pancake, frowning when a string of syrup attaches itself to your chin.

“Nothin’, really.” Arthur gets up from the kitchen table, putting both of your plates in the sink. “Stay in. Be lazy. Wouldn’t say no to not leavin’ the bed at all, if that’s okay. Watchin’ some movies or somethin’.”

“I can get behind that.” You hesitate. “Are you – are you gonna talk to Dutch? About these hours?”

“I’ll say somethin’,” he answers, though with a little less confidence than you’d like to hear. “I know I’m not the only one gettin’ tired of it.”

“Thank you.”

It isn’t until long after he’s gone, packed up once more in his faithful blue pickup truck, that a plan starts to form in your mind.

————

Arthur comes home late, as you knew he would. This time you stay up to hear him unlock the door, kicking off his boots with a world-weary sound. You’re restless as he makes his way to the kitchen, opening the fridge to find the plate you’ve saved. Even as the firm hand of sleep threatens to press down again on your eyes, you don’t want to roll over until you hear him eating it. The microwave whirs into life, and this time, Arthur opens the door right before the beep can sound. You relax a little, hearing him take it out – the silverware drawer rattles, shortly followed by a chair pulled out at the table.

The next thing you know, his side of the bed dips, bringing you back to consciousness. You must’ve drifted off after hearing him get his dinner. Arthur’s hand lands gently on your shoulder, to check if he’s woken you, and you turn to face him.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “Go on back to sleep, sweetheart.”

“Mmm…” you take his hand and kiss it, pleased when he lowers himself to the mattress and crawls under the blanket with you. “S’okay.”

Arthur pulls you close, his chest against your back, and you wiggle to remove any distance that might remain. You love being tucked in, cuddled up and cozy. To be honest, you wouldn’t mind spending an entire day off like this, as he’d suggested. But you’ve got other things you want to do – things you know that Arthur will enjoy. The thought makes you smile a little as he settles against you with a drowsy sound.

“Love you,” he says, a low murmur. “Jus’ you and me tomorrow. You lookin’ forward to it?”

You grin. “More than you know.”

————–

You’d found the nice lingerie lingering in the back of your closet. Something bought when your relationship was brand new, heated, and willing to ignite with only a touch. The babydoll set is dark blue and sheer, with a matching thong. Oh, you remember the first time he’d seen you in it. Even now, running the lace over your fingers, you get goosebumps at the memory.

He’d run his hand up your skirt after a teasing remark that you’d dressed up for him that night, felt the material. The look on his face was priceless; mild shock fading into bottomless lust. The two of you barely made it inside before he was undressing you, drinking you in with an appreciative growl between kisses. Slipping the thong to the side so he could push inside you, right there in the hallway. Hard, fast, so fucking good –

You swallow, throat gone dry. Right now, Arthur’s still asleep. With any luck, he’ll stay that way for a while. You’ve done him the favor of snoozing his regular alarm for a few hours – lord only knows why the man thinks he needs to get up so early on his day off. In the meantime, you’re going to get a start on the day.

Slipping out of your regular pajamas, you don the lingerie, careful that nothing’s peeking out before putting your oversized t-shirt and sweatpants back on. Can’t have him guessing your little secret too soon. With that done, you crouch at the bottom of the closet to look for the other things you’ll need today, smiling a little as you hold them. It’s been a long time since they’ve gotten any use. Toolong.

With that done, you settle back on the bed, content to wait. Though you’d turned off his alarm, it isn’t long before Arthur wakes up on his own anyway – some habits are hard to break. He’s always been an early riser, even before moving to these annoying mid-day shifts. You shuffle in the covers to face him as he blinks awake, bumping your forehead to his in a playful greeting.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

He hums in response, dragging a warm arm over your waist. “Mornin’, angel.”

The low, drowsy rasp of his voice goes right through you. There’ve been many, manytimes when you’ve heard Arthur’s voice lowered like that in a moment of passion, teasing, whispering the filthiest things. And the last time he’d called you angel…well. The situation had been anything but innocent.

Damn. The idea was to build up to this before you pounced on him, but your pulse is already flying. You and Arthur haven’t had sex in a week – no – twoweeks?– and even sitting across the table from him eating a meal is starting to affect you. Watching his hands, wishing they were on your body. Trading smiles and hoping he can’t see what’s going on in your head. Touching yourself alone, wanting him to be there more than anything.

Arthur’s hard, but that’s not a surprise. He’s just woken up, after all. Still, you gravitate down, trailing your fingers down the planes of his stomach until you’re holding what you want through the material of his sweatpants. Arthur feels thick and solid and good in your grasp, and you fight not to let out a little sound of want. To let this all seem casual.

“Hey,” he chuckles. “Hold up there, missy. Where d'you think you’re goin’ with that hand?”

You grin, nosing into the soft hair of his stomach. The trail leads right where you want to go, and you can hear Arthur’s breath catch when you shift lower.

“Who said anything about my hand?”

Giving him one more squeeze, you let go of his length. Now Arthur’s fully hard, watching you with lake-blue eyes devoid of tiredness. You kiss more on the expanse of his stomach, right where his sweatpants meet his hips, knowing he’ll squirm at the building anticipation. Arthur loves having your mouth on his cock, though he rarely asks for it. Sliding a finger under the waistband, you teasingly slip his pajamas down, exposing a little of his hip for you to see.

“You don’t – have to,” Arthur breathes out, though the look in his eyes suggests he very much wants you to proceed.

“Been working so hard lately.” You gesture for him to raise up, and Arthur does so without a beat of hesitation. The sweatpants shuffle down to his knees, underwear too, leaving his shaft to bob up eager and flushed. “Let me spoil you for a minute.”

“Yesma'am –” Arthur’s voice trembles as you press your lips to his cockhead, the lightest kiss.

You like the sound of that word in his mouth.

“Attaboy.”

The soft sigh that leaves him when you lick down the underside of his cock sends goosebumps up your arms. With one hand, you grasp him tight at the base, slowly stroking what you can’t fit in your mouth – which, admittedly, is a lot. Lavishing attention on the sensitive tip, you take your sweet time before you even put your mouth around him, sucking in your cheeks to apply that pressure you know he craves.

“Fu– sweetheart,” he whines, twisting a careful hand into your hair. “That’s so good.”

You purr in response, a deep, throaty sound that sends vibrations through what you’re sucking on. Looking up to make eye contact, you find Arthur staring down at you, brows knit together in earnest concentration. He’s chewing hard on his lip, like it’s taking everything in him to stay so still for you. Like he’s holding back to keep from thrusting, from fucking your mouth and coming hard. Doubtless he’s had some alone time with his hand in the weeks you’ve gone without sex, but the desperation on his face drives you wild anyway.

Opening your throat, you take him deeper. This is the part about oral you don’t like much. Not the ache in your jaw, but the inevitable drip of drool that follows from having something so large shoved in your mouth for so long. For Arthur, though, you’re willing to tough it out. Especiallyif he’s going to be so enthusiastic.

Your hand and mouth work in tandem to keep all of him stimulated. Arthur’s hips flex off of the mattress, just a little, but it’s enough for you to feel the difference in the back of your throat. He wants to go faster – the sharp puffs of breath he’s huffing out with every thrust prove it – and you know he’d never ask. No; the man needs your permission.

“Arthur,” you say quietly, pulling off of him with little elegance. “Do you want to fuck my throat?”

He hesitates, swallows. Inches from your face, his dick is bright pink and leaking, shiny with your spit. His balls lie full and heavy underneath, and the longer he takes to answer, the more you squirm. God, you want to fuck him.

“Yes,” he admits at last. “But you don’t have to if you don’t want. If you ain’t comfortable.”

“Arthur,”you say again, more insistent this time. Arousal pounds its way between your legs, a heartbeat. “I told you I wanted to spoil you. And if I need to stop, I will. Okay?”

Arthur mumbles his agreement as you rise to your knees, gesturing that you should switch places. In an instant, Arthur follows your command, letting you lie flat on your back in the bed as he straddles your chest, breathing heavily to linger over you. He nudges his cock to your lips, his gaze uncertain, and you flash him a reassuring smile.

“C'mere.”

You get your hand around him again, adjusting so that you’re in a better position to take him like this. Looking at your partner with eyes full of trust, you place your lips around him once more, and Arthur takes it as his cue. He thrusts into the wet heat of your mouth, gently at first. When you place your hands on his hips and moan out your wordless encouragement, letting him know that you can take more, he ups the pace.

“Fuck,” he says softly, letting his eyes slip closed as he finds a steady rhythm. “Oh, oh fuck –”

There we go.

With his sweatpants still tangled around his ankles, Arthur starts to lay into you. Every thrust gets a little harder, a little sloppier, as he loses himself in the bliss of your mouth swallowing him up. You only gaze up at him with all the smirk you can manage. It’s a pleasure to see him like this, completely lostin passion. There are so few opportunities to see Arthur let go and think only about himself, especially when it comes to sex.

From the way he’s gripping onto the shoulders of your t-shirt, you don’t think it’ll last much longer. There’s a desperate snap to his hips now, something frantic in the way he utters your name. The bed creaks a little as he fucks your throat, gasping and panting and screwing up his face in that gorgeous expression that you know means –

“Sweetheart, oh my god yes –!”

The first hot pulse hits the back of your throat and you swallow on instinct. Arthur pulls back, not wanting to choke you, and a dribble of come paints your lips and cheek. You reach up to wipe it away, tasting it as he watches, and he makes a little sound of want.

“Sorry,” he says, scooting back off of your chest. “Didn’t realize I was that close.”

“I didn’t mind.” You give him another grin, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

Arthur all but pouts. “What kinda question is that?!”

You giggle, rolling over on your stomach. “I just had to make sure! You always say it to me.”

“Guess I do.” He ruffles your hair fondly before rising from the mattress with a slight wince. Sore from work again, you’re sure. All the more reason for the two of you to stay in bed today and follow the plans you’ve made. “Think I’m gonna hop in the shower. You comin’?”

Normally you would. You love bathing together, getting all warm and soapy under the hot water. But you’re already dressed and ready for him, and letting Arthur go alone gives you the perfect opportunity to set up in here.

“Nah, I – I’m good,” you say, hoping it sounds casual. “You go ahead.”

Arthur shrugs. “Alright.”

Grabbing fresh clothes, he heads out, without any further scrutiny. Perfect. Now that he’s gone, you shut the bedroom door and take off your pajamas, revealing the lingerie underneath. Giving yourself a quick once-over in the full length mirror to make sure it’s not wrinkled, a little thrill goes through you to see how good you look in it. You’re sure Arthur will think so, too.

Next, you grab the other things that stay tucked away in the closet when you’re not using them, secure in a plastic storage box. The strap-on harness feels good in your hands, just as you know it’ll feel against your body. Along with it comes your favorite dildo. Slightly curved, not too huge, perfect for hitting certain sweet spots in a cowboy who’s been overworking himself.

You place the toys on the floor beside the nightstand, pulling a bottle of lube from the drawer. When you hear the shower water stop running, you take care to arrange yourself nicely on top of the blankets; legs crossed, back straight. Waiting. Only minutes until he comes back to find you like this. You’re almost nervous.

Arthur doesn’t disappoint. His eyes land on you as soon as the bedroom door opens, his surprise quickly turning to appreciation. And though he’d been in the process of putting on a shirt, he stops as he takes you in, perhaps realizing that doing so would be counterproductive. You can’t help the rush of excitement that spikes through your chest as Arthur approaches the bed, his eyes full of renewed lust.

“What’s all this?” he says lightly, tossing the shirt on the floor.

“You said you wanted to stay in bed all day,” you reply, letting your legs fall open. “I figured I could make it…interesting.”

“Oh?”

He sinks onto the mattress, crawling toward you with a knowing smirk. Your breath hitches as one of his big hands squeezes your ankle, his palm sliding up your bare calf. The look of enjoyment on his face only grows the further up you let that hand go – past your knee, to your thigh, higher. Arthur’s fingers rest on your barely-covered pussy as he straddles you, arm dipping low between your bodies.

“That why you’re wrapped up all pretty like a present for me?”

Come on, think. Say something.

Arthur reaches up to trace the little bow between your breasts before pinching one of your nipples, drawing a little mewl out of you. The bulge of his cock presses deep into your core, hardening again after the brief respite, and you arch up into him on instinct. Every muscle in your body wants to give in, to let him slip your lace panties down and take you now.But this isn’t what you had in mind – and it definitely won’t benefit his sore back and knees.

“Yes and no,” you manage, trembling when his mouth finds your earlobe.

“Now, what does that mean?”

“Itmeans,” you say, fighting to keep your voice from quivering, “that you lie here on this bed and let me do the work.”

“You sure you want that?” he whispers.

His length is rock-solid against your body, a promise of what he could give you if only you said the word. God, you know he would lay into you if you asked. Grabbing you by the waist and fucking you deep with every thrust, bracing your legs on his shoulders. Or taking you from behind, shaking the whole bed frame. Rendering you speechless with the ferocity of every motion.

“I want you to relax even more.”

Arthur grins. “Fuckin’ you would relax me.”

You roll your eyes a little. “How about Ifuckyou for a change? Work you open until you’re ready for my cock? How does that sound?”

Now it’s Arthur’s turn to look flustered. He twitches against your belly, like even the thought is enough to excite him. His face is a light pink, like the concept is something he’s thought about more than once recently. Like it’s something he wants, maybe even more than the original idea he’d proposed.

“Been so long since we did that…” he breathes, licking his lips.

“Mm…” You lean up to kiss him. “Does that mean the answer’s yes, or no?”

There’s passion in the way he kisses you back, his tongue swiping at your bottom lip in only seconds. His hips rut into you over and over, relieving the friction, and you can’t help moaning at the feeling. You ache for him, knowing that if this little game goes on much longer you won’t be able to resist having him take you. Luckily, Arthur lifts up, dragging his gaze over your rumpled lingerie with eyes that burn.

“That’s gonna be a yes,” he says. “So long as I get to pay you back before the day’s through.”

You don’t protest, but it’s a near thing. Here you are making a big deal about him not having to do anything but relax and enjoy himself, and what does he do? Insist on paying you back in kind. Well, you’ll just have to spoil him so good that he forgets about it. Today you aim to pamper him, make him forget about the goddamned overtime and all the aches that come with it. Hell, maybe you’ll even make him get serious about telling his boss he needs to work less.

“Whatever you want,” you answer instead, reaching to squeeze his ass.

That’s enough to get him up. Giggling a little at his sudden motivation to switch places, you lean over the edge of the bed and fish up your strap-on. Arthur raises his eyebrows, looking from the dildo to you and back, and you smile innocently as you clamber off the bed. He shifts to make himself comfortable, watching as you place one leg through the straps, then the other, tightening them as you go.

“Had the whole thing set up and ready?”

“Sure did,” you say cheerfully, sliding your cock into place.

He bites his lip as he watches it bob up and down, one hand clenching beside him in the blankets. When it comes your turn to dominate, you know he has a tendency to get…impatient. Because as slow and as sweet as Arthur can be when he’s making love to you – or as fast and as hard as you can ask him to be – he’s a writhing mess under your ministrations. The instant you touch his hole, he has trouble keeping composure. That’s part of what you love about this.

And seeing such a powerful man brought to heel? Well, there’s nothing wrong with getting off on that, either. Instead of grabbing the lube off the nightstand to start opening him up like you normally would, you give Arthur an easygoing smile. Rejoining him on the bed, you position yourself back between his open legs, placing a hand on each thigh, stroking in soothing circles. He shudders in a trembling breath when you straddle his waist, your length brushing up against his, eager to kiss you again.

His bare skin feels good through the lace. With almost no barrier between you, you can feel his heart working hard. This time, Arthur lets you lead the touch, backing off and allowing you to do what you please as you press your lips to his again and again. But he’s still holding onto you – as eager as he seems about the whole situation, you’d be concerned if he wasn’t. His hands grip your ass as you roam lower, breaking the kiss to nip at his neck and collarbone.

“Haveyou been thinking about this?” you ask.

Your breath ghosts over his nipple, and you’re pleased to see it perk up in response. He’s sensitive here, too, but you won’t focus on them today. This is only a prelude as you toy with him, seeing how much he’ll take.

“It’s a – possibility,” he says, already hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants to get them off for you. A brief moment passes as they get tossed to the floor, leaving him naked for you. “Missed you so much, sweetheart. Been way too long.”

“I know,” you murmur.

When you dip your head to the tip of his cock, you know what he’s expecting. That you’ll take him in your mouth again, tease a little before moving on. Not this time. If your hunch is right, he’ll like this better. Instead you breeze past it, unable to keep yourself from gripping him once in your hand before going lower. You kiss at the skin of his balls, lavishing attention on them for a moment.

“Hand me the lube?”

Arthur does as you ask, reaching over. The familiar little bottle lands beside you, and you grab it with a soft thanks.The cap pops, liquid inside moving sluggishly as it’s tilted upside-down. This particular bottle is flavored, something both of you have had an exorbitant amount of fun with since you bought it. The mild scent of strawberries greets you now as you squeeze a little into your hand, rubbing it between your fingers.

“Now spread for me, gorgeous.”

He does, without even a protest at the compliment. You’re proud of him for it, grinning to yourself as you warm the lube with your breath. Carefully, you touch two digits to his hole, feeling him flinch at first. After it’s spread around to your liking, you lower your mouth back down to his thigh, kissing delicately as the tip of your middle finger works in circles. Only teasing, for now. Arthur’s breath comes in short bursts, like he’s too busy concentrating on what you’re doing to remember how to suck in a full inhale.

Wiggling to lie on your side, you drift back to his cock, giving it one slow lick. He arches up, groaning at the feeling, and you have to marvel at how goddamn good Arthur looks like this. Just lying here, waiting for whatever you’re willing to do to him. You never knew being in charge was such an incredible turn-on until you started dating Arthur, but now that you have the knowledge, there’s no going back.

You nose down further. He gasps quietly when you pass his balls, kissing down the skin of his perineum, clenching when your hot breath touches his hole.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers. “God fuck –”

“You want my mouth?” your voice is low, sultry, one hand caressing the back of his thigh. “You want me to help get you ready like this?”

His answering moan is helpless. “Please.”

“Just relax. I’ve got you.”

Taking another moment to kiss around his entrance without actually touching it, you let him get used to the sensation of having you there. And when you place your tongue to him, Arthur’s thighs tighten around you with a quiet curse. You start with small licks, using only the tip of your tongue against his hole. He tastes like lube and warm, clean skin. Circling his hole incites a string of drawn-out whimpers as Arthur fights not to arch up into your mouth.

What is it with this man and holding back? You think in exasperation, spreading his thighs wider. Some instinct from who knows how long ago always seems to press on the back of his mind. He never wants to go all-out unless you tell him it’s okay. While you appreciate the concern for your own comfort – you really do – you want to see Arthur let loose and enjoy himself, too.

“Feel good?”

“Feelsso good,” he says at once, his voice colored with honesty and lust.

The confession makes you even wetter within the confines of the flimsy lace thong. With the material of the strap-on rubbing against it, the sensation only burns brighter. A part of you is impatient to be inside him, to finally watch your cock sink into his body – but all in due time.

“Don’t be afraid to tell me what you want,” you urge. “This is about you.”

Arthur nods, though you aren’t certain he’s going to take advantage of that open invitation. Then, with a shaky breath, he speaks again.

“Want you to – go faster. Please.”

You grin. Wordlessly, you press your tongue back to his tight hole, licking at an ever-increasing pace. Arthur moans above you, running a hand through your hair like he can’t decide whether to hold you back or push you in deeper.

“Can you, um,” he starts, cutting himself off like asking would be too much. You wait patiently, kissing up and down his taint until he can find the words. “t-touch me? While you –?”

“While I eat you out?” It’s hard to get a good look at his face from here, but you’re almost positive that he’s blushing. Satisfied with that response, you reach up and grasp his cock tight. “Of course, sweet boy.”

As you start stroking him in time with what you’re doing to his ass, Arthur begins to lose his sense of control. You hear him slap a hand over his mouth to stifle the loud sound of pleasure – but it echoes into the bedroom regardless. A stifled groan as he finally lifts his hips and thrusts into what you’re doing. You answer with your own encouragement, flicking the tip of your tongue inside of him, rewarded with a strong tug at your hair.

“Darlin’ oh god yes,” he gasps out. “Jus’ like that – keep goin’ – please, please don’t stop –”

“You gonna come for me?” you say roughly, pausing only to ask the question and lick a wet stripe up the base of his cock.

“Yes –!”

The single word is high, desperate bliss, and in the seconds that follow, Arthur keeps his promise. He shoots over his own stomach, over your hand, keening your name as each pulse brings more come. You shimmy onto your knees, kissing Arthur’s as you do, happy to see him staring up at the ceiling blissed out and covered in his own mess.

His eyes slide to you. “Goddamn, woman.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment?”

“Pssh. C'mere.”

You tuck yourself under his arm, happy to rest for a minute or two. His skin is warm and sticky with sweat, and you’re proud that you did that to him. Arthur’s pulse still pounds when you rest your head on his shoulder, and you snuggle in there, grinning. Of course, you’ll both have to pause and clean up a little in a minute, but for now…rest. Then back to your plans.

“You sure are spoilin’ me,” he says after a beat of quiet. His lips brush your temple, light but fervent. “I appreciate it, sweetheart. Appreciate you. Not jus’ this, but – all of it. Everything. Your patience. Your…kindness.”

Arthur sighs, looking away. “You know I ain’t good at this. Better at writin’ it down. But I wanted you to know.”

You’re struck with a glow of warmth for the man that has nothing to do with the temperature of his skin.

“You’re sweet,” you say, kissing his shoulder. He tastes like salt, but you can’t bring yourself to mind. “You know I appreciate you too. Your hard work and everything youdo for me.”

“Hard work,” Arthur repeats with a sigh. “Seems like it ain’t gonna stop here lately.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Do you let the conversation fizzle out? Or…bring up what you’d seen on his phone yesterday? This wouldn’t be a terrible segue. And the longer you have time to think about it, the more you really want him to try and accept the position they’re offering. In an art studio, he wouldn’t just have the opportunity to sell and paint new work. He’d be teaching others. You know he’d love it.

“So, um…” you begin, awkward. “I saw something on your phone yesterday morning.”

He turns to look at you. “Shit. If it was a text from Sean, don’t take it serious –”

“No, not that.” Though you’re sure he’s right. “An email popped up. From Maker’s Art Studio?”

Arthur lets his head fall back to the pillows, seeming to sink back into the mattress like he’s deflating. “Oh. Yeah.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I dunno, sweetheart,” he says, tone going earnest. “It means I’d love to try and do somethin’ like that but I’m worried. What if it ain’t enough money? What if the benefits aren’t good? What if I’m not any good at it?”

The doubts are listed off on his fingers one after another, like it’s something he’s given a lot of thought to. Just as you’d suspected, Arthur’s ignoring the good things about this opportunity because he’s scared about what could go wrong. He’s a notorious worrier – about you, about his friends, about anything important to him. And it holds him back.

“Arthur,” you say softly, making sure he’s looking at you. “I think that you’re –”

“Only focusin’ on the negative,” he finishes. “I know, I know. But takin’ such a different job after all this time – it’s a big step.”

“It is,” you agree. “And you should definitely weigh all the pros and cons. I think it’d be good for you.”

“You might be right.” He concedes with another long sigh, staring up at the ceiling. “I’ll think about it. Alright?”

“Okay.”

You reach over to kiss him again, on the lips this time, and Arthur hums into the gentle touch. It lasts for longer than you meant it to as you taste one another, his hand tangling in your hair with an urgency you wouldn’t expect after what you’ve just done to him. Looks like he’s still eager to have you put the strap-on to use.

“Time to go again?” You tease. “I didn’t put this thing on for nothing, you know.”

“Wouldn’t mind if you did,” says Arthur casually. “You look sexy in it.”

Your face gets hot, though this is far from the first time he’s called you that. Wearing the strap-on does make you feel sexy, powerful, dominant. Knowing that Arthur likes you in it too only adds to the experience. You like the way the thing feels under your fingers, how it looks jutting out from your hips. Even though it isn’t technicallypart of your body, there are times when you wish it was.

“How do you want me?” you ask, after he’s cleaned up.

Arthur takes a moment to think about it, looking at you sitting there on the bed in your lingerie. It may have been a long time since you’ve had sex since he’s taken on all these extra hours at work, but it’s been even longer since you’ve taken him like this. Months, even. But from the way he’s growing hard again, standing there and contemplating how he wants you to fuck him, you have a hunch that the two of you will be making this a more common occurrence.

“On my hands and knees,” he mumbles. “Least to start.”

“Nice and deep, huh.”

Uncapping the lube again, you gesture for him to join you. Arthur nods, unashamed in his intentions, settling across from you on the mattress. Your tongue did a little work opening him up, but there’s still a ways to go before he’ll be ready to take your cock. Luckily, he knows exactly what to do. He lies down on his side, letting one leg fall open as you drizzle plenty of lube onto your fingers.

“Good boy,” you praise.

He turns his face away, biting on a small smile, and you kiss his knee. Always so shy for this part. Massaging the lube around his already wet hole, you gently place the tip of your middle finger to his entrance. Arthur forces himself to relax, taking a deep breath and then letting it out. Your free hand is soothing on his thigh as you push inside the ring of muscle, working to stretch him in small increments.

This is something you have to be careful for, though it’s clear he already wants more. You take your time with each finger added, pausing to check in and adding more lube as you go. Only when he can take three fingers do you consider him ready. You curl them deep inside his body, pleased when he cries out with a sound of wanton need.

“Sweetheart, please.”

“You want me?” Playfully, you rub your cock against his leg, and Arthur sucks in a shuddering breath.

“Y-yeah.”

“On your hands and knees, then.”

The mattress dips as Arthur hurries to adjust, presenting himself for you. God,what a view. You hesitate for a beat to line yourself up behind him, taking it all in. This strong man, your man, kneeling as he waits for you to enter him and please him. You come back to yourself when he shifts a little, looking over his shoulder to see what’s keeping you – and you give him a smile. Pressing your hips to his ass, you spread his cheeks to help line yourself up, placing the very tip of your cock to his entrance.

“Ready?”

“‘Course I’m ready,” Arthur grumbles, the words tinged with a hint of impatience. “C’n you jus’ hurry up and – f-fuck –”

You sink into him slowly, memorizing the way he goes still with utter pleasure. Only the first inch or so of your cock is inside him now, yet he’s helpless for it, eager to get more. When Arthur makes it clear that you’re not hurting him, you shuffle forward more, taking your time as you spread him open wider. Part of you wishes you could see the look on his face, though his body language is telling you a lot about how good this feels for him. Arthur’s hands clench in the sheets, his back tense.

The contrast of your hands gripping his waist is indescribably hot. He shifts to spread his legs a little wider for you, already panting. With your first shallow thrust, he outright whimpers,expressing weeks’ worth of pent-up need. At that point, you swear your brain shuts off. Because you’ve been waiting too – and nothing matters more than watching him take your cock.

There’s no use in asking him if he’s ready for more. You trust him to stop you if you’re giving too much at once, after doing this so many times before. Though you’re still fond of checking in with one another, an unspoken knowledge of your partner stands in the air, too. Reading his face and his body, knowing he wouldn’t keep silent if you were doing something that hurt him.

You’re so lucky to share that kind of intimacy with him. It’s what gives you the confidence to thrust deeper inside him now, drinking in the way he leans back to get as much as he can. Arthur’s body feels loose enough for you to move comfortably into, and you start fucking him in short, smooth motions.

He tries to arch back with every press in, wanting more, uttering swears under his breath that you don’t quite catch. Watching his body take your dick is almost hypnotizing; the smooth, constant in and out.

“Harder,” he whispers, barely loud enough for you to catch.

You tighten your grip on his skin and sink inside down to the hilt, drawing a high, warbling sound from the man with biceps almost bigger than your head. Granting his wish but not trying to hurt him, you keep each motion long and languid, delighting in the friction it creates against your cunt. Delicious and full and teasing, yet not quite what you need, rubbing your clit but not scratching the itch.

“Angel,” Arthur manages. “Wanna – wanna look at you –”

“Of course,” you reply at once.

Carefully, you slide out of him. He’s quick to arrange himself on his back, legs spread, face flushed. With a little more lube, you enter him again, a thrill of arousal shooting up your spine as you get to watch his eyes flutter closed in bliss. You brace a hand on either side of his body, a light sheen of sweat forming on your own skin as you maintain the pace he wants.

Your back might be sore tomorrow, but Christ.He’s staring up at you like getting fucked on your dick is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. As you gradually go harder, faster, his eyebrows knit together in that familiar expression of urgency. You haven’t even started rubbing up on his prostate the way he loves yet – just watchingthis man is going to be the death of you.

“You’re such a good boy,” you tell him, overwhelmed. “So fucking pretty, taking me like this, you know that?”

“Sweetheart,” he protests, blushing darker.

Even as you change your angle, searching, rooting for the bundle of nerves inside him that’ll quickly render him incapable of argument. You can see it on his face when you find it. Arthur’s mouth drops open, his hands turning into claws.

“Aren’t you my good boy?” You say again, pressing up full and deep against his prostate.

“Yes, ma'am,” he gasps. “I’m your good boy, jus’ don’t stop –”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you answer with a grin.

Despite all the times you’ve already pleasured him today, it doesn’t take Arthur long at all to reach his peak like that. With his cock standing firm and untouched between you, he spills a third time, grating out a noise somewhere between a moan and a sob. Both of you are a panting mess by the time he finishes, and you collapse to the mattress in a sweaty pile of limbs.

It takes a hot minute to recuperate. You shimmy out of the harness and strap, hearing it thump against the floor. You’ll be sure to clean it later – for now all you want to do is lie here. There are still plenty of hours left in Arthur’s day off, and it looks like you’ll be spending them all in bed as he’d suggested. After you get something to eat – you’re starving.

“Gotta get back in the shower,” Arthur muses. “And I’m takin’ you with me this time.”

“That’s fair.” You look up at him with a smile. “So…how’s the day off so far?”

“Way better than I expected,” he laughs. “Way better. But I’m pretty sure if you put your hands on me one more time, we’re both gonna fall apart. We ain’t teenagers no more.”

“Yeah…”

As much as you hate to admit it, he’s right. You’re both tapped out for the day, maybe even a few days. And you’ll have to take some Tylenol tonight. Getting old is the worst.

“Looks like I owe you one hell of a payback session.”

Arthur’s tone is teasing, but his eyes are serious. It makes you forget for a while about your growling stomach, the dull ache in your back. Because you know he’ll dish out as good as he got today. You’re already anxious to have his mouth on you, his cock filling you up…and your mind goes to his work schedule, counting down until the next day off. With any luck, you won’t have much longer to wait.

“What do you feel like for breakfast?” You say casually, rolling over to check your phone.

He only looks at you for a second, like you’re joking.

“What?”

“Sweetheart.” There’s concealed laughter in his tone. “It’s noon.”

Well, look at that. Your phone’s background lights up, displaying a picture of you, Arthur, John, and Abigail. You’d taken a vacation together last year, gotten a cabin out in the mountains. Gone swimming in waterfalls, hiking on trails, spending the evenings toasting s'mores and getting too drunk. Above your grinning faces, in bright block numbers, 12:25 PM.

Guess time flies.

“Okay, smarty-pants.” You snort. “Lunch, then.”

The rest of the day is spent taking it easy. You order delivery and curl up in bed, catching up on the shows you haven’t been able to watch with him so busy at work. (Avoiding spoilers has been social media hell.) It’s exactly the kind of simple, mindless rest he had in mind, and when you finish one series, you start another. No housework, no stress. Only you and him, occasionally pausing to discuss whatever plot twist just took place on the screen.

Even if it’s short, today still feels like the perfect day. You hope the chance to have more like these will be coming soon, one way or another.

————-

Two months later, Arthur’s home from work by five o'clock. He isn’t covered in sawdust and wood chips, like you’re used to seeing him. These days, his hands and forearms are covered in splatters of paint. Sometimes you like to guess what he’s been working on by the colors freckling his skin, which amuses him.

He has a set schedule and weekends off, and yes, he gets to teach. At first he was anxious about the idea, but when he came home from his first day of beginner’s painting classes, he couldn’t stop talking about how much he enjoyed it. You can’t remember the last time you saw him smile this much. The kid’s classes are his favorite, and sometimes John brings Jack, who’s obsessed with seeing his Uncle Arthur lead a class. (And apparently, Arthur gives the kid way more stickers as a reward than he needs for completing a painting.)

No, it doesn’t make as much as his old job. Neither of you care; in this case, his happiness and yours are more than worth it.

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a break in between

censored this image as some of the other had to go through review…