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wormsnitches · 1 day ago

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I LOVE YOUR COMMENTARY SO MUCH 🫶....you see, this is why I started like three different Arthur fics LOLLLL

Anyone Else but You ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. // Chapter One.

modernau!arthur morgan x fem!reader

summary: upon reconnecting with your former fling, you ask for a rather...crazy favor.

warnings: 18+ nsfw smut ( MDNI ! ), titty sucking, oral sex (f!receiving), handjob, unprotected pinv sex, fingering, pre-established fwb, creampie, breeding kink, reader wants to get impregnated by arthur lol.

wc: 21k

You spent days chewing on the thought, letting it tumble over in your head like a stone in a restless tide, smoothing down the edges until it felt bearable enough to hold, but never quite losing the weight of it.

The idea of reaching out to Arthur wasn’t exactly a small, casual impulse you could shrug off; it came with history stitched into every seam, and after six long months of radio silence, after the way things had ended the last time you saw him, it felt monumental.

You could still remember that night with painful clarity, the way his hand had rested heavy and warm on your hip as though anchoring you in place, his mouth pressing slow, uncharacteristically soft kisses into the slope of your shoulder until your eyes fluttered closed, a kind of tenderness that had felt startlingly out of character for him and yet impossibly natural at the same time.

He had never been the type to promise you anything, never one for big declarations, and you had never been the type to ask for more than he could give—but despite all of that, despite your attempts to bury it, he lingered in your mind in a way no one else managed to.

More than once, you thought about calling him, about picking up your phone and scrolling through your contacts until your thumb hovered over his name like it was some kind of loaded weapon. You pictured typing out his number, maybe even composing one of those quick, throwaway messages—something deceptively light, a simple hey, been a while, how’ve you been?—as if that could possibly disguise the storm beneath the words.

But every time you tried, every time you let your thumb hover over the keyboard, you ended up dropping the phone face-down onto the couch cushion like it had burned you, heart kicking hard in your chest as if you had just narrowly avoided disaster.

It felt too easy for him to ignore, too much of a chance to be left hanging in silence, and too transparent if he looked at the message and immediately saw right through the flimsy casual pretense you were trying to hide behind.

So instead, you landed on something more subtle, a plan that felt safer while still letting you act on the gnawing ache that had been building in you for weeks: showing up. Not unannounced, not in the invasive way of knocking on his apartment door and catching him in whatever life he had built without you—that felt too forward, too desperate, too strange.

No, you would do it differently, in a place where he belonged, where he wouldn’t suspect anything.

Arthur and John’s little garage sat just off the stretch of highway that ran east, and you knew the route there like second nature, as though your car could drive itself down the cracked asphalt and turn into the gravel lot without you steering. You could already picture it: the battered sign swinging lazily from its rusted chain, the gravel crunching beneath your tires, the handful of old trucks and bikes scattered outside in varying stages of repair like bones half-buried in the dirt.

The idea of pulling in under the guise of practicality, pretending you just “needed some work done” on your car, gave you a ready-made excuse, a paper-thin mask that would let you see him again without tipping your hand too early. He’d have no reason to suspect the bigger conversation knotted tight in your chest, no reason to think you were there for anything more than the grease and steel and familiarity of his shop.

You spent an entire afternoon fussing over your car, crawling around it like some kind of amateur detective, just to see if you could catch the faintest excuse to bring it to Arthur—a sound you could pretend wasn’t there yesterday, a rattle you could exaggerate into something ominous, anything at all that might justify showing up on his turf again.

The damn thing, annoyingly loyal as it was, purred smooth as ever when you started it, the engine humming steady like it was mocking you, leaving you stranded with no honest reason to drag it into his shop. That meant you had no choice but to come up with something fabricated, a flimsy cover that wouldn’t collapse the second he looked at you too hard.

Maybe a “funny noise,” maybe a “check engine” light that you could claim flickered on then disappeared, something vague enough that he couldn’t immediately call your bluff.

It felt ridiculous, the sort of scheming you’d expect from a teenager with a crush, not a grown adult with bills to pay and responsibilities stacking higher every year, but the ridiculousness didn’t stop the sharp, giddy edge in your stomach.

At least it gave you an angle.

That night, you sat cross-legged in bed, your sheets twisted around your legs, phone glowing like a small fire in the dim dark of your bedroom. You had scrolled, stalled, and stared long enough that the screen kept dimming and demanding your attention again, like it was daring you to actually do something instead of hovering in this purgatory of what-ifs.

When you opened up Arthur’s contact, his name was still there, exactly the same as the day you first saved it, stubbornly impersonal: Arthur (Mechanic).

Not Arthur with the crooked smile that hooked into your ribs. Not Arthur with the slow drawl that scraped low across your nerves. Not Arthur whose hands had been on you more than once, rough with work but careful with you.

Just Arthur (Mechanic).

Like you hadn’t been tangled up with him in ways that made you bite your lip raw remembering them. Like he hadn’t made you moan his name in that gruff, unbearable voice that had stuck to your skin like smoke, lingering weeks, even months, after the last time.

You toyed with texting, thumb hovering, backspacing, typing, erasing again until the words blurred. Something along the lines of Hey, my car’s acting up. Think you could take a look? That wouldn’t be weird, right? Harmless enough, professional enough on the surface, the kind of thing you might ask any other mechanic, except of course he wasn’t just any other mechanic and both of you knew it.

Still, your chest prickled with nerves, the sharp heat of them crawling up the back of your neck, because there was so much more hiding behind those words than you could risk saying outright. The subtext was swollen, unsaid, dangerous.

Because how exactly did someone go from long time no see to by the way, will you put a baby in me? The thought alone made you press your knuckles against your mouth, like you could physically shove it down and stop yourself from laughing at how insane it sounded. But oh—right!

That was the reason you were looking for him again after months of circling in that cycle of on-and-off, to eventual silence.

In your head, it wasn’t so hard to explain.

The dating scene was a wasteland, the men you met disappointing at best, hollow at worst. And you weren’t exactly interested in playing out the exhausting, decades-long routine society wanted: the endless cycle of dating, then engagement, then marriage, then maybe kids if everything went right—blah, blah, a lot of pointless milestones you didn’t care for. What you wanted was sharper, simpler, carved down to the core.

You wanted a child. Very badly.

Since entering your thirties, the desire had gotten louder, harder to ignore, like some internal clock had shifted its ticking to a deafening tempo. You watched women your age post announcements, engagement rings flashing, baby bumps swelling, toddlers lined up like stair-steps. Some already had three kids by now, whole families forming around them, and while you weren’t sure you wanted that exact picture—the husband, the house, the white-picket monotony—there was a quiet ache in you too.

The yearning to be a mother. A good one.

And yet, it had been feeling hopeless, like no matter which path you peeked down, the road ended in fog. You had researched donors, even scrolled late into the night on forums about surrogates, about clinical options that looked neat on paper but left you feeling detached. Because the truth was: you didn’t want a sterile transaction.

You wanted to experience the nine months of it all, the slow miracle of carrying new life, the way your body would change and swell and stretch to make room for someone who didn’t exist yet.

You wanted to feel every kick, every flutter, every wave of it.

But who in their right mind would willingly agree to impregnate someone at the very first ask? No one. A sane person would laugh or back away. Which is why, in that feverish, restless part of your brain, your thoughts had gone to Arthur Morgan.

Arthur—with his charm that felt unpolished but magnetic, with his ruggedness that wasn’t curated but real, with his looks that carried something dangerous and unshakable about them. He was handsome as hell, and more than that, he was a man who had always seemed to live on the wild side, a man who didn’t cling to the rules other people swore by.

He had that same aura you’d imagine from the old west outlaws in the history books: broad shoulders, honey-brown messy hair that never quite behaved, scruff along his jaw that only deepened his smolder. His blue eyes had a way of looking through you, steady, unreadable, but warmer than you ever expected when he let his guard slip.

The first time you met Arthur was more than a year ago, at some bar you’d gone to with your girlfriends on a night you swore would stay harmless—just drinks, just chatter, just dancing under bad neon.

You hadn’t planned to bring anyone home, hadn’t even been looking, but Arthur had approached you with that lazy, easy confidence of his, like he’d known from the start you’d say yes.

He was smooth, smoother than you wanted to admit, smooth enough that every boundary you swore you’d keep evaporated until you were pulling him into a cab with you, your pulse galloping. You hadn’t been able to resist him then, and you weren’t sure you could now.

But a year was a long time.

After being with him…sleeping with him…for what seemed like an agitating year, you and him eventually broke it off. It was never addressed; Arthur never spared you a text and you didn’t either. Months of silence stretched between you like barbed wire. You weren’t sure if he’d even humor this idea if you ever found the courage to pitch it.

You didn’t know Arthur too well—not really, not in any way that would count when things got serious. In truth, you hardly knew him at all. That should have been concerning, a flashing warning sign. And it wasn’t like you expected him to stick around or step into fatherhood—God, no, you weren’t that delusional, even if what you wanted to propose was quite deranged.

Against your better judgement, you couldn’t shake the pull toward him, the need to make him the one who did this for you.

To be the one who carried out this almost vulgar, impossible favor.

No, you needed patience. A meeting. A warm-up. To test the waters before you ever let your real intention spill out.

You sucked in a sharp breath, typed out the message with fingers that shook despite yourself, and hit send before you could overthink it for the hundredth time.

The last time you saw Arthur Morgan, the two of you had fallen back into the same rhythm you always did, the kind that bypassed words entirely and went straight for the sharp edge of hunger between you. The way he touched you that night had been unrelenting, steady, full of that bone-deep intensity he carried in everything he did, rutting into you with a focus that made it feel like the rest of the world had fallen away.

Arthur was not a delicate lover, not in the traditional sense. He was rough, demanding, the kind of man who knew how to take what he wanted without apology.

In spite of that, there was always a thread of something softer stitched beneath it all, some quiet reverence in the way his calloused hands dragged down your body, like he couldn’t stop reminding himself you were real beneath him.

He fucked like a man starved, hips driving, mouth grazing your skin when he wasn’t biting back curses, and every time he pulled a sound out of you, it was with the certainty of someone who knew exactly how to undo you.

When it ended, when he spilled his hot seed across your bare back with a groan that rattled through his chest, he didn’t linger long. He was quick to pull away, already retreating into the quiet shell he wore like armor, and you were quick to freshen up, cleaning up and slipping into your clothes as if you both knew dragging it out would only make parting harder.

There was hardly any conversation between you—no soft laughter, no post-coital sweetness, not even the halfhearted banter you sometimes traded. It was silence, thick and telling, like you and Arthur had wordlessly agreed this was the last time.

The last fuck.

The last goodbye.

Here you were now, months later, circling back toward him with something almost laughable in its audacity, orbiting around his gravity again with a request so outrageous you almost couldn’t believe you were considering saying it out loud.

He had always told you you were crazy, muttering it with that lopsided smirk and low chuckle, and you still didn’t know if he’d meant it as a compliment or as an insult sharpened into a joke. Maybe both.

Either way, that wildness in you, the reckless streak, was what had kept him coming back—what had made him call you up in the first place after exchanging numbers once you two fucked, what had made him knock at your door, what had made him pull you onto his lap that first night in the bar.

Now, as you sat with your phone heavy in your palm, a few long minutes ticked by, each one dragging like an anchor, your chest so tight it felt like your ribs might splinter from the anticipation. It wasn’t the kind of anticipation that felt light and giddy; it was dread sharpened to a point, buzzing in your veins, daring you to believe he might ignore you altogether.

And then, mercifully and jarringly, your phone buzzed.

Arthur (Mechanic): Sure. Bring it by tomorrow. I’ll take a look.

Simple. Direct. Blunt as a hammer. Exactly like him.

You let yourself sink back into your pillows, staring blankly up at the ceiling as your heart slammed against your ribs, adrenaline still racing as though you’d run a mile. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, you’d see him again. Tomorrow, you’d get through the first step, the hardest step, the one that meant you couldn’t turn back now.

Tomorrow, you’d stand across from Arthur Morgan once more—rugged, broad-shouldered Arthur, his flannel sleeves shoved to his elbows, his hands stained with grease and callus, his blue eyes fixed on you in that steady way that always stripped you bare, and you’d have to bite down hard to keep the weight of your dream from tumbling out of your mouth before the moment was right.

You woke before your alarm had the chance to scream at you, eyes snapping open in the still-dark quiet, a strange awareness pulling you out of sleep like a hand gripping your shoulder.

That never happened; you were the type to sleep through snoozes, to roll over and burrow deeper into your pillow, but this morning your body betrayed you, already buzzing with a restless current that felt like caffeine without the coffee.

Nerves hummed beneath your skin, the thought of seeing him again sparking and flickering in the corners of your mind until lying still was impossible.

Even the air in your apartment seemed heavier than usual, like the atmosphere itself had thickened overnight, pressing down on your chest as you tried to move through the simplicity of your routine.

Coffee first, though the taste hardly registered as it burned its way down your throat, bitter and too hot, your hands jittering more from anticipation than from the caffeine. Then the shower, steam curling against the mirror while you scrubbed harder than necessary, as though you could wash away the anxiety clinging to your skin.

Makeup came next, each brushstroke deliberate and drawn out, as though lengthening the process might distract you, but every time your gaze lifted to the reflection in the mirror, your thoughts circled back to the same gnawing question: what if he doesn’t even remember the last time? What if it meant nothing to him at all?

You lingered far too long in front of your closet, staring at hangers like they might offer some sort of divine guidance, your hands hovering uselessly over fabrics that suddenly felt wrong in every way. Too casual and you’d look like you hadn’t thought about it, like you didn’t care. Too dressed up and you’d look desperate, obvious, like you had something to prove.

Each option you touched seemed like a trap, so you finally settled on something in between: jeans that clung just right to your figure without screaming for attention, a fitted top that was simple but flattering, and a jacket you didn’t really need but shrugged on anyway because it made you feel more complete, like armor you could wear against the storm of seeing him again.

Still, as you checked your reflection for the tenth time—adjusting your collar, smoothing your hair, tilting your chin this way and that—you couldn’t stop the doubts from sliding in like knives.

Did it look like you were trying too hard? Would he notice the effort, pick it apart with that dry smirk, call you out for dressing up to bring in a car that didn’t actually need fixing? Would he tease you for it in that low, mocking drawl that made your skin prickle even when you wanted to roll your eyes?

The uncertainty was suffocating, yet beneath it all, a sharp thrum of anticipation kept you tethered to the moment, refusing to let you back out.

Your car hummed along steadily, smooth and unbothered, like it had no idea you were lying about its so-called “problem,” mocking you with its reliability while your stomach twisted itself into knots tighter and tighter with every passing mile marker.

The drive out to the shop was worse than any restless night could have prepared you for.

The miles stretched too long, the silence inside your car thick with every unspoken word you rehearsed and then abandoned. Each turn of the wheel, each green light you coasted through, felt like it was carrying you closer to something you weren’t sure you were ready to face, though it was far too late to slam the brakes now.

As you crested the last curve of road, the shop came into view—and there it was. That damn red Ford F-150 parked off to the side of the garage, paint dulled by sun and dust, but still so unmistakably Arthur’s it made your pulse stutter.

That stupid truck.

The memories came quickly and merciless—the hours you had spent in its passenger seat, your legs kicked up on the dash while the radio played low, Arthur’s hand resting casually on the wheel with the other sneaking over to squeeze your thigh.

Or worse, the memories of the backseat, when you’d been sprawled flat on your back, hair tangled against the cracked leather, his weight pressing you down as he fucked you deep, the windows fogging up until the whole world outside disappeared.

You hated that a single glance at that truck could pull you back into all of that, but at least it meant one thing was certain.

He was here.

By the time your tires rolled over the gravel lot, the crunching sound beneath you was so loud in the still morning air it made your chest seize, nearly enough to make you slam the car into reverse and disappear. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because then you saw him.

He was bent over the hood of a truck, one arm braced on the metal, the other buried in the engine, his body framed perfectly against the harsh light. His broad back stretched the fabric of his shirt, the sleeves of his worn flannel rolled up to his elbows, baring forearms thick with muscle, skin dusted with hair and smudged with dirt.

His light brown hair was curling damp at the back of his neck from sweat, just long enough to brush his collar, a little more grown out than the last time you’d seen him, like he hadn’t bothered with a cut in months.

A dark streak of grease ran across his cheekbone, slicing against his scruff like war paint, rough and striking, only making him look more dangerous, more untouchable.

The sight of him hit you like a punch straight to the chest, knocking the air from your lungs before you could even prepare.

Before you can fully stop to park, he looked up.

Your engine must have given you away because his head turned, his blue eyes squinting against the sharp morning light as they found you. For a suspended second he just watched, gaze fixed, unreadable.

And then it happened: that grin. Familiar, slow, lazy, curling at the corner of his mouth until it spread across his face like it had been waiting for you all this time. He looked good. Too good. Unfairly good.

At thirty-six, Arthur Morgan was…something else entirely, the kind of man who only seemed to sharpen with age, not dull.

He was huge in a way that made the space around him feel smaller, his frame all muscle and breadth, every inch of him solid. His facial hair was trimmed neatly, though still rough enough to scrape deliciously against your skin in memory, the kind of stubble that made him look perpetually five o’clock dangerous.

His hair, never quite long, had grown just enough since you last saw him that it gave him a more unkempt, rakish edge, a little wild, a little careless, as if the world hadn’t tamed him yet.

He was unfairly rugged, unfairly magnetic, and standing there watching him, you felt irritation bite at the back of your throat. Because it wasn’t fair—not that he looked like that, not that he still had the power to undo you with a single grin.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he drawled at last, his voice low and roughened at the edges in that familiar way that made it curl down your spine, the words dragging out slow as molasses.

Arthur swiped his palms over the rag hanging from his hand, grease staining the fabric in dark smears as he stepped out from behind the truck, every inch of him moving with that easy, unhurried swagger you remembered far too well—a walk that said he had nothing to prove and yet still managed to take up all the air around him.

Your pulse jumped so violently in your throat that you nearly choked on it, the rhythm drumming against your ribs until you had to force the steadiness back into your voice, make it sound like you weren’t unraveling at the seams, when you called out with a faintly shaky, “Hey, stranger.”

“Stranger?” he echoed back, his mouth twitching into the ghost of a smirk as his head tilted, slow and deliberate, like he was lining you up with his memory.

His boots crunched against the gravel as he sauntered toward your car, eyes sweeping down and then back up with an unhurried rake that left your skin prickling. A spark of amusement lit in those sharp blue eyes, though you swore you could feel the weight of something else burning hotter just beneath it. “Ain’t the word I’d use. Thought maybe you’d forgotten ‘bout me.”

The tone of his voice was light and teasing, playfully careless like always, but there was no mistaking the heavier thread stitched between the syllables, some unspoken undercurrent that made the heat climb stubbornly up the column of your throat until it burned at the tips of your ears.

“I don’t forget that easy,” you shot back, though the words came out softer than you’d meant them to, flimsy with the way his presence pressed against you, with how close he stood now, close enough that the scent of him—sweat, motor oil, leather, and something sharper that was just him—wrapped around you until your chest ached with it.

Arthur lifted one arm and rested it against the roof of your car, the move casual but full of intent, his tall frame leaning in just enough to make the space between you shrink to nothing, to crowd you in without laying a single hand on you. His grin slanted crooked, that damn grin that used to undo you with barely a flash of teeth.

“That so?” he murmured, his voice a husky rasp of amusement. “Guess I oughta take it as a compliment, then.”

You laughed, but it tumbled out nervous and breathless, the sound catching at the edges, and you scrambled to make it sound like you were still playing it casual, like your heart wasn’t slamming hard enough to bruise you from the inside.

It was useless though, because Arthur had always had this way about him, this pull that made your composure crack, and right now he was making it impossible to hold steady with the way his eyes lingered on your mouth like he’d never forgotten the taste, like old habits hadn’t died one damn bit, not in all this time.

“You said your car was givin’ you trouble?” he asked finally, tapping the hood with a knuckle, though his gaze hadn’t left your face.

“Something like that,” you murmured, the lie tasting sour now that you were here, but you couldn’t back out.

Not when his voice was dripping with that same rough flirtation that had hooked you before.

Arthur smirked, like he knew something you didn’t, and pushed away from your car with a low chuckle. “Alright then. Let’s see what we’re workin’ with. And maybe—if you’re real nice—I’ll even let ya buy me a beer after.”

The suggestion, tossed so casually, sent a thrill down your spine—six months gone and he was still the same Arthur, all heat and mischief wrapped up in grease-stained charm.

Arthur popped the hood of your car with the kind of ease that spoke of muscle memory, like he’d done it a hundred times before. Hell, probably had—it was his job after all.

He leaned forward, bracing his forearms against the frame as though the machine in front of him was just another body he knew how to handle, every movement patient but sure.

You lingered off to the side, arms loosely crossed over your chest in what you hoped looked like casual patience, though really you were fighting not to fidget, not to give away how intently you were watching the shift and roll of his shoulders beneath that sun-worn flannel.

The fabric clung in places where grease and sweat had darkened it, stretching over the broad line of his back, and when he bent lower, the curve of his jaw caught the light in a way that made your breath stick in your throat.

It wasn’t subtle, the way your eyes roamed, practically eating him alive without permission. Further memories came to mind. Of his hands on you, rough but steady, of his mouth dragging curses out of yours, of how he’d always managed to take you apart like he was born knowing the blueprint, made your pulse beat harder.

There had never been a time Arthur didn’t look good, not in your eyes; not when he was clean and pressed, not when he was sweaty and dirt-streaked, not when he was grinning with that shameless confidence that always meant trouble.

The man wasn’t exactly a gentleman, not in the way you’d been raised to believe a man should be, but he’d done well enough—more than well enough—in the moments that mattered, and that was a truth you couldn’t unlearn.

Going out with a mechanic had been wild, reckless even, so far removed from the previous neat, predictable collection of men you dated. Wild, yes, but also unforgettable, a little unpolished story you carried around like part of your lore, a scandal tucked into your history that you knew would always taste sweet whenever you let yourself remember.

Arthur fiddled with something beneath the hood, calloused fingers moving with that sure, unhurried precision that spoke of a man who’d spent years knowing his way around stubborn engines. He hummed low in his throat while he worked, some gravelly tune you couldn’t quite place, then finally stood upright again, stretching to his full height, shoulders broad beneath the faded plaid.

He wiped his hands on the rag he always seemed to have tucked in his back pocket, as if it were stitched there permanently, an extension of him.

“Funny noise, huh?” he asked, quirking a brow at you, his blue eyes narrowing with sharp amusement that had a way of pinning you in place, like he could see straight through whatever little excuse you thought you had.

You nodded quickly, maybe too quickly, trying to force some kind of casualness into your tone that didn’t match the hammering pulse in your throat. “Yeah. It’s been… rattling, or something. Thought it’d be better to get it checked.”

Your arms shifted against your chest, defensive, like if you held yourself tight enough you could keep the heat from crawling higher into your cheeks. Arthur let out a chuckle, slow and rich, the kind that curled around your ribs and settled warm in your stomach.

He shook his head, still grinning, before shutting the hood with a heavy, echoing thud that made you jump just slightly. “Darlin’, this car purrs smoother than a goddamn kitten. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with it.”

Your stomach flipped, and the ground suddenly felt a little too unstable beneath your boots.

“Maybe I imagined it,” you muttered, eyes darting anywhere but him, heat crawling up the side of your neck until you were sure it was written plain across your face how stupid this all was.

Arthur stepped closer, slow but done on purpose, that crooked grin spreading across his face like he’d been waiting for this moment all along. He tilted his head, studying you with that same rare patience he might use on a stubborn bolt, the kind that wouldn’t budge no matter how much you twisted.

“Or maybe,” he drawled, his voice dipping lower in a way that made your skin tingle, “you just wanted a reason to come ‘round and see me.”

Well, shit.

He wasn’t exactly wrong. The worst part was that you knew you’d been caught, plain and simple, standing there like some fool who drove a perfectly fine car into the shop just to stare at him a while longer.

Embarrassment flushed hot through you, because what kind of excuse was that? Pathetic, maybe, but there was no hiding the truth—not with the way his eyes lingered on you, not with the way your own treacherous thoughts reeled back to every memory of his hands on you, the roughness, the sweetness, all tangled up together.

Your car was fine. Perfect, even.

And you? You were starting to think this whole charade of pretending otherwise was about as flimsy as tissue paper. Bound to come apart, bound to get you caught. You hadn’t even said what you came here for in the first place.

You opened your mouth, shut it again, then finally let out a weak laugh. “Still full of yourself, I see.”

Arthur’s grin only deepened as he leaned one hand against the car, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him. “Ain’t answerin’ the question though.”

You tried to glare, really tried, but the burn of his gaze—the way it pinned you like it had so many times before—made the effort dissolve instantly, leaving you bare and exposed, caught in that same magnetic pull you swore up and down you’d broken free of months ago but clearly hadn’t.

“Maybe I just missed your charm,” you shot back with a wry little tilt of your mouth, finally daring to look him dead-on instead of shying away, because if you were going to fall into old habits, you might as well do it headfirst.

“Charm?” He laughed, that sound roughened with years of cigarettes and hard work, warm in a way that tugged at you, shaking his head like the idea itself was absurd. “Ain’t never been accused of that before. Usually you’d just call me a pain in the ass.”

The ease between you came rushing back too quickly, almost dangerous in how natural it felt—as if no time had passed at all—your chest tightening with the force of your heartbeat thudding harder, louder, betraying how much you’d missed this, missed him.

Ah yes, the fighting—that ridiculous, sometimes mean, sometimes playful sparring that colored those months when you were seeing each other, where he’d call you stuck-up like it was your goddamn nickname, and you’d toss it right back, reminding him how much of a pain in the ass he truly was.

For two people who supposedly kept things “casual,” who only met up with the intent of sleeping together (with the occasional half-hearted hangout that always blurred into something else), the two of you could go at it verbally like you were rehearsing for a stage play.

Almost without fail, those arguments ended the same way: mouths crashing together, his hands already tugging at your clothes, your fingers curling into his shirt, both of you pawing impatiently until you tumbled into bed.

You could still feel the ghost of his voice against your lips—Arthur whispering sweet, quiet nothings even while kissing you rough, making promises he’d never put into words when the sun was up—his weight pressing you down, his warmth surrounding you, until morning came and it all repeated again.

By the time he wiped the last stubborn streak of grease from his broad hands, working the rag between his fingers until it came away almost black, Arthur opened his mouth with the clear intent of saying something, the crease in his brow smoothing as if he’d already chosen his words.

But you beat him to it, the impulse sharp and a little reckless, blurting out before he could even get a sound past his lips, “You wanna grab a drink with me? You still took time to check up on my car, so... my treat.”

The words tumbled out quick, like you were afraid you’d lose the nerve if you thought too hard, and once they were loose in the air there was no taking them back. Arthur, on the other hand, was raising his hands, like he was brushing you off.

“Sweets, I was just messin’ wit’cha—”

You won him to it. Again. “I’m being serious. Let’s go get a drink. On me, Arthur.”

Arthur stilled, his eyes cutting to yours with that unreadable look that always made you feel like he saw through every layer you tried to hide behind. He leaned back a touch, hand resting on his thigh, giving you that slow, deliberate look, as though he was weighing the question heavier than it deserved.

For a second you almost regretted asking, heart hammering like you’d overstepped, but then the corner of his mouth hooked up into that familiar, crooked grin, warm and maddening.

“Well now,” he drawled, slowly licking his lips, “you know I ain’t ever been the sort t’say no to a cold beer.”

His grin widened, teeth flashing as his eyes stayed locked on yours, a glint of amusement there like he could see the pulse beating hard in your throat.

Arthur didn’t even bother pretending like he might refuse—once the idea of a drink was out there, he wasn’t going to let it slide. The idea of seeing you after months made him all the more giddy.

“On you, huh?” he added with a chuckle, folding the rag neatly, “Guess I’ll just have t’drink twice as much then.”

The weight of his gaze stayed fixed on you, hot and unshakable, and you swore he was enjoying the way it made you squirm in your stance more than the promise of the beer itself.

The bar Arthur led you into wasn’t the kind of place that looked impressive from the outside. The wooden sign weathered, the door frame a little crooked, but inside it had that soft glow of somewhere that had been lived in and loved for decades, dim lamps hanging over chipped tables, the faint smell of old wood, beer, and smoke clinging to every corner.

It wasn’t crowded, either—just a handful of regulars hunched over their drinks, a couple of guys bent low over a game of pool, and the bartender wiping glasses behind the counter like he’d done that exact motion a million times before.

The jukebox in the corner sputtered out a steady loop of old vinyl rips, the kind of songs that could either soothe you or drag you right into the past depending on your mood.

Sliding into the booth across from him, you felt the cracked vinyl seat dip beneath your weight, the table between you sticky in that way only bars can ever get away with, and in the center sat a glass bottle slick with condensation, your beer sweating into a damp ring on the wood.

Fleetwood Mac’s Dreams hummed out of the speakers, Stevie’s voice all soft and haunting as if she were narrating the exact mess your life had become.

You took a slow, deliberate sip, the cold fizz biting at your tongue and sliding down your throat with that crisp, satisfying burn that made the corners of your mouth twitch in relief, while Arthur, without much effort at all, flagged the barmaid over with nothing more than a flick of his fingers.

His voice carried easily in the quiet room, low and steady, with just enough grit to make it feel like he wasn’t trying, when in fact every word rolled out with a practiced smoothness that made people lean closer.

“Another round,” he drawled, not even looking at her until the last second, his grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like it had a mind of its own.

You tried, really tried, not to react when he tossed the girl some easy charm—just a low, offhanded line that should’ve sounded ridiculous, something about her bringing drinks faster than the wind carried tumbleweeds, which on anyone else’s tongue would’ve fallen flat, but somehow from Arthur it made her giggle all high-pitched and too eager, her shoulders curling in like she couldn’t help herself.

Your eyes fell to the bottle in your hand, the condensation dampening your fingertips as you began peeling the label in slow, deliberate strips, telling yourself you didn’t care, that it was harmless, that this was just Arthur being Arthur.

But still, that little twist of jealousy curled hot in your chest, betraying you, making your pulse thrum harder than you wanted to admit.

Here you were trying to catch up with him and ten minutes in, he was shamelessly flirting with the barmaid in front of you.

Arthur’s gaze found you over the rim of his bottle, that lazy focus of his digging under your skin like he could read every thought you didn’t say aloud.

“Somethin’ on your mind?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, voice thick with amusement, like he already knew damn well what was eating at you.

You forced a shrug, though your fingers were tearing the label into jagged little pieces. “Don’t know what you mean,” you said quietly,

You tried to keep your tone flat, though your eyes betrayed you when they flicked toward the barmaid’s retreating figure before snapping back to your drink.

Arthur’s grin widened, slow and dangerous. He leaned back further in the booth, stretching his arm across the backrest, his whole body loose as if he had all the time in the world to watch you squirm.

“Huh,” he muttered, dragging the word out, eyes never leaving you. “Funny. Thought maybe you were lookin’ at me like I’d gone and done somethin’ wrong.”

You huffed, finally meeting his gaze, your voice sharper than intended. “Just thought maybe you’d save some of that charm for the person sittin’ right in front of you.”

That earned a low chuckle from him, deep in his chest, and he leaned forward now, forearm braced on the table, eyes glinting with that mix of mischief and something heavier.

“Darlin’,” he drawled, his voice quieter now, more intimate, “if I were really tryin’ to charm someone, you’d know. Trust me—you’d know.”

Arthur leaned back in his seat, the booth creaking beneath the weight of him, his arm stretched casual and wide along the backrest like he owned the whole place, his other hand curled around his bottle. He tipped it to his lips for a long drink, Adam’s apple working, before setting it down with a muted thunk.

Then he turned that lazy, heavy-lidded focus on you—the kind of look that made your stomach clench and heat crawl up the back of your neck, like he was stripping you bare with nothing more than the set of his eyes and the curve of that half-smirk that seemed to sit there naturally, like he’d been born with it.

The conversation stretched easily, even if your chest buzzed like it had been wired to a live current the entire time. Arthur asked you about your life in that straightforward way he always did, voice steady but eyes watching close, like every answer you gave was worth weighing.

“So,” he drawled, dragging the word out, fingers spinning the neck of his bottle. “How you been holdin’ up, honey?”

Honey. The word rolled off Arthur’s tongue with that slow, southern drawl of his, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he hadn’t even thought about it before it slipped out.

Arthur had called you a bunch of nicknames before, always some sort of tender, unassuming term of endearment during the times you were with him—darlin’, sweetheart, sometimes even girl said with a warmth that made it feel softer than it sounded.

He could be sweet when he wanted to be, dropping the rough edges and the gruffness he wore like a shield, letting something gentler peek through.

It was his absolute way of letting you know he wasn’t all cocky and an asshole all the time, that beneath the sharp tongue and stubborn pride there was a man who could be tender, careful, and maybe even a little vulnerable with you.

Shrugging your shoulders and trying to keep it casual, you replied, “Same old, really.”

His eyes followed your movements as you tugged at your fingers that were resting on the table. “Work treatin’ you alright? You look like someone who’s got too much on her plate.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Job’s fine. Pays the bills, keeps me busy, though half the time I swear I’m just running in circles.”

“Mm,” Arthur hummed, leaning forward a little, elbows braced on the table, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “A busy woman. Reckon that’s why you ain’t called me in half a year? Couldn’t bother to shoot ol’ Arthur a text in between your errands and deadlines?”

The tease slipped out smooth, his tone sleazy in that practiced, hot way of his. And, just like always, it worked—you felt your shoulders give, your stomach flip, the rest of you caving in without even realizing it.

Arthur didn’t just flirt; he sharpened every word and threw them like darts, each one hitting right where he wanted.

You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway, because resisting him had never been your strong suit. “You’re impossible.”

“Damn right I am,” he said with a chuckle, taking a sip of his beer. His eyes glittered when they found yours again, his grin crooked and unbothered.

You latched onto a safer subject, asking about the shop, about John. “How’s work been for you? I take it you're busy, as well. John keeping up, or you carrying him on your back?”

Arthur barked a laugh, shoulders shaking. “Every day’s somethin’ different. Ain’t ever dull, I’ll tell you that. And hell, work’s work. Grateful to have it, no matter how it comes. Keeps me outta trouble,” He paused momentarily, a sly, smug expression dancing on his lips before continuing, "As for Marston, I'm just glad he can follow orders and keep the shop going."

God, the way he said it—you knew he meant it. That grit, that straightforward appreciation of labor, of muscle and sweat and callouses, it hit you deep.

Nothing turned you on more than a man who worked with his hands, who built and fixed and earned every bit of his place in the world. And Arthur, sitting across from you now, was all of that rolled up in one. His hands alone told his story—broad, scarred, knuckles bruised, the kind that had known both roughness and tenderness, the kind that had gripped your hips, your waist, the slopes of your body like he was memorizing them.

In your eyes, make no mistake about it, Arthur was the purest definition of what made a man…a man.

When the conversation shifted, it caught you a little off guard. Arthur tipped his beer lazily, then fixed you with a look that was all sly curiosity. “So. You been out there?”

Your brows pulled together. “Out there?”

“Don't get all modest with me, hon. Y’know what I mean,” He tilted his head, smirk deepening. “Seein’ someone. Dating. Maybe gettin’ yourself… entertained.”

Heat shot up your neck, but you forced a smile, laughed like it was no big deal. “Not really. Haven’t put myself out there. Don’t want to, actually.”

For some reason, you felt strangely flattered—though you knew you really shouldn’t be—that Arthur was asking you about your dating life, how things were going, if you’d been seeing anyone, and so forth, when in reality the whole damn thing was literally going absolutely nowhere, a dead end that only felt heavier and emptier as the days passed.

Especially now, with that gnawing, unshakable urge to have a baby creeping into your every thought, twisting the way you looked at yourself and your future until it felt like a gaping hole you couldn’t fill.

Nonetheless, despite all logic, you felt yourself blushing like a complete moron at the thought of your old fling—of all people—possibly keeping tabs on you, maybe caring in a way that went beyond casual small talk.

Not that he was, of course.

You knew it was just a simple question, something tossed out without layers, because Arthur was always one to be direct, never one to dress things up with unnecessary pretenses, even if his timing had a way of knocking the wind right out of you.

Arthur’s gaze sharpened, and he nodded once, slow, before taking a long swig of beer. He swallowed, then smirked, that cheeky little bastard.

You narrowed your eyes, refusing to let him have the upper hand. “What about you? Seeing anyone special?”

His answer came quick, truthful. “No,” He leaned forward, voice low, roughened with self-deprecation. “Who the hell’d want to go out with an old man like me?”

You scoffed instantly, snorting into your drink. “You’re not that old.”

Indeed, Arthur wasn’t that old—not nearly as old as your conscience sometimes tried to convince you he was when the guilt began to gnaw at you late at night.

You had thought it through more times than you cared to admit, that dangerous little loop in your mind always circling back to the same undeniable truth: he was still at a perfectly reasonable, even ideal, age to give you…what you wanted.

The thought alone spurred more guilt into your chest, heavy and unrelenting, because it made you feel selfish, greedy, like you were twisting him into a solution rather than seeing him as the complicated, flawed man he was.

Yet, you couldn’t stop yourself from entertaining it, feeding the quiet yearning every time you cracked open another book, the kind written by women who spoke with a sort of boldness you envied, boasting that age should never stop you from having children, that love and biology could be navigated if only you were smart and brave enough.

Every chapter came with cautionary tales tucked between the lines, reminders that time was both generous and cruel, that every choice carried weight.

You told yourself Arthur was in good shape—strong, broad-shouldered, still capable in every sense of the word, but in the end, that didn’t really matter to you, not in the way it was supposed to.

What mattered, what burrowed so deeply into your chest it hurt to breathe sometimes, was the possibility that he could be the one to give you something more lasting than fleeting warmth or passing affection, something that tethered you both to the future in a way that couldn’t be undone.

Arthur chuckled, warm and full, and you found yourself laughing with him, the sound bubbling out before you could stop it. For a moment, the air softened, the two of you just sitting there—no barbs, no tension, just… easy.

You couldn’t remember the last time you and Arthur had been normal like this, not without things inevitably crashing into heat and sweat and the scratch of sheets.

But then it went quiet. Too quiet.

He didn’t look away. His gaze lingered, steady and unyielding, his expression caught somewhere between thoughtful and hungry. His lips twitched, almost like he wanted to smile or speak, but something held him back, and the weight of it pressed into you until you shifted, restless in your seat.

You cleared your throat, desperate to cut through it as his unmoving eyes remained glued on you. “What’s wrong?”

Arthur didn’t bite. He leaned in instead, thumb dragging along the edge of his bottle, eyes glinting under the low amber light. His voice came low, rumbling through the space between you.

“Nothing, darlin’,” he said after a sip, gaze narrowing like he could pin you straight to the booth. “Y’know I ain’t ever been one to complain about your company, but…” his voice went on, curiosity laced within. “Still can’t figure it. Six months go by, not a word, and then you show up claimin’ your car’s jacked up when it’s really not. What’s really goin’ on, hm?”

The question landed heavy, daring you to play coy, the music from the jukebox swelling just enough to emphasize the silence stretching between you. Creedence’s Have You Ever Seen the Rain had just started, the chords rippling low and steady, the singer’s voice dragging a familiar ache into the air.

Behind you, glasses clinked, someone laughed too loud, and yet none of it mattered—not with Arthur’s eyes locked to yours, unwavering.

You lifted your bottle, took a long sip just to buy yourself a shred of time, the fizz buzzing against your tongue. With a shrug, you forced nonchalance you didn’t feel. “Maybe I just wanted to see if you still remembered me.”

Arthur’s mouth curved slow, wicked but not unkind. “Darlin’,” he murmured, “believe me. You’re not the kind someone forgets easy.”

Your breath caught, chest tightening, heat rushing through you so sudden it felt like the bar’s temperature had shot up ten degrees.

“So tell me the truth now,” he murmured, his voice pitched low, barely audible over the steady hum of the jukebox and clinking bottles. “Why’d you really come back ‘round?”

Your heart stuttered. You were beginning to think he was annoyed with you, that gravelly edge in his tone making you second-guess every word you’d spoken since you sat down. Shit.

Maybe this had been a really bad idea. Arthur wasn’t necessarily known for his patience—something you’d gotten well acquainted with during your time with him—and the last thing you wanted was to push him past it. How would you even steer this conversation now without tripping over yourself?

You shifted in the booth, restless, your fingers tracing and retracing the rim of your glass like the motion might ground you. A steady breath was impossible to find under the weight of Arthur’s stare. His gaze pinned you like a nail, unflinching, stripping away every flimsy excuse you’d prepared.

“I told you,” you said lightly, your voice a fragile attempt at breezy, forcing a smile that wavered before it could settle on your lips. “I just wanted to see you. That’s all.”

Arthur leaned back slowly, the leather of the booth creaking as he moved, taking a long pull from his beer. The motion was unhurried, intentional, like he wanted you to watch every tilt of the bottle, every swallow, and know that he was in no rush to let you off the hook.

His eyes never left your face—not once—until he set the bottle down with a muted thunk.

Then his mouth curved into a crooked smirk. “You’re a bad liar.”

The words hit you harder than they should have, not because he said them, but because of the absolute certainty in his voice. Like he had you read front to back, like every page of you was already dog-eared and underlined. There was no point in pretending.

“I’m not lying,” you protested, but the denial tumbled out too fast, too thin, brittle as glass.

Arthur’s low chuckle told you he’d heard it too—that he’d caught the crack and was already pressing against it.

“Sure you ain’t,” he drawled, tilting his head with that infuriating calm, his voice rough velvet that clung to the edges of your nerves.

The jukebox shifted songs then, the soft swell of Fire And Desire by Rick James floating through the bar like some cruel soundtrack to your unraveling.

Arthur leaned just enough to let the words cut close. “But I know when someone’s tryin’ awful hard to dance around somethin’.”

You swallowed hard, staring down at the condensation bleeding from the glass of your bottle, each drop racing to the bottom like it knew more about inevitability than you did. Your mind screamed don’t say it yet, not here, not like this.

Though, with Arthur looking at you like he could drag the truth right out of your throat, you weren’t sure how much longer you could hold it.

Arthur shifted closer across the booth, the old leather groaning and stretching beneath his solid weight, until the rough edge of his knee brushed against yours under the table, a touch so subtle yet impossible to ignore.

Heat shot through you at that small point of contact, a spark that traveled straight through your body and left your chest tight, and when you forced yourself to glance up, he was already watching you with that dangerous softness in his eyes.

It was almost like he could see every secret you thought you’d buried, and like he’d take whatever you were hiding and strip it bare, piece by piece, until you couldn’t pretend anymore.

“Six months,” he murmured, his voice dropping low, husky in a way that wrapped around you and clung like smoke. “You really expect me to believe you just woke up one day and thought, hey, I miss that greasy son of a bitch Arthur Morgan?”

You bit your lip hard, trying to rein in the wild flutter in your chest, but laughter slipped out anyway, spilling shaky and uneven, half-nervous, half-surrender—because of course he would put it like that, tearing right into you without hesitation. “Well… maybe not in those words.”

Arthur’s grin returned, slow as sin, stretching across his face in a way that made him look both infuriating and irresistible, and then his hand came down, broad and steady, to rest heavy and unshakably warm over yours on the table, like he meant to anchor you there with him.

The weight of his touch sent your pulse skittering, your heart thumping so wildly against your ribs it felt like it might break free of your chest, and for a breathless moment you forgot every excuse you’d spent weeks rehearsing because this was Arthur

And Arthur Morgan had always had a way of breaking through your bubble without lifting a finger, without even trying, until you were left defenseless in the face of him.

“You missed me,” he said simply, no question in his tone, just fact.

Your throat went dry, but you nodded, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. I did.”

Arthur scooted, slow and deliberate, close enough that the warmth of his breath tickled across your cheek and sent a shiver crawling down your spine, his thumb dragging across your knuckles with a rough tenderness that spoke of calluses and years of hard work and yet, impossibly, all that gentleness he saved only for you.

“Good,” he murmured, voice low enough to drown out the bar’s noise, “’cause I sure as hell missed you.”

The words didn’t just hang there—they wrapped around you, thick and heavy in the amber-lit haze, weaving through the dim glow of lanterns and the faint swell of the song humming low in the background, every note pushing you closer to the edge of giving in.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, before you could remind yourself of all the reasons you shouldn’t, Arthur tilted his head and pressed his mouth to yours.

It wasn’t gentle, but hungry, desperate, his slightly chapped lips hot and insistent against yours, tasting of beer, smoke, and the kind of heat that came from months of restraint finally snapping like a wire pulled too tight.

You kissed him back with equal fire, your hands fisting into the front of his worn shirt and dragging him closer, like if you let him go for even a second you’d lose him all over again. For a few dizzying seconds, the world fell away—the lie you carried, the aching weight of everything you wanted but shouldn’t, the risk of letting yourself burn in him again, and there was only Arthur, only this.

You had forgotten how good his lips felt against yours, the familiar scratch of his beard grazing your skin in little tingling sparks that made your whole body hum with awareness.

Tugging him closer still, greedier, your mouth opened to him as soft sounds slipped from your throat—half hums, half whimpers, and each one only spurred him further.

Arthur growled low, the sound vibrating against your mouth as his big hands left yours, one pawing rough and desperate at your jean-clad hips, dragging you toward him like he couldn’t get you close enough, couldn’t stand another inch of space left between your bodies.

When he finally pulled back, lips still grazing yours as if reluctant to leave them, his breath came out hot and uneven, eyes locked to yours with a sharpness that made your heart hammer.

They weren’t just looking—they were searching, digging deep, demanding answers you weren’t ready to give.

“Now,” he rasped, voice low enough to make your skin prickle, “tell me what it is you’re not sayin’.”

The weight of his question dropped heavy inside you, like a stone thrown into deep water, the ripples spreading through your chest and making it near impossible to breathe.

Suddenly there was no running left, no more sidestepping or nervous laughter to hide behind—he had you pinned in that look, and Arthur didn’t let go until he got what he wanted.

You hesitated, nails curling tighter into the fabric of his shirt, clinging to it like it might keep you steady. Your voice came out cracked, uncertain, like a confession scraped raw. “It’s not that simple, Arthur.”

“Try me,” he shot back almost instantly, though his tone was softer than the words, his thumb still brushing the back of your hand in slow, grounding circles, keeping you tethered.

Your chest tightened until it ached, panic and yearning warring in every breath. “I didn’t just come back because I missed you. I—” Your words stumbled, faltering midair.

You were stalling, drowning in the sound of your own heartbeat, but the way his eyes stayed on you—stern, yes, but softened with something patient, almost pleading—kept pressing you forward.

You swallowed hard, cheeks burning. “I thought I could just… say I wanted to see you, grab a drink, laugh a little. And maybe I did. Maybe I wanted that more than anything. But there’s—” Your voice dropped to a whisper, almost shameful. “There’s something else.”

Arthur’s brow knit, his mouth pressing into a line, but he didn’t flinch away. If anything, he leaned closer, his shadow swallowing yours. “Then spit it out,” he said, quiet but relentless. “Ain’t no good keepin’ it in your head till it eats you up. You come all this way, I figure you got somethin’ worth sayin’.”

You laughed under your breath, brittle and trembling. “You make it sound so easy.”

His hand slid to your jaw then, calloused fingers rough against your skin, tipping your face toward him until you couldn’t escape those eyes. “Ain’t about easy. It’s about truth. So go on. Tell me what it is you’re wantin’, even if you think I won’t like it.”

Your stomach dropped clean out, nerves rattling so loud you thought he might hear them. “That’s just it,” you whispered, biting your lip, “I don’t know if I can. I came here thinking I was ready, but—”

Arthur’s thumb brushed across your jaw in a small, careful motion, steadying, coaxing. “But what?” he pressed, quiet as a secret.

You blinked hard, shame prickling the back of your throat. “I was gonna tell you I wanted… something more. Something bigger. And now, sitting here with you, I feel like a damn fool, because how do you even say something like that without sounding crazy?”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, eyes searching again, softer this time, the silence stretching taut between you both.

Then his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a frown—just something heavy, resigned.

“Darlin’,” he drawled, his thumb tracing a line down your cheek, “you think I don’t already know you ain’t here just for the whiskey?”

You sat there with your pulse hammering against your throat, every instinct screaming at you to swallow the words back down before they burned you alive.

“How can I be so sure I can even ask you the thing I want to say?” you murmured, half to yourself, half to him, watching as the line of his jaw flexed.

You could see it—the flicker of annoyance, quick and sharp, like he thought you were dancing around the edges again—but just as fast, he forced it away, smoothing over into something steadier.

Arthur leaned in, his voice low and firm. “Then do it. Formally ask me whatever it is goin' through that pretty, but irksome head of yours.”

Your mouth went dry, but you swallowed hard, teeth catching your lip before the words slipped out. “Okay then," you said. "Can I… ask you something?”

“If it’s a favor,” he cut in without missing a beat, a crooked smirk tugging his lips, “I don’t do favors for girls who break my heart.”

His tone was teasing, deliberate, and you could feel the heat crawl up your neck. Leave it to Arthur to start deflecting with humor.

You glared at him, exasperated, air puffing out in a huff. “You see—”

He chuckled, leaning back, clearly pleased with himself, but then the lightness in his eyes dimmed, his hand flattening against the table as if to ground you both. “I’m just messin’ with ya, darlin’. No need to get all uptight,” he said, voice steady again, that teasing edge fading. “No more foolin’. Go on. Tell me what it is already you wanna say.”

Now the spotlight was blinding, harsh and merciless, as if every flickering lamp in the bar had decided to converge on you at once. The weight of the silence pressed so hard against your chest it felt like it might cave in, your ribs tightening with each shallow inhale.

Your tongue felt clumsy in your mouth, heavy and useless, and your throat was so dry it burned, as though the words you were about to speak were scraping you raw on their way out. There was no turning back, no retreat, no excuse that could save you if you faltered.

This was it—the moment you would either break the fragile bond you had with him or, by some impossible miracle, finally lay everything bare.

Your breath trembled as you forced it free, fragile and unsteady, carrying the weight of a confession you weren’t sure you were strong enough to make.

“I want a baby.”

The words hit the air like a thunderclap, cracking through the haze of stale smoke and whiskey with a violence that didn’t match the softness of your voice. They trembled and reverberated, lodging themselves into the walls, the floor, and into him—into Arthur—with an unshakable finality.

The noise of the bar seemed to fall away in the same instant: the low hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, even the distant creak of the swinging doors—everything dissolved into nothing, leaving only the echo of what you had just said.

For a beat too long, Arthur didn’t move.

He didn’t blink, didn’t breathe, didn’t even twitch. He just stared at you with those dark, weathered eyes that had always been impossible to read, and for once, you hated the mystery of them. His face gave nothing away, not anger, not laughter, not tenderness—just stillness, a kind of stunned quiet that stretched into something sharp and unbearable.

The silence between you grew so thick it seemed it could’ve split you in two, pulling at the fragile thread of courage you had managed to cling to.

And another thing that was painfully, undeniably certain: Arthur had not expected that.

Arthur’s mouth parted just slightly, like the words had landed on him too hard and too fast, the sheer weight of them refusing to settle, and all he could do was blink at you, slow and bewildered, as though you had just confessed to wanting the moon dragged down out of the sky and cradled in your hands.

His jaw twitched once, the faintest flicker of movement betraying a storm beginning to brew behind his eyes, though his voice—when it finally scraped its way up his throat—was low and gravelly, threaded with disbelief.

“A baby,” he repeated, not quite a question, not quite an accusation, but more like he was testing the shape of the word on his tongue, letting it linger in the air between you just to see if it might sound different the second time.

He leaned back in his seat, his thumb dragging slow along the rim of his glass though he didn’t bother to lift it to his mouth. His gaze held steady on you, and it was all you could do not to shrink beneath the sharp heat of it.

You swallowed hard, your pulse a frantic little hammer beneath your skin, and for a second you considered laughing it off, making some excuse, something light and reckless like it was a joke, Arthur, don’t go starin’ at me like that, but your body betrayed you, still leaning forward, still clinging to the raw, naked need that had forced the words out in the first place.

“Yeah,” you said finally, your voice a fragile thing, thin as glass. “I want a baby. From you.”

From you. Jesus Christ.

Arthur’s hand stilled against the glass, fingers curling slowly as though the sheer force of what you’d said required his body to anchor itself to something solid. His brows drew together, shadowing his eyes, and for a long, suffocating moment, he didn’t speak, didn’t move.

“Don’t mean to offend or anything, but….” he began, voice clearly lacking in conviction. “Is this like….erm, I dunno, some sick, twisted joke?”

His eyes looked. Just looked at you, as though searching for the part of you that might flinch or crack or laugh at your own admission. When none of that came, when he realized you were deadly serious, the faintest line carved itself into his cheek as he exhaled, slow and unsteady, dragging a rough hand down his jaw.

“You… came back here,” he said finally, every word drawn out, slow and cautious, like stepping across thin ice, “to sit in front of me after all this time, look me dead in the eye, and ask for… that?”

The words weren't cruel, but it was sharp, pricking at the air like needles, as though he needed you to hear how impossible it sounded rattling around in his chest. Your stomach knotted tighter, your hands twisting in your lap until the knuckles ached white.

“I didn’t—I didn’t plan it like that,” you stammered, the truth rushing up in uneven waves. “I just… I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about it, Arthur. About you. About how maybe this could mean somethin’ more than what it already did.”

His head tipped back slightly, and for the first time, he let out a low, short laugh—not cruel, not mocking, but rough around the edges, like he couldn’t quite believe he was hearing what he was hearing.

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once, before his eyes cut back to yours with a sharpness that made your breath catch.

“Christ, woman,” he muttered under his breath, voice scraping low and tired, “you don’t do small asks, do ya?”

Arthur leaned back heavily against the cracked leather of the booth, the old seat groaning under the shift of his weight as if it, too, felt the gravity of what you had just laid bare. His hand turned the beer bottle slowly, deliberately, the glass catching the amber light as though every slow twist was buying him another second to corral his thoughts before they spilled out recklessly.

His gaze didn’t drift, though—it stayed locked on you, unwavering, sharp as a blade but never cruel. If anything, it was too steady, as though if he blinked or looked away for even a heartbeat, everything inside him might come crashing loose, a flood of words and doubts and fears he wasn’t ready to hand over.

“You…” he started, his voice rougher than usual, then stopped, his jaw flexing as if the words themselves didn’t want to leave his mouth. He shook his head once, slow and disbelieving, before finally letting them scrape out. “You want me to put a baby in you.”

You flinched at the bluntness, the way it landed like a hammer on the table between you. Still, you supposed you should’ve expected it—Arthur was never one for sugarcoating, never bothered with pretty words when the plain ones cut sharper.

“I want a baby,” you corrected softly, your voice trembling even though you tried to steady it. Your fingers twisted together in your lap until the knuckles went pale. “I want to be a mother. And I—Arthur, I’ve wanted this for so long.”

His brows drew down hard, shadowing his eyes as he dragged a rough hand across his jaw, the scrape of stubble loud in the pocket of silence between you.

“But why me?” His tone was low, weighted with disbelief. “Hell, I’m just… I’m just a grease monkey with too many bad habits. Don't know nothin' about fatherin',” Now he was in serious disbelief. "Once again, no harm intended, honey, but ain't there like...resources for you to have a kid without focusing on the whole domestic partner side. Don't they have doctors, places for that? You coulda picked anyone."

“Anyone?” you echoed, and the laugh that left you was so quiet, so hollow, it didn’t even sound like laughter at all.

“I tried that, Arthur. I really did. I dated. I met men who said all the right things, made promises that never meant a damn thing once the shine wore off. I looked at donors, too. Sat in some office staring at binders full of faceless names, faceless profiles, sterile little descriptions of strangers. Do you know how cold that feels? To think about having a stranger’s child? Someone with no face, no warmth, no…” Your throat closed up, the words choking out ragged. “No heart in it.”

For just the smallest flicker of a moment, Arthur’s eyes softened, the steel in them easing, and that was enough to push you forward, to keep talking even though your chest felt too tight.

“I don’t want just anyone’s baby,” you said, firmer now, planting your hands against the table like the wood itself could keep you grounded. “I want a child that’s wanted. I want to carry a life that means something, from someone I can trust. Someone I know. And when I thought about who that might be, when I really thought about it… the only face I could see was yours.”

Arthur let out a long breath through his nose, heavy, weary, the kind that seemed to drag his shoulders down an inch. He leaned forward again, elbows braced on the table, his forgotten beer bottle resting loose between his hands.

“You really think I so happen to be that man?” His voice was low, ragged, weighted with both disbelief and a softness he couldn’t quite smother, no matter how badly he wanted to.

You nodded quickly, almost too quickly, afraid your nerves might betray you if you hesitated. “You can be. I know you are. Arthur, I’ve seen the way you care for people. For John and his family, for that shop of yours, even for strangers who come by needin’ help you don’t have to give. When you decide to care, you don’t half-ass it—you give all of it. You always have.”

Arthur’s head tipped, his mouth tightening as though you’d just spoken some kind of lunacy. His disbelief deepened the longer you went on, his brows knitting so hard it was as if he was trying to make sense of a language he didn’t speak.

This? He thought. This is what she sees in me? You were sittin’ there, lists spilling out of your mouth like evidence for a trial, examples of him doing the bare minimum—things he’d never thought twice about and you were shaping them into a case for why he could give you a child.

He shook his head, slow and worn, staring at you like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. Were you desperate? Arthur was certain you weren’t thinking this all the way through, not really, not in the way you should’ve been.

Even now, even with every reason in the world to put his foot down—he felt that same ache of guilt crawling up his spine. Because when it came to you, he could never just casually turn you away, never spit out the word “no” and walk off clean.

Even if this was the craziest, most outrageous proposition someone has ever asked him. So he didn’t answer right away.

Instead, his thumb pressed against the damp label of his beer bottle, peeling it back strip by strip, letting the silence hang until it nearly broke under its own weight.

And just then, as though mocking the heaviness that had sunk deep into the booth between you, the jukebox clicked over with a thunk and spun into The Joker by Steve Miller Band, its easy, playful rhythm rolling out across the bar like the universe itself was smirking at the mess you’d made.

Arthur finally looked up, his eyes catching the dim light in a way that made them almost glow. “You don’t make things easy, do ya?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head, your chest tight. “Wanting a baby was never gonna be easy. But I’m not lettin’ go of it. Not anymore.”

Arthur studied you in silence, his jaw working like he was chewing on every word, trying to fit them into the rough-hewn puzzle of his life.

“Jesus, darlin’,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “You sure know how to throw a wrench in a man’s evening.”

But the thing that made your heart leap was this: he hadn’t said no.

Not yet.

Arthur’s eyes narrowed, the corners creasing with the kind of sharpness that made you feel pinned in place, his mouth tugging into something that hovered somewhere between a smirk and a frown, like he couldn’t quite decide whether to laugh at you or scold you.

His voice came slow, deliberate, every syllable laced with disbelief. “So… lemme get this straight. You’re tellin’ me this is just… a pump and dump situation? Except with the possibility that I get you….pregnant?”

The phrase landed hard, blunt and crude, knocking the air out of your lungs like a slap you hadn’t seen coming. You blinked rapidly, scrambling for footing in the conversation that had suddenly swerved into territory you hadn’t prepared for.

“I—well, yeah, I guess… I mean, you pretty much summed it up," you responded awkwardly, dripping your head.

“Lord almighty,” he muttered, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, his gaze cutting back to you with a kind of incredulous fire that made your stomach flip. “You really think I’d treat you like that?”

Your chest tightened, nerves clashing with stubbornness as your fingers curled more firmly around your glass, the cool press of it anchoring you in the moment.

“Arthur, it’s not about that,” you said, though your voice caught slightly on the words. “It’s about the baby—about making this happen, finally. I don’t care how—”

But he cut across your explanation, voice low and firm, sharp enough to slice through your reasoning. “No.”

His eyes caught yours, blazing with something too complex to name—anger, maybe, but also conviction, an unyielding steadiness that made your pulse quicken. “Listen to me. I ain’t just gonna get you pregnant and go on with my life like there ain’t a little one comin’ nine months down the line. I don’t work like that. I ain’t built like that.”

The room seemed to still at his words, the air growing heavier, pressing into your chest. You froze, lips parting but no reply coming, your throat bobbing with a hard swallow that refused to settle. He was actually thinking this through? The idea jolted you, breaking through the wall of assumptions you had so carefully stacked around him.

Hope—fragile, tentative, dangerous—flickered in your chest, sparking warmth you were almost afraid to acknowledge. You kept your expression as neutral as you could, forcing yourself to sit still, unwilling to let the moment slip away by revealing too much, too fast.

Because the truth was you had never been certain where Arthur stood when it came to children. That belonged to the vast, murky category of things you didn’t know about him—things he kept guarded, like the scar tissue of an old wound.

You had been so determined on your own path, so adamant about raising this child yourself, carrying the weight of it without needing anyone else’s hand in the matter. You had thought of donors, of doing everything alone just to cut through the mess of legal strings and outside opinions, because you had never wanted your decision clouded by what others thought best for you.

In that picture, Arthur had never been meant to be anything more than a name on the page—a stand-in, a body, nothing beyond.

But now here he was, saying flatly that he wouldn’t vanish, that he wouldn’t abandon you or the child you dreamed of. And though he wasn’t promising you anything resembling commitment, wasn’t offering a neat ribbon-tied package of domestic stability, the way his voice hardened told you enough.

He wasn’t walking away from responsibility, not the way you had once braced yourself for.

You had imagined him as a man who would never tie himself down, who would only ever belong halfway, never fully. That had been the foundation of every clash you’d had when the two of you were just friends with benefits—him refusing to be claimed, you refusing to pretend you didn’t want more.

So to ask him for this—for a child, knowing full well that in the end you might be staring into the eyes of a smaller, newer version of him—had been your way of steeling yourself for the unimaginable. To raise this baby alone, to accept the responsibility without asking for anything from him.

As you heard his voice, heard him tell you in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t going to disappear, you realized maybe that was enough. Not a promise of love. Not a guarantee of forever. But enough.

Arthur sighed heavily, the sound dragging from deep in his chest as his hand scraped down the length of his face, palm rasping over rough stubble before he let it fall back to the table, his eyes finding yours again with a softness that didn’t quite fit the weight of his words.

“You want this bad enough to come to me. Fine. Then I’ll do it," he explained with slight gruff. "But if we’re doin’ this, I get full updates—your well-bein’, doctor visits, the whole nine yards. And when that baby comes? I damn sure get to know ‘bout it. None of that 'I went to get milk and never returned' crap.”

Joy flared inside your chest so violently it almost hurt, a fierce ache blooming like a bruise spreading through your ribs, your throat tightening with a pressure that was equal parts relief and disbelief. This was it.

After all your restless nights, after all the doubting and the endless circling back to the same aching thought, this was finally going to happen—going to be real.

But instinct rose fast, sharp and territorial, like something primal tugging at your spine, and before you could stop yourself, you were shaking your head hard, words spilling out fast, defensive.

“You don’t need to do all that. It’s my choice, my baby—” The word mine tasted fierce on your tongue, like you had to clutch it tight before anyone else could try to take it away.

Arthur raised a hand, his broad shoulders crowding the small space between you, voice dipping low and cutting like a blade sliding across glass, every syllable firm with that stubborn streak you knew too well. “Darlin’, don’t matter how you spin it. If my blood’s in that child, I’m gonna be involved. One way or another.”

The line of his jaw was iron, hard and unmovable, like he’d already planted his boots and there’d be no shifting him. You blinked at him, stunned by the sheer finality in his tone, the gravel of it settling into your bones until it was impossible to argue.

Ridiculously, you almost laughed, because of course this would be the hill Arthur Morgan dug his heels into. Of course the gruff, grease-stained mechanic who lived and breathed on stubborn pride would stake his claim like this, giving you no room to wriggle free.

The laugh never got the chance to escape, though, because before you could even shape it into words or tease him for it, Arthur was already moving.

He reached into the back pocket of his jeans, leather wallet creaking as he pulled it free, and without ceremony, slapped a thick handful of bills down onto the table beside his half-finished beer, the sound sharp against the wood.

Then, with that same unhurried ease that made every movement of his look inevitable, he slid out of the booth, towering over the table as he straightened.

Wow. So much for inviting him out for drinks.

“Arthur—what the hell are you doing?” you blurted, dumbstruck as he rounded the table with all the quiet command of a man who’d already made up his mind, his hand stretching out toward you, palm open, urging you toward the edge of the seat like he wasn’t asking so much as insisting.

He looked down at you then, the weight of his gaze heavy enough to pin you in place, his mouth tugging slow and deliberate into that crooked, dangerous grin that had always managed to undo you in ways no one else ever could, making your stomach flip and twist until you thought you might burst apart.

“Well,” he drawled, voice low and rough and thick with a promise you could feel all the way down your spine, as he leaned close enough that his breath ghosted warm across your lips, “we gotta start sooner or later.”

The meaning didn’t just register—it hit you hard and deep, sinking into your chest and belly like a stone dropped into still water, rippling outward until you swore every nerve in your body lit up, your skin buzzing, your throat dry, your heart slamming against your ribs in wild, reckless agreement.

Heat flooded your cheeks and spread lower, a fire licking through you at the sheer audacity of his words, at the shameless intent coiled tight inside them, leaving you dizzy with want and anticipation.

Arthur wasn’t just agreeing, wasn’t just humoring your desperate wish—he was ready to follow through, to try, to make it real in the most immediate, unflinching way.

Right now, right here, with that heavy certainty in his voice and the kind of hunger in his eyes that made your whole body hum like it had been waiting for this exact moment all along.

By the time he pulled into your building, you were wound so tightly you could’ve snapped, every nerve drawn taut like a wire ready to spark, your nails digging little crescents into your palms because you needed an outlet for the restless heat building inside you.

The whole drive had been thick with silence that wasn’t really silence at all—it was charged, alive, the air heavy with everything unspoken but felt. Your body buzzed with anticipation so sharp it was almost painful, a low ache pooling deep in your belly as if it had been waiting for this very moment far too long.

Perhaps you had been.

Arthur killed the engine with an unhurried flick of his wrist, then turned toward you with that steady, deliberate slowness that made your pulse skip, like he was savoring the anticipation instead of rushing it.

His eyes lingered on your mouth first, staring like he’d been starving for the taste of you, before dragging down the lines of your body and sweeping back up again—punctual, slow, hungry—until finally locking on your gaze.

The look in his eyes was unyielding, the question there bold and wordless: Are you ready to cross this line? Are you ready to let me take this further?

Your answer came in the smallest movement. Just a shaky nod, your breath caught high in your throat, and that was all it took.

Arthur leaned across the space, closing the distance in one slow, unrelenting push, his breath hot and whiskey-edged against your lips before he finally claimed them.

The kiss was a collision of heat and hunger, messy and unpracticed but devastating all the same, his mouth slanting against yours with a kind of urgency that felt like years of restraint finally snapping. His tongue swept into your mouth with greedy intent, tasting, taking, devouring, like he was trying to make up for every single second he hadn’t been allowed to touch you this way.

You gasped into him, the sound desperate and breaking, your hands clutching at the collar of his shirt as though holding on to him would steady the wild crash of your body’s reaction. But instead, he pulled you closer, dragging you over the console without hesitation, not caring about the awkward angle, the harsh press of the gearshift digging into your hip—it all disappeared under the frenzy of his mouth against yours.

Every move of his lips, every scrape of his teeth, every sweep of his tongue told you the same thing: he’d wanted this, you, for far longer than either of you had admitted.

The scramble up to your place was reckless, raw, like two people possessed by something bigger than themselves. Your keys fumbled uselessly in your hand, breathless laughter spilling between your frantic kisses until Arthur finally helped, his big hand steadying yours before tossing the door open.

You barely made it inside before your back was pressed to the wall with a force that stole your breath, the door kicked shut with one heavy boot that echoed in the hallway. His lips never once left yours, devouring every gasp, every soft sound you made, like he couldn’t bear even a second of separation.

Arthur’s hands were everywhere at once; rough palms cupping your face to tilt your head back, thumbs brushing along your cheekbones with startling tenderness before sliding lower, down your neck, over the frantic rise and fall of your chest.

His fingers found your hips, gripping tight enough to bruise as he dragged you into him, the hard line of his body flush with yours, his heat sinking through your clothes like fire. He tugged at the belt loops on your jeans with a kind of wild impatience, like he’d been dreaming of tearing you out of them since that very first conversation, every motion dripping with the need to finally get to bare skin.

Arthur’s steered you toward the bedroom, cupping the curve of your clothed core through fabric with a rough, possessive certainty that made your knees wobble. You walked like a dazed puppet, breath hitching every time his lips found yours again, the taste of whiskey and him overwhelming your senses.

The hallway between the living space and your bedroom blurred as he pressed you against him at every step, his thigh brushing yours, his hips nudging into yours, guiding and claiming with every move. Your back hit the half-opened bedroom door, and he didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate.

Arthur was in the lead, moving with that same unflinching certainty that had made your pulse pound since the moment you’d stepped into his truck.

When he finally lifted you into his arms, it was with such ease, such confidence, that your heart lurched violently; he carried you as if you weighed nothing at all, his hands solid and warm under your thighs and across your back, holding you against him like a promise.

His mouth trailed fire down your neck, lips brushing, teeth grazing lightly, tongue teasing just under your ear, and you clung to him, breathless, giggling in a mixture of nerves and desire, fingers tangling in his hair, gripping the nape of his neck for stability while your body already tingled, alive with need.

He laid you down across your bed, but instead of diving in like a man possessed, he hovered, letting his gaze sweep over you like he was memorizing every inch, his thumb brushing teasingly over your lower lip as if silently vowing, this is real, this is happening, and I’m not letting go.

The tension crackled between you like static, heavy and intimate, the kind that made your chest tighten with anticipation.

Raw, messy tenderness bled into pure hunger. Arthur’s hands moved fast, precise, shedding your clothes piece by piece, peeling off your jeans, tugging your top up over your head, lips pressing to your collarbone as he admired, kissed, and devoured with no hesitation.

You shivered under his touch, gasping every time his fingers traced along your bare skin, every caress leaving fire in their wake. He slid closer, body slotting against yours with that heavy, masculine weight you’d been craving, chest pressing against chest, pelvis grinding, proving he wasn’t just giving you what you asked for.

Every movement of his hips, every shift of his shoulders, every wet, messy kiss down your neck or along your chest screamed possession, intent, and raw, unrestrained desire.

Your hands roamed over him in turn, teasing the line of his muscles, tugging at his shirt, scratching lightly over the short stubble on his jaw as he growled low in your ear, encouraging, praising, demanding. His lips returned to yours, sloppy and urgent, teeth nibbling and tongue tangling, hands cupping and kneading, molding you to him as though you were inseparable already.

You cried out softly as he pressed into you, hips rolling with an easy, natural rhythm, the world shrinking to the two of you, tangled together, lost in heat, hunger, and the undeniable pull of a fire neither of you could—or wanted to—extinguish.

“You ready for this, darlin’?” he murmured, voice low and rough, thick with that familiar drawl that made your stomach twist in anticipation. His lips brushed against yours briefly, teasing, before he dropped down toward your neck, mouth trailing hot kisses along your collarbone. “Gonna take care of you first, like I always do. You remember how I do, huh?”

Heat surging through you, you nodded, chest rising and falling quickly. Gasping, your fingers tangling in the short hairs at the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

Arthur let out a low, rumbling chuckle that pressed against your thigh as he settled between your legs, the weight of him grounding you even as your nerves fizzled in anticipation. “Good. ‘Cause I’m gonna make sure you’re ready for me before we move on, alright?”

“Yes, Arthur… please,” you breathed, voice trembling, a mix of desperation and eagerness, hips lifting slightly toward him without thinking, body already arching for him.

He grinned against your skin, the crooked, sinful curve of his mouth brushing teasingly over your inner thigh, pulling down your panties, whispering, “You taste as good as I remember… gonna make you forget all about holdin’ back, alright, sugar?”

Then his mouth was on you, hot, worshipful, and electric.

Arthur moved slow at first, deliberate, tongue tracing, lips sucking gently, fingers threading into your hair to anchor you as your hips pressed instinctively against him.

Every flick, every graze of his lips sent sparks of heat spiraling up your body, your back arching instinctively into him. You moaned, trembling, hands gripping his shoulders, heart hammering in your chest.

“Always like this for you, ain’t I? Always makin’ sure you’re good and ready…” His fingers trailed up your thighs, teasing, brushing against your most sensitive points, coaxing, exploring, while his mouth lavished attention with patience and hunger intertwined.

“You gonna make me beg, huh?” you gasped, chest heaving.

“Maybe,” he murmured, voice rough, lips brushing over your clit with feather-light teasing that made you whine and grab at his hair. “But you like it when I take my time, don’t you? Don’t lie to me, sugar.”

“I—yes, I do! Please, Arthur…” The words spilled out raw, unguarded, as your body arched toward him, desperate, needy.

He didn’t rush—he moved with that perfect mix of reverence and dominance, mouth and hands coaxing you higher, teasing you with the memory of every time he’d left you trembling and spent, until your nails dug into his shoulders, breathless and gasping, body quivering with need.

You knew—knew with every fiber of yourself—that when he finally took you fully, it would be everything, everything you’d been craving.

Arthur’s mouth worked over you like a man starved, sloppy and relentless, lips and tongue dragging delicious heat over every inch of your sensitive flesh. The tip of his nose brushed against your clit with just enough pressure to make you arch, little whimpers slipping past your lips as your hand fisted in his hair, urging him closer, deeper.

Your hips moved of their own accord, slowly rocking down against his mouth, riding him with measured desperation, bucking just enough to make him groan low in his throat, vibrating against you in all the best ways.

“Fuck… you’re so damn wet,” he murmured, voice rough, muffled slightly by the heat of your body, each word a delicious tease against your burning nerve endings.

He added fingers then, sliding in one in with ease, curling in his pointer finger just right as his mouth didn’t pause, lips and tongue worshiping you as if he’d memorized every shiver, every flicker of response over the months you’d been apart.

Your nails raked into the muscles of his shoulders, hips rising to meet him with every glide, every drag, your bare feet pressing into the sinew of his back, grounding yourself against the sheer intensity of him.

“Oh god, yes… just like that…” you gasped, voice breaking, head tilting back against the pillow as he continued to eat you out like it was his purpose in life.

Six months of denial, of absence, of that aching gap in your chest, evaporated into nothing the second his lips and tongue made contact with your core. It was all now—your body, his mouth, the tension coiling tighter with every movement.

He growled low, vibrating through his chest as he added another finger, thrusting slow, then curling inside you in that particular way only he knew how, and you could hardly contain the moans that tumbled out of you. “Fuck… Arthur… right there… god, don’t stop… please…”

His lips never left your clit, mouth sucking and licking with that sloppy, messy precision that had always made you melt, and your hips moved faster, rutting yourself into his mouth, tilting, bucking, hands tugging at his hair, your body trembling with the need and release building in every nerve.

Every shiver, every moan, every desperate press of your body against his face pulled him deeper into you, and for the first time in months, all the weight, all the distance, all the hesitation, vanished. It was just you, Arthur, and the heady, unrelenting rhythm of his mouth and fingers that left you trembling on the edge of losing yourself completely.

He was still completely going at it on your pussy, his mouth practically glued to your swollen folds like he’s afraid of letting go, his tongue darting and dragging in long, sloppy strokes that have your thighs trembling where they cage his head, and the tension building inside you is impossible to ignore.

That tight coil low in your belly pulls tighter and tighter with every messy suck and every deliberate scrape of his stubbled jaw, and you know—you know—he feels it too, because his hands clutch harder at your hips, anchoring you to his mouth as if he’s drinking straight from the source.

Just when you’re about to let go, already tilting your head back to cry out his name, Arthur rips himself away from your core with a loud, wet pop, your slick spread over his mouth and chin, leaving you throbbing and needy, and for a split second all you feel is sharp frustration clawing up your spine as you sag onto your elbows, panting, chest heaving, skin flushed with denied release.

“Fuckin’ soaked my beard, darlin’,” you hear him say as you’re trying to catch your breath, an arm temporarily sprawled over your eyes.

He sits back on his knees, his broad chest rising and falling, and with a deliberate slowness, he grabs at the hem of his shirt and peels it up over his head, tossing it carelessly to the side, his body revealed in the dim light, every muscle defined, the soft hair across his chest glistening faintly with sweat.

You take his pause as an unspoken invitation, a challenge almost, and without hesitation your own hands move to the clasp of your bra, your fingers fumbling before finally snapping it loose, letting the straps slip down your arms until it falls forgotten, leaving your breasts bare, your nipples tightening under the cool air and under Arthur’s heavy, hungry gaze.

The moment his eyes drag over your chest, heat pools inside you, and you crawl toward him, closing the space in slow, needy inches, your knees pressing into the bed until you’re in front of him.

Your hands waste no time latching onto the leather of his belt, tugging it free from his waist with urgency, the thick strap heavy in your hands as the buckle clinks and clatters against itself, the sound loud in the tense silence.

Arthur’s big, calloused hands come up, framing your face, the roughness of his palms against your cheeks grounding you as he drags you forward into his mouth, kissing you with a feverish intensity, tongues clashing, his taste mixing with your own lingering on his lips.

You’re practically devoured, dizzy from the way he groans against your mouth, but your fingers stay determined, tugging the belt completely loose, then undoing the button and zipper of his pants, your hand sliding inside to palm over the thick outline of his cock straining against his boxers.

The heat radiating from him, the way he twitches under your touch, makes your pulse slam in your throat—you can’t help the low sound that slips from you as your palm presses firmer, claiming what you’ve been missing out on for six long months.

With a further sprout of confidence, you reach for the waistband, tugging down on his boxers until he was completely bare, cock springing up to slap at his lower stomach. His thumbs brushed slow over your cheekbones, steadying you like he needed you right there, focused on him, even while his cock twitched in your hand.

“Shit, sweetheart…” he muttered against your mouth, voice breathless and heavy, “you tryin’ t’kill me?”

His hips gave the slightest push into your fist, needy and desperate in the most restrained way, and the weight of him, thick and hot in your palm, made your stomach twist with want. You stroked him leisurely, your grip tightening just enough to pull another hiss from his lips, the sound cracking into a groan as his forehead dropped to yours.

“Feels so damn good. Been dreamin’ of this…of you…,” Arthur rasped, eyes squeezed shut, every word dragged out like it was yanked from somewhere deep inside.

Your hand slid down the thick length of him, then back up slowly, your thumb swiping the slick bead at his tip. His reaction was instant: a sharp inhale through his teeth, jaw clenched, eyes flashing open to look at you like you’d just lit him on fire.

“Ahh, fuck—girl, y’know what you’re doin’, don’tcha?” he muttered, broken laughter mixing with his groan.

“I remember,” you whispered, stroking him harder now, “I remember how much you used to love this…how you’d fall apart in my hand. Or when I'd let you make a mess on my stomach, my tits...”

Arthur growled softly, not in anger but in that dangerous, hungry way you knew all too well. He kissed you rougher this time, lips demanding, tongue sliding over yours, before pulling back just enough to watch your hand work over him. His chest rose and fell fast, the muscles shifting under the dim light.

“Keep it slow, darlin’,” he warned gently, voice cracking like he was trying to keep control, “else I’m gonna end this quick. And I ain’t about to waste this…not with you back in my arms. And certainly not when you’re demandin’ to be stuffed by me.”

You teased him anyway, dragging your fist deliberately up, squeezing him at the head, watching his brows knit together in bliss. “Arthur…” you murmured, kissing along his jaw, “I want to feel you again. Inside me. Please, baby. Wanna feel full with your cock inside me.”

That got him.

His head dropped back, a curse falling from his lips as he rolled his hips shallowly into your hand. One of his big hands slid from your cheek down your throat, resting at the base of your neck—not choking, though you knew Arthur never shied away from choking you.

He was just holding you there like he needed to anchor himself. “Goddamn, you say shit like that an’ I lose my goddamn mind.”

He leaned down to kiss you again, softer this time, his mustache brushing against your lips, his voice a rumble between kisses. “Don’t you worry, sweetheart. I’ll give you every inch. Just gotta take my time with you. Don’t wanna hurt you.”

Arthur’s big, worn hands eased you gently down onto the bed, the weight of him pressing close enough that his warmth blanketed you, his shadow swallowing the candlelight above. He hovered there for a moment, propped on one arm, drinking you in with an intensity that made your throat close—his eyes trailing over your flushed skin, your chest rising fast, the tremble in your lips that betrayed how badly you needed him.

“Sweet girl..” he rasped, the sound gravel-deep, his thumb stroking along your cheekbone, “…look at you, darlin’. Sprawled out like this under me. You got no damn clue how beautiful you are.”

You swallowed hard, your nails finding the thick column of his neck as if to anchor yourself, dragging lightly across his skin. “Arthur…” you whispered, half a plea, half a warning—you weren’t sure which.

He dipped his head lower, his beard brushing your temple, his mouth grazing your ear as his breath hitched with restraint. “One last time, honey…” he murmured, voice rough with desire but heavy with care, “…you sure ‘bout this? You askin’ me t’ give you somethin’ you can’t take back.”

His words hung heavy, weighted with the gravity of what you had begged of him, of what you wanted—to let him finish inside you, to risk making good on the wish you had been clinging to for so long.

Your legs wrapped tighter around his hips, locking him against you as though daring him to try and pull away. You tugged him down, clutching the back of his neck, kissing him hard, wet, desperate.

“I’m sure,” you whispered hotly against his mouth, your words filth and prayer all at once. “Don’t you dare hold back. I want it. Want you to fill me up. Make me a mommy, Arthur. Give me that part of you that nobody else gets.”

A growl tore from him at your filthy encouragement, a sound that was half lust, half something darker, deeper, primal. His hand slid down your side, anchoring hard at your hip, holding you still beneath him as though your demand had set fire to every nerve in his body.

His forehead pressed to yours, sweat already dampening his brow, “You don’t know what you’re askin’ of me. You keep whisperin’ things like that an’ I’ll give you every drop I got—won’t stop ‘til you’re so full you feel me for days.”

You gasped at the weight of his promise, trembling as he shifted, his cock thick and heavy as he lined himself up against your soaked entrance, the deliberate drag of his head nudging, teasing, threatening to push inside.

He kept it slow, controlled, tension crackling through his every movement like he was drawing out the torment, savoring the way your body writhed beneath him.

“You want me t’ put a baby in you, huh?” he rumbled, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice low and dangerous, sweet and filthy all at once. “Want me t’ fuck you so deep you ain’t never forget who did it? Say it, darlin’. Say it one more time so I know you mean it.”

Your heart stutters at that—he’s being too kind, too thoughtful, too goddamn sweet—and it makes your throat tight. You’d never admit you liked it, never let yourself say it out loud, but fuck, you’d take it all the same. You huff against his mouth, half a laugh, half a moan, and whisper,

“I told you, I’m sure. I want it. I want you to put a baby in me,” Your words are filthy and desperate, your tone shaking with sincerity, and you feel his whole body jolt in response.

Arthur eased himself forward with a patience you hadn’t expected, every inch of him stretching you wide, testing the limits of your body until your nails were digging crescents into his broad shoulders, your breath catching in broken gasps. He groaned low in his chest when he finally bottomed out, his forehead dropping to yours, sweat already glistening at his temples as his lips hovered against your cheek.

“Christ, darlin’,” he rasped, voice heavy with awe and filth in equal measure, “you’re squeezin’ me so tight I can barely think straight.”

He gave the smallest roll of his hips, more a tease than a thrust, and the sound that spilled from your throat only made his grin sharpen. Your body trembled, struggling to accommodate him, but Arthur stayed completely still, letting you have the time you needed, his thumb stroking idle circles against your hip in a gesture far too tender for how raw the situation was.

“Ain’t gonna hurt ya,” he murmured, his tone dipping softer for a moment, “I’ll go slow, I promise. You just gotta let me know when you’re ready.”

Your lashes fluttered, the weight of him inside you almost unbearable, not from pain but from the pressure, the fullness, the intoxicating knowledge of what it meant.

“God, Arthur,” you whispered, clutching the back of his neck and dragging him down for a kiss, your words brushing against his lips between gasps, “you’re so big..”

He chuckled roughly, that dangerous, crooked smile tugging at his mouth even as his eyes burned down at you with unguarded heat. “That so? You want me to ruin ya for anyone else? Hm? Fill you up so good you can’t think of nothin’ but me?”

Your answering whimper gave him all the confirmation he needed, but you still guided his body, sliding your hands down to press against his lower back, urging him to move, to give you the friction your body craved.

“Please, Arthur,” you begged, shameless now, “don’t just sit there… fuck me already. Make me feel you.”

A guttural sound tore from his throat as he gave his first real thrust, slow and deliberate, dragging himself out only to push back in with a steady, controlled pace that had you seeing stars.

“That it? That’s what you need?” he grunted, his lips brushing your ear, the words both filthy and reverent. “You take me so goddamn good, sweetheart… like you were made for this.”

Arthur’s hips snap forward with a steady rhythm at first, the drag of him inside you almost unbearable, the kind of sweet ache that has your thighs quivering and your nails digging into the muscle of his back.

His breath is ragged, harsh, but his voice somehow still manages to dip low and thick with that gravelly drawl, whispering against your ear, “That’s it, darlin’… takin’ me so damn good. You want it rough, I’ll give it to ya, but I ain’t lettin’ go of you neither.”

Each thrust grows sharper, heavier, his hips slamming flush against you with a wet sound that makes your whole body jerk, and yet, despite the power behind him, Arthur’s hand slides up to cradle the back of your head like he’s afraid of hurting you. He buries his face into the curve of your neck, panting hot and desperate, his beard scratching against your sensitive skin, leaving you marked with both stubble burn and the heat of his mouth.

He presses soft kisses there between his groans, his gentleness clashing beautifully with the way he’s practically drilling into you, trying to brand himself inside you with every deep push.

Your moans spill freely into his ear, needy and ragged, and he growls low in his throat when you clutch him tighter, like the sounds themselves are fuel to his fire.

“You hear that? That’s what I wanna keep pullin’ out of ya,” he grits, voice almost breaking from how hard he’s trying to hold himself back.

His pace turns faster, deliberate but rough, hips pounding with enough force to rock the bedframe, and still, he tucks your head closer against his shoulder, protecting you, holding you in place as though this isn’t just about release but about sealing something between you.

Arthur groans again, long and low, the sound vibrating in his chest against yours, before muttering, “Ain’t stoppin’ ‘til you know you’re mine, ‘til I’ve given you everythin’ you begged me for.”

His movements blur that line—rough enough to leave you breathless, gentle enough to remind you this isn’t just an act of lust but something heavier, something lasting.

Arthur’s rhythm finally broke free of the careful balance he’d been holding, every thrust turning into something rawer, needier, as though the self-control he’d been clinging to had just shattered in his hands. His hips snapped forward with unrelenting force, driving himself into you over and over, the sound of skin slapping filling the room like thunder rolling through the walls.

“You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good,” he rasped, teeth gritted, his voice low and nearly guttural, “ ain’t never gonna get enough of this.”

His hand remained cradling the back of your head even as his body punished yours with every deep stroke, pulling you tighter against him so his face could bury into your neck once more, his breath hot and ragged, his panting uneven from the sheer desperation driving him.

You could feel his whiskers scratch at your skin as he groaned against you, his words muffled but sharp enough to sear themselves into you.

“This is mine,” Arthur said in a hoarse tone, “ain’t lettin’ you forget it. Not ever.”

His pace was merciless now, rough thrusts punctuated by the occasional stuttering push when your tightness around him made him falter for a second, and every slip only seemed to make him growl harder, push deeper, slam into you with more urgency.

Your moans turned louder, shameless, spilling against his ear, and he groaned right back like he was feeding on them, every sound fueling him, making him lose himself further. When he pulled back suddenly, tearing his face away from your neck, the loss of his breath was startling, but then his eyes locked on yours, dark and wild and nearly feral in the low light.

Even while he was pounding into you so roughly you could barely breathe through the pleasure, he stared like he was memorizing every twitch, every break in your expression, every shape your lips made when you tried and failed to catch your breath.

Your mouth fell open, forming a perfect ‘o’ as the heat climbed in your chest, and his gaze flicked down to your breasts, bouncing with every thrust.

His lips curled into a half-smirk as he rasped, “Look at ‘em. Such pretty tits. Look at you. Made for me.”

Without warning, his mouth latched onto your right breast, sucking hard, his tongue flicking across your nipple while his thrusts grew ragged and sloppy with urgency.

The mix of his rough pounding and the wet pull of his mouth on your chest had you reeling, your head tipping back into the pillow, your throat offering up a raw cry that made him groan around your skin. His hand splayed across your breastbone, thumb brushing against your other nipple.

Arthur muttered, half into your flesh, half with a hiss of air, “Wait ‘til they swell, wait ‘til they’re heavy in my palms when you’re carryin’ my baby. Gonna fuckin’ dote on you even bigger, darlin’, every fuckin’ inch.”

Your fingers tangled tight in his honey-brown hair, tugging hard and then gentler, pushing his face deeper against your chest as though you couldn’t get him close enough, as though you needed him there just as badly as he needed you.

He whimpered at the pull, the sound vibrating against your breast as he bit softly at the mound, tongue soothing after, never breaking his rhythm, never pulling out, his hips slamming into yours with desperate precision even as his thrusts grew reckless with the edge of his climax approaching.

Arthur’s voice comes out ragged, almost torn from his throat as his thrusts grow sloppy and unrestrained, his breath scorching hot against your breast before he lifts his head, eyes wild and locked onto yours like a man caught between agony and bliss.

“Darlin’—fuck—I’m—Christ, I ain’t gonna last—” he grits out, his words broken, his jaw clenching as though he’s fighting tooth and nail to hold back what his body is already threatening to spill.

His hips slam into you, harder, faster, the rhythm desperate and punishing, but his hands—his big, calloused hands—still hold you with that impossible gentleness, one gripping your waist like he’s terrified of losing you, the other cradling the side of your head, fingers buried in your hair as his forehead presses against yours.

Your whole body arches up into him, your nails clawing at his back as the heat of his words breaks something inside of you, sending you spiraling with a raw need that burns hotter than anything you’ve ever felt.

“Don’t hold it. Don’t you dare,” you cry out, the plea tumbling from your lips in a half-sob, half-moan, your eyes wide and wet, staring back into his. “Inside me, Arthur. Fill me, just like you promised—please, I want it, I want it all, give me every drop, don’t you fucking pull out—”

The way your voice cracks, the way you beg him so shamelessly, makes his whole body shudder above you, his teeth grit and his breath rip through his lungs in broken gasps.

The sound that left Arthur's throat was primal and guttural, but his hips snap forward harder, faster, fucking into you with the kind of desperation that can’t be undone, his cock pulsing deep inside as though he’s trying to carve himself into you, to mark every inch of you as his.

His face hovers so close, the sweat on his brow dripping onto your skin, his lips trembling as he presses them clumsily, messily to yours—kissing you through panting breaths, groans, curses. “You want it? Huh? You want me to put a baby in you, darlin’?—‘cause I swear to God I’ll fuckin’ do it, I’ll give you everything—”

“Yes, yes, baby—please, please—” you gasp, clutching at his shoulders, pulling him impossibly closer, your legs locking around his waist like you could fuse him to you. “Cum inside me, Arthur, make me yours. Don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop—”

Granted, this wasn’t the first time Arthur would be spilling his spend inside you—oh no, not by a long shot.

You could count on both hands the nights and mornings and stolen hours where he’d grunted your name and filled you to the brim, his weight pinning you down while his cock twitched and pumped every last drop of his seed deep inside your body.

As far as you knew, Arthur didn’t care much for condoms, never had, and as reckless as that was—especially for a man his age, with his years of experience and rough edges—it was something you never minded either.

In fact, you craved it. Every time the two of you fucked raw, there was this undeniable charge in the air, this hunger that left both of you ruined and satisfied, the kind that only came from knowing nothing stood in the way between you and the full breadth of him.

No barrier, no rubber, just skin on skin, every vein, every pulse, every ridge of him sliding into you so perfectly, so unbearably real. And you loved it, loved how bare and reckless it felt, how it made his groans deeper, his pace rougher, his release heavier.

But this time…this was different.

This time, when his cock buried itself deep inside you and his breath grew ragged in your ear, there wasn’t the quiet, unspoken comfort of safety lingering in the back of your mind.

There wasn’t the assurance that your body was protected by that tiny little IUD—the small T-shaped piece of plastic that once stood between you and this exact possibility.

No. That was gone, taken out, discarded, no longer there to catch his seed or shield you from what came of his release.

This wasn’t about carelessness, or reckless lust, or even just the pleasure of going raw. This was deliberate. Intentional. Dangerous in the way that left your chest tightening with both fear and desire, your whole body trembling at the gravity of what you were about to let him do to you.

Because this time, when Arthur was cumming inside you, there was no safety net, no stopgap between his spend and your womb. This was it.

This was the moment where everything changed, where every messy, sloppy thrust he gave you carried the weight of that possibility—no, that promise.

And you wanted it just as badly as he did, your nails digging into his shoulders, your lips pressed to his jaw as you whispered and begged him not to hold back.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m cummin’, darlin’, can’t stop it. Take it—take every fuckin’ bit—” he grunts, voice cracking under the strain of release, his words half-broken, strangled, messy, like he’s being pulled under by the sheer force of it.

His hips slam flush against yours, grinding down in a desperate rut as the first hot wave of his spend spills deep inside, thick and heavy, the sensation making your whole body jolt with a ragged cry.

He groans—low, guttural, like it’s torn right from his chest, and then he’s twitching, jerking, body convulsing helplessly against you with every warm spurt that pours into you, flooding you until you swear you can feel it filling every corner, pooling not just in your womb but in the marrow of your soul.

Arthur can’t hold back the sounds; they tumble out of him in an unsteady mess—grunts, sharp gasps, a broken moan that sounds dangerously close to your name. His forehead presses into the hollow of your throat, hot breath stuttering against your skin, lips dragging over your pulse as though kissing and gasping for air at the same time.

“Christ almighty—” he pants, voice muffled, guttural. “You took me so good, baby. Fuck. Milkin’ me dry…”

Your right hand fists in his hair, clutching the back of his head like you’re anchoring him there, not letting him escape the moment, not letting him pull away as you feel him pulse and twitch deep inside you. The pads of your other hand drag across his sweaty, freckled back, following the rise and fall of every muscle, tracing the ridges of his shoulders, feeling him shudder beneath your touch as the aftershocks rip through him.

You’re dazed, eyes fluttering shut, utterly undone, lips parted as you murmur in a haze, your words dripping with satisfaction and need: “That’s it, Arthur…filling me up just like I need. Look at you, makin’ me so full. Fuck, you’re perfect.”

The praise spills out between ragged breaths, a chant you can’t seem to stop, because the way he groans at those words, the way his body trembles harder, makes you want to drown in it.

He lets out another broken moan against your throat, his teeth grazing your skin, a sound half growl, half plea, and then—slowly, so slowly—he raises his head. His face is flushed, damp with sweat, his mouth parted as he breathes hard, eyes glazed with the kind of dazed intensity that makes your chest ache.

For a second Arthur just stares at you like he can’t believe you’re real. Then he leans in, mouth finding yours with a kiss that’s soft despite how messy and frantic everything else has been—slow, reverent, lips pressing like he’s trying to apologize and claim you in the same breath.

Your arms snake around his neck, pulling him close, keeping him there, wanting him tangled in you as much as possible. His lips move lazily over yours, breathing you in, swallowing your little sighs as you whisper, “Good boy, so good…” as if he can’t stand to stop.

Arthur’s arm stayed looped firm and protective around your waist long after the fever of it broke, his hold not slackening even as the both of you melted into the mattress, sinking back against the twisted sheets and pillows that still carried the damp heat of your bodies, the lamplight spilling soft across the room like honey clinging thick and golden to woodgrain.

His chest rose and fell in that slow, steady rhythm that belonged only to him, the deep bass of his breath so familiar it wrapped around you like a lullaby, almost tricking you into thinking no time had passed at all since the last time you were here with him, in this bed, like this.

His fingers brushed idle shapes against your hipbone—small, tender strokes that seemed thoughtless and yet deliberate at the same time, as if he needed the reminder of your skin beneath his calloused fingertips, the kind of touch that wasn’t about sex, wasn’t about release, but about grounding himself—about anchoring the both of you to something that felt terrifyingly real.

You shifted slightly, the ache blooming between your thighs sharp and insistent, a throbbing reminder of just how long it had been since you’d been touched like that, since you’d been unraveled and filled until you couldn’t think straight. Not since him. Not since Arthur.

Although you told yourself over and over, in all the weeks leading up to this, that tonight was supposed to be about a choice you made for yourself—about what you wanted from him, about that impossible yearning that clawed at you in the dark hours when you dreamed of becoming a mother—it hadn’t felt transactional at all.

It hadn’t been clinical, mechanical, detached, the way you swore you’d treat it. It had been clumsy at first, yes, the two of you stumbling through laughter when you knocked teeth in a kiss or when he cursed under his breath trying to shrug his shirt off too fast.

But then his weight settled above you, then his hands found your wrists, then his mouth returned to yours again and again with the kind of insistence that stripped years away, and in that instant, it felt less like an arrangement and more like inevitability, like gravity pulling you back toward the only man you could have ever asked for something so monumental.

“You’re quiet,” he muttered finally, his voice thick and rough. He didn’t look at you at first, just kept tracing that absent pattern against your skin. “That ain’t like you.”

You swallowed, throat tight. “Just thinking.”

Arthur finally did glance down at you, those pale eyes catching yours with a sharpness you’d never been able to dodge. “’Bout what?”

You could’ve lied—said you were just tired after he had pretty much marked you into the mattress, or that your head was still spinning. The thing was, he could see right through you. He always had.

So instead, you shifted so you were on your side facing him, propping your cheek against your fist.

“About this,” you said softly. “About us. About what I asked you for.”

Arthur’s jaw flexed, his expression unreadable for a long, long beat. He nodded once, like he was bracing himself. “Figured that might be comin’ up.”

Your lips twisted into something like a smile, though it fell fast, the corners trembling as though your face wasn’t quite sure whether it had permission to hold onto joy in a moment this heavy.

“It’s not… I don’t want you to think I’m trying to rope you into something, or trick you into believing I’m looking for more than what we already are. Or that I’m confused about what this is—because I’m not,” Your voice faltered, catching on the weight of your own confession, before you let out a breath that rattled against the walls of your chest.

“I just…” You sighed, dragging your hands over your knees like you needed something to ground you. “I’ve wanted to be a mother for as long as I can remember, ever since I was a little girl rocking a doll to sleep like it was the most sacred thing. And if I keep waiting for the perfect circumstances, or the perfect person, or some fairytale ending that never comes, then I’m going to wait my whole damn life. I don’t want to wait anymore, Arthur. I can’t.”

Arthur’s gaze softened at the edges, though the lines of wariness still carved shadows around his eyes, his shoulders coiled with a tension he didn’t know how to loosen. He tilted his head slowly, as though he had to look at you from a different angle just to take in the weight of your words, his brow furrowing deep in thought.

“And outta all the men you could’ve gone to,” he said finally, the words heavy as stone, “you had to go and pick me.”

It wasn’t arrogance that laced his tone, not pride or bravado—it was something heavier, rawer, tangled somewhere between disbelief and a guilt he hadn’t yet untangled.

His chest rose with a sharp inhale before he asked, quieter now, “Why?”

Your hand moved almost without thought, like instinct drawing you to him, and you rested it against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath your palm. That rhythm was real, alive, anchoring you to him in a way words couldn’t.

“Because I know you,” you murmured, your voice a fragile ribbon against the silence. “Because I trust you,” You swallowed hard, throat working, your words coming slower now, each one peeled carefully from the inside of you, as though they cost something to speak. “And because, Arthur—” your eyes glistened, your lips trembling around the fragile confession “—the idea of having a piece of you, something that could be mine, doesn’t scare me the way it probably should. It feels right. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s hard. Even if it breaks me.”

Arthur let out a slow exhale, like all the air in him was heavy and tired, dragging his free hand down over the wild brush of his beard. His silence stretched between you both, thick and weighted like smoke filling a room, and it made your stomach churn and twist itself in knots.

You half expected him to laugh it off, to smother the intimacy with a joke, or worse—to get up and walk out the door, leaving you with nothing but the echo of your own confession. But he stayed right there, his eyes locked stubbornly onto yours, thumb brushing over your hip again like it was muscle memory, like he couldn’t help but reach for you even when he was uncertain.

“Reckon you ain’t makin’ this easy on me,” he said finally, his voice quiet but certain, a low rumble that sank deep into your bones. His gaze didn’t waver as he added, “But I hear you. And I believe you.”

The warmth of those words hit you like a tide rolling in too fast, crashing over your body until you felt as if you might drown in it, dragging you under with the kind of hope that scared you more than anything.

You smiled then, weak but unshakable, and leaned forward to press a soft, fleeting peck against his lips—barely a whisper of a kiss, but enough to make your chest ache.

In that fragile moment, your heart carried a prayer you didn’t dare voice aloud: that his seed, the life he carried, would take root in you, that your body would answer your longing with the bloom of new life.

You could only hope, with every delicate part of you, that what transpired between you and Arthur—no matter how messy, no matter how much he did or didn’t want to be involved—wouldn’t twist into something unbearable, wouldn’t grow into a storm too wild for either of you to survive.

You weren't sure if you were brave enough to venture into that.

AUTHOR'S NOTE New gooning material ayeeeeeeee. Listened to the entirety of The Black Parade while writing this, but seriously I keep writing long ass chapters and I'm starting to get really frustrated lollll. Mind you...it takes me a whole ass day to just write one chapter. Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed! And, as always, all feedback is welcomed. Thank you <3 <3 <3

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wormsnitches · 1 day ago

Text

❝ IF LOOKS COULD KILL, YOU'D BE A MURDERER ❞

2007 pro-rev!frank iero x fem!reader

content warnings: 18+ smut, swearing, reader & frank are roommates, smoking, fingering, unprotected pinv sex, rough sex, riding, degradation kink, frank is lowk a lil sub lol.

wc: 9.3k

The thing about living with Frank Iero—something you realized roughly three days after you signed your name on the lease papers, got handed a scuffed-up silver key, and crossed the threshold into a space that technically belonged to both of you now, long before either of you had said anything meaningful about what that actually meant—was that he didn’t operate like any other guy you had ever shared air or space with.

Not that you had much experience cohabiting with men, unless you counted the occasional boyfriend who stuck around your dorm room too long or that one week when you crashed on a guy’s couch and left because he didn’t know what soap was, but Frank was a different kind of puzzle altogether.

He wasn’t different in that picture-perfect, sitcom way where he folded socks into neat pairs and ran the sponge across the sink after shaving so no one had to look at whiskers clinging to porcelain; he was different in a way that felt like his entire life was set to an off-beat rhythm, messy and crooked and full of jagged edges, a rhythm you hadn’t meant to sync up with but somehow fell into like muscle memory.

He left his guitar pedals scattered across the living room floor like dangerous, colorful landmines just waiting for your bare feet to step on, and you retaliated by abandoning half-drained cans of Monster on every available surface. End tables, windowsills, the top of the refrigerator, like tiny neon-green trophies declaring your victory in laziness.

And somehow, against all odds, neither of you complained. The chaos felt strangely balanced, like his clutter and your clutter leaned against each other until they formed something almost symmetrical, the kind of thing that would look deliberate if an outsider walked in and didn’t know any better.

The apartment itself was a two-bedroom shoebox crammed into a weather-stained red brick building in Belleville, the kind of place where the hallways smelled vaguely like cigarettes and mildew, where the paint peeled in curling strips like the skin of a sunburn, where the landlord probably hadn’t fixed anything since the eighties.

If you weren’t from Belleville, you’d probably glance around at the graffiti-tagged walls, the empty glass bottles left on the stoop, the sound of someone yelling down the street at 3 a.m., and call it sketchy, maybe even dangerous.

But to you and Frank, that was just the baseline. That was home sweet home, though with an eye-roll attached to every word.

Your living arrangement with the guitarist wasn’t born out of excitement or friendship, not really. It wasn’t one of those dreamy ideas where two best friends plot to move in together so they can share late-night snacks and heart-to-hearts.

It was more transactional, an agreement scribbled in unspoken terms: he needed someone to cover half the rent, and you wanted your own space away from your family.

That was it. Done deal.

You and Frank knew of each other in that casual way people in overlapping social circles always do. Faces spotted across dingy venues under bad lighting, half-smiles exchanged in passing, maybe a nod at a house party when the music was too loud to actually speak.

You weren’t strangers, but you weren’t friends either. Just two names orbiting around the same punk rock scene in Jersey, bound by similar bands, mutual acquaintances, and the permanent smell of cigarette smoke clinging to your jackets.

On the contrary, it was your girlfriend, Priscilla—the kind of girl who always seemed to know everyone and everything, who wore her eyeliner sharp enough to cut someone—that connected the dots. She was dating Frank’s stepbrother, and one night she mentioned, offhand like it was nothing, that Frank had an open room.

And that was how it happened.

Frank had been out on the road for most of the spring, gone for weeks that bled into months, which meant that when he finally came crashing back into the apartment in the sticky heat of July.

His duffel bags thudding to the floor, each one reeking of tour grime, sweat-soaked t-shirts, and that ever-present stench of cigarette smoke that clung to him like a second skin.

It didn’t feel strange at all that you were perched cross-legged on the kitchen counter in a pair of shredded fishnets and an oversized Misfits tee, nursing a chipped mug of coffee and treating the whole spectacle of him unpacking like it was some kind of free, live entertainment.

He muttered curses under his breath as he dug through the mess, bitching about customs holding him up, about pedals mysteriously disappearing somewhere between Cleveland and Indianapolis, about Gerard inevitably stealing his eyeliner again like it was some cosmic law of the universe, and you just raised your mug to your lips, sipping the lukewarm sludge, tossing out sarcastic commentary every few beats until he inevitably wound up chucking a balled-up pair of socks at you like it was a perfectly normal form of communication.

That was the rhythm of your shared existence—sharp words traded back and forth like fencing foils, quick laughter cutting through the haze of clutter, an unspoken ease between the two of you that most roommates never managed to stumble into, no matter how long they lived together.

But the other thing about Frank, something you avoided dissecting too closely because every time you let your brain linger on it too long your stomach flipped over itself in ways that felt reckless, almost dangerous, was just how effortless it seemed for boundaries to erode whenever he was around.

They didn’t crumble dramatically or with warning; they just…dissolved, like chalk lines in the rain.

Like the way he’d sprawl across the living room couch on humid afternoons, shirtless and careless, his tattoos crawling over his chest and arms in jagged, chaotic layers that looked less like artwork and more like a mural spray-painted by a restless hand you couldn’t stop yourself from staring at.

When you would call him out for it, for the indecency or the audacity or just for being distracting, he’d tilt his head back with that crooked smirk, dark hair falling into his eyes, and toss out something like, “What, you jealous your skin’s still a blank canvas?” as if he wasn’t fully aware of what he was doing to you.

The way he’d wedge himself into your routine without asking, plopping down on the bathroom counter while you worked on your eyeliner, legs swinging like a kid’s, chatting about half-formed setlists or arguing with himself over which song order made sense, all while you leaned dangerously close to the mirror, liquid pen trembling near the corner of your eye, the sharp tip hovering within inches of his bare knee.

Neither of you acknowledged how bizarre it was, sharing that mirror space, breathing the same fog of steam and cologne and hair spray, acting like two people who had long since blurred the line between “roommates” and “something else,” even though neither of you dared to name what that something else actually was.

It wasn’t sexual.

Except, if you really thought about it, it kind of was, even if neither of you ever said it out loud or admitted it in the open.

Not in words, not in declarations, but in those quiet, razor-thin moments: the way your eyes lingered a little too long on the curve of his throat when he tilted his head back in laughter, the veins standing out as his Adam’s apple bobbed with the sound, or the way his gaze would flicker down your thighs in split-second glances when your skirt hiked up just a little higher than it should have while you climbed onto the counter.

You were both freaks in your own right—him with his body scribbled over in tattoos and punctured with rings and studs, you with your lace gloves, your fishnets that tore in the same spots, and a collection of spiked chokers you rotated depending on your mood, and somehow that made it easier to normalize the kind of shit that.

If literally anyone else tried, you’d have punched them square in the jaw without a second thought. But with Frank, it never crossed that invisible line.

Or if it did, you both just pretended not to notice.

A horror film festival, Fright Fest, loudly and theatrically dubbed, “the Garden State’s Annual Summerween Fest” had rolled into Asbury Park, setting up along the boardwalk with a ramshackle kind of charm that looked equal parts haunted carnival and cheap county fair.

You had never even heard of an event like that happening in Jersey before, but of course Frank had. Of course he did—he knew every weird subculture event within a fifty-mile radius, like he had some radar for the macabre.

He dragged you along without giving you much of a choice, grinning like a madman as he swore up and down that you had to see “the circus” through his eyes.

Frank was obsessed with anything horror-related, anything creepy, anything that made most people look away; he collected scary movies like other people collected postcards, and if you asked him, he’d probably tell you it was written into his DNA—born on Halloween, destined to live like every day was October thirty-first.

The thing was, the event had actually gone well—better than you expected.

The two of you spent hours weaving through sweaty crowds dressed in cheap slasher masks, watching schlocky cult classics projected onto inflatable screens, stuffing your faces with greasy boardwalk fries and candy apples so sticky they glued your teeth together.

There were booths selling wax fangs and glow-in-the-dark skeletons, carnival barkers shouting over distorted speakers, and actors dressed as chainsaw-wielding maniacs who darted out from behind concession stands just to scare the living hell out of people.

At one point, one of the masked men had chased you and Frank halfway down the boardwalk, both of you screaming like idiots, Frank dragging you by the hand and laughing so hard he nearly collapsed when you tripped over your own boots.

By the end of it, you were breathless, sweaty, adrenaline still buzzing through your veins, both half-scared and half-exhilarated in a way you hadn’t felt since you were a kid.

Hours later, when you finally stumbled back into your apartment, you were still vibrating with leftover adrenaline, skin sticky from the summer humidity and the smoke curling off bonfires along the beach.

You hadn’t even kicked your boots off yet when Frank was already tugging his jeans down to his boxers in the middle of the living room, muttering and grumbling about how goddamn hot it was in there, like stripping half-naked was the most normal thing in the world to do in shared space.

You rolled your eyes at him out of habit, unclipping your studded belt and tossing it onto the couch with a clatter before flopping down beside him without ceremony, the two of you equally reeking of beer, sweat, smoke, and that faint metallic tang of boardwalk grease still clinging to your clothes.

It wasn’t until his bare tattooed thigh brushed against yours—warm, solid, close in a way you suddenly couldn’t ignore that you realized just how intimate the space between you had become, the air around you charged with something neither of you were saying but both of you felt.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

For a long, taut moment, the room felt suspended in time, like everything had pressed pause of its own accord. The only movement was the faint ripple of the curtains in the cracked-open window.

The soft hum of the city drifted in from outside, cars groaning down the avenue, muffled voices rising and fading, mixing with the stale smell of cigarette smoke that clung to the cushions, sweat from the heat of the long day, and the faint but unmistakable trace of boardwalk fries you’d picked at earlier.

The air felt almost too thick to breathe, but neither of you seemed to mind.

Frank leaned his head back lazily against the couch, as if the whole world was nothing worth rushing for. His shaggy, long dark brown hair spilled into messy layers over his forehead and ears, strands sticking out like he’d run his hands through it too many times without care.

That signature crooked smirk tugged at one corner of his full pink lips—half arrogance, half mischief, like he already knew you were looking at him and was daring you not to.

When you shifted just slightly, the faintest draft carried his cologne toward you. It was the kind of scent that clung low and warm, not overpowering but definitely present—a woodsy, slightly smoky base with faint spice threaded through, like cedar, tobacco, and maybe a touch of clove.

It wasn’t the polished, glossy kind of fragrance that screamed department store counters, but something rawer, rougher, and more lived-in, the kind of smell that made you think of old leather jackets, ashtrays, and nights too long to remember.

It wasn’t strong—thankfully, since perfumes always left your head throbbing, but this one had wormed its way past your defenses. You had learned to tolerate it, then to like it, and eventually, against your better judgment, to crave it whenever he was near.

“Wow,” you tossed into the thick air, breaking the silence with your usual brand of cutting humor, your voice lazy but edged, “what is that? I’m Trying So Hard to Get Laid by Hugo Boss?”

The crude jab, perfectly in step with the way you and Frank always threw barbs at each other made his chest rise with a sharp exhale. He snorted, head tilting slightly as that smirk deepened, “Yeah, you wish.”

That response, casual and cocky and deliberately dismissive, made your lips twitch involuntarily. You pressed them together, hard, like you were physically restraining the laugh that tried to climb up your throat.

It almost hurt, cheeks warm with the effort of not letting him see how close you were to cracking into a smile, because that was the game—the push and pull, the teasing and the restraint.

His hazel eyes caught yours with that lazy, sideways smugness, the kind that always made your blood run hot and your stomach knot in ways that were both familiar and alarming.

“You know, most people would think we’re fucking,” His voice was low and rough around the edges, carrying the weight of a joke and a challenge all at once.

Your laugh cracked sharp and a little too loud, bouncing off the walls, but you didn’t even bother to disguise the way it lingered, the way it bubbled up from somewhere inside you.

You just reached over with deliberate ease, snagged the joint he’d been puffing on without so much as asking if you wanted to share, and took a long drag like it was a birthright you had earned.

You exhaled directly into his face, filling his space with smoke until he squinted, coughing, eyes watering, a hand lifting instinctively to swipe at the air. You could see the faint gleam of amusement mixed with mild annoyance cross his features as he tried to glare at you through the haze.

Frank was a fairly attractive guy—no one could argue that—with those messy dark locks that always looked like he had just rolled out of bed, hazel eyes that caught light in unpredictable ways, and lips full enough to make most people stop mid-sentence. Which also meant he got around.

A lot.

The last girl you could even remember who had ever claimed the “honor” of settling down with him, at least in whatever casual sense you were aware of, was Lina—a redhead with pale, milky skin and freckles dusting across her nose like constellations, but even that wasn’t serious. Not by your knowledge. You knew they had slept together, that she had at one point been a fixture in his orbit, but nothing more.

Nothing that really lasted.

“Most people think a lot of shit,” you shot back, your voice low and steady, lips quirking into a grin you didn’t bother hiding, eyes flicking up just slightly to gauge his reaction, to see if the little jab landed.

The air between you thickened, humming in that way it always did when you’d danced on the edge of whatever this was, that invisible line separating playful teasing from something sharper, something dangerous.

Neither of you crossed it, but the tension lingered, clinging like a second skin, curling in the corners of your lungs along with the smoke, riding on the sweat still clinging to both your bodies, hanging in the space between you in a way that made your stomach twist and your pulse spike.

Even without words, the thought was there, suspended, floating between laughter and breath and the faint brush of his thigh against yours, like maybe it was only a matter of time before someone, or both of you, finally stepped over it.

Frank didn’t look away after you exhaled that thick, curling cloud of smoke into his face; instead, he blinked through the sting, lashes wet, mouth curled into that familiar cocky half-smile that always made your stomach tighten like a fist, like he had something sharp and dangerous perched on the tip of his tongue and was just waiting for the perfect, cruelly delightful moment to let it fall.

His knee nudged closer into yours, intentional and heavy, not subtle, not hesitant, a calculated press of heat and weight that made your chest skip a beat and your thoughts go fuzzy.

When you tilted your head at him, eyes narrowing like you were calling his bluff, he let out a low, throaty laugh that rumbled in his chest—rough, scratchy, like a pack of cigarettes had taken permanent residence there.

“You’re a real ray of sunshine, aren’t you?”

It was sheer sarcasm. You shrugged, deliberately feigning boredom, though the pulse in your neck and the tips of your fingers betrayed the lie, racing like you’d just sprinted through a mosh pit instead of casually sitting on the couch.

“Someone’s gotta keep your ego in check,” you said, flicking the ash from the joint into an empty beer bottle on the table, your wrist pretending to be steady while the air between you thickened so much it felt like it was pressing against your ribs.

Every shallow inhale made your lungs ache just a little, but you held it, pretending the tightness in your chest was nothing more than smoke burn, not the electricity crawling along your skin at his proximity.

Frank leaned in then—not all the way, not closing the space, but enough that the corner of your vision caught the faint smudge of black eyeliner under his eyes, rubbed raw by sweat and heat, enough that the faint trace of his cologne—warm, musky, tangled with the acrid bite of nicotine and beer—seemed to curl directly into your nostrils.

His arm draped lazily over the back of the couch, shifting slightly so the inked maps of his tattoos stretched and flexed across his skin like terrain you couldn’t stop imagining exploring, and his voice dipped lower, as he said, “Yeah? You sure it’s not something else?”

Your laugh slipped out, shaky and half-defensive, even as you tried to hide it behind another long, slow drag of the joint, holding the smoke in your chest until it burned in your lungs before letting it drift out between your teeth, curling into the air like a teasing mist.

“What, like I secretly want you?” you teased, words sharper in theory than they sounded in execution, your voice just a whisper above the hum of the apartment.

He grinned then—slow, wolfish, the kind of smile that made your knees feel weak without touching them, and shifted even closer until his thigh pressed flush against yours, heat seeping through the laddered holes of your fishnet stockings, warmth radiating in a way that made it impossible to ignore how intimate the space had become.

“Secretly?” he echoed, tilting his head so that his dark hair fell across his eyes, shadowing them like some secret he was daring you to uncover. “Sweetheart… there’s nothing secret about it.”

His words, low and deliberate, hung between you, thick as smoke, heavier than the heat radiating from his body, daring you to react, to say something, to cross the line neither of you had openly acknowledged yet.

Your hand twitched like it wanted to brush against him, just to test the line he’d drawn, and you knew he could feel it, could sense the tiny imperceptible movements that gave you away.

Frank’s smirk widened, slow and smug, the kind of smirk that carried the weight of every half-formed, dangerous thought you’d both ever had and weren’t yet willing to say.

“Careful now,” he murmured, voice rough and low, teasing, as if the word itself could ignite you. “One of these days you’re gonna push me too far.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” you shot back, dragging the joint between your fingers, circling the ash over the rim of the bottle, watching him lean in slightly, his arm shifting just enough so the heat of his body pressed a little closer against yours. “What, you scared I’ll get you in trouble?”

“Scared?” he echoed, letting the word roll off his tongue with that low, teasing growl that sent a shiver straight down your spine. “You know, I don’t exactly scare easily.”

“Hmm, we’ll see about that,” you said, dragging the smoke out slowly, letting it curl around his head like a playful haze, daring him to make a move, to call your bluff.

Frank tilted his head, letting his hair fall over one eye, and his smirk deepened, eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, I think I already know you,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous, “but I like seeing if you’ll prove me right.”

He leaned closer, the faint scent of beer, smoke and sweat wrapping around you, his lips just inches from your ear as he whispered, “Or maybe… you like being on the edge, huh?”

The teasing had built slowly, like smoke curling in a closed room, thick and suffocating in the best way—his fingers brushing the small of your back when he passed behind you in the kitchen, his teeth tugging lightly at your sleeve when you rolled your eyes at him, his thigh deliberately knocking into yours when the two of you collapsed on the couch.

Every touch walked that razor’s edge between accidental and done on purpose, and you never called him out because—God help you—you didn’t want him to stop.

The verbal sparring was no safer, the things that came out of his mouth dangerously close to filthy, the kind of sharp remarks and suggestive quips that left your stomach flipping and your skin hot.

When his hand finally caught yours, pulling you just that fraction closer, it was like the whole room shifted, your pulse hammering as if your body already knew what was about to happen.

Your words barely made it out, quiet and charged, more a confession than a warning: “You’re playing dangerous.”

“Good,” he breathed back, and the word landed like a strike.

Then his mouth was on yours, no hesitation, no gentleness—just raw need crashing into you.

It was messy in the most perfect way, teeth clashing, lips sliding, his tongue pushing past yours with a hunger that tasted of smoke and cheap beer and something darker, something that had been simmering for months, waiting to boil over.

The shock of it—your roommate—lasted only a heartbeat before instinct overpowered thought, before the heat swallowed you whole. You kissed him back with every ounce of pent-up want you’d been choking on, tilting forward until your chest pressed against his, your fingers clawing into the sharp bones of his hips where his boxers rode low.

You held on like you’d been white-knuckling restraint for far too long, like you were afraid he’d disappear if you let go.

His groan came deep and guttural, vibrating through your mouth, sinking straight to your core. He tasted like vice, like the exact trouble you swore you wouldn’t touch, and yet you couldn’t stop.

His hand, rough and too sure, slipped beneath the hem of your skirt without hesitation, fingertips dragging over the hot skin of your thigh like he’d always known where you wanted him.

Each stroke was a claim, a dare, and it made the tension that had lived between you snap and spill, overpouring, uncontrollable, unstoppable.

The kiss only deepened, his tongue stroking yours with an unrestrained desperation, his teeth nipping your lip hard enough to sting before he soothed it with another molten press of his mouth. Every breath you stole from him tasted like the thing you both had been circling for too long, something reckless, forbidden, and absolutely inevitable.

Frank kissed like he fought onstage—reckless, unpolished, hungry in a way that felt both violent and desperate, like if he didn’t consume you now he’d combust into flames.

His teeth scraped your lower lip just hard enough to sting, and when you gasped against his mouth, he swallowed the sound greedily, tongue sliding in deeper as though he’d been mapping this out in his head during every one of those cramped, sleepless tour nights.

His hand pushed higher up your thigh, fingers rough from years of guitar strings catching against the thin mesh of your stockings until they tore audibly, leaving ladders in the fabric as his touch dragged higher and higher.

The rough drag of his knuckles against your bare skin was enough to have your hips shifting up toward him instinctively, seeking more friction, more contact, anything to soothe the unbearable heat coiling low in your belly.

The kiss broke only when he needed air, but even then his mouth didn’t go far, dragging hot and wet along your jaw, down the sensitive slope of your throat, teeth grazing as if he couldn’t decide between kissing or biting. You tipped your head back against the cushion, pulse hammering, a breathless sound spilling out of you that only seemed to spur him on.

“Fuck,” he rasped against your skin, voice low, ragged, as though he couldn’t quite believe he finally had you here like this.

His hand finally settled between your thighs, palm pressing against the heat there through the thin barrier of fabric, and your whole body jolted at the contact, legs spreading without a second thought. His grin curved against your throat, smug and starving all at once.

“Roommates don’t usually do this,” you’d said, but the way his fingers traced the edge of your underwear now, deliberate and teasing, made it clear there was no going back—whatever line you’d both drawn had been obliterated the moment his mouth found yours.

“Fuck, you don’t—god, you don’t get it, do you? Been wanting this—been wanting you—” before he cut himself off with another kiss, rougher this time, like words weren’t enough to bleed the ache out of him.

The weight of him pressed down between your thighs, boxers straining against the friction as he ground into you without hesitation, the heat and hardness there impossible to ignore.

You gasped into his mouth, fingers clutching his sides tight enough to leave half-moon dents in his skin, and your hips moved up against him instinctively, chasing the sharp spark of pleasure that shot through your core.

His laugh came out strangled, dark and low, and he broke from the kiss to press his mouth against your jaw, then lower, teeth dragging along your neck until you shivered violently beneath him.

“See?” he muttered against your throat, words muffled into your skin, “Not normal. Not fuckin’ roommates. Never were.”

His hand finally slid all the way up, palm pressing against the heat between your thighs over the thin fabric of your underwear, the pressure sudden and deliberate, and you let out a noise that was half-moan, half-curse, too loud in the quiet apartment.

You bucked into his touch, shameless, and he chuckled against your skin, biting at the curve of your shoulder as his fingers traced circles through the damp fabric, teasing, refusing to give in right away.

“Jesus, you’re already wet,” he murmured, voice hoarse and smug, his cheeky grin evident in the way his teeth caught your skin again, “You’ve been thinking about this too, huh?”

Your answer came in the form of a sharp tug to his hair, dragging his mouth back up to yours, kissing him until you could taste copper where he’d bitten your lip raw.

“Shut the fuck up,” you growled, though your hips rolled into his hand with a need that betrayed any pretense of control.

He laughed into the kiss, deep and breathless, and his fingers pushed beneath the elastic of your panties at last, sliding through the slick heat of you with a hissed, “Fuck, baby—yeah, that’s it,” as though you’d just handed him some kind of victory he’d been starving for.

The sound you made in response—broken, sharp, entirely unfiltered—only spurred him on, his fingers curling just enough to drag another moan from your throat as his thumb circled your clit in slow, maddening strokes.

The joint that you had shared was burned out in the ashtray, forgotten; the TV hummed low static in the background, unnoticed. The world outside the apartment ceased to exist entirely, narrowed down to the scrape of Frank’s teeth against your collarbone, the rough slide of his inked hand between your thighs, and the way you clung to him like your body had been waiting months for this exact moment.

Frank’s fingers worked inside you with a rhythm that was unhurried but devastating, every slow thrust filling you with a deliberate pressure that made your muscles clench around him.

Every curl dragging across that secret spot that made your breath break into ragged little gasps and your hips buck helplessly toward his hand.

Every press of his thumb to your clit sending jolts of white-hot electricity up your spine until your whole body shuddered with the overload, the steady grind of his palm against you leaving no part of you untouched, no place left unlit by the sparks he was striking from your nerves.

His eyes locked onto yours, sharp and molten in the dim light, watching intently as you began to grind down on his fingers with a need that made your thighs tremble, his chest rising harder with every shift of your hips.

A low, broken sound slipped from his throat as he rocked against your thigh in return, rutting with an unrestrained hunger, the press of his hard cock through his boxers dragging across you in a way that had him gasping.

You bit down on your lip but couldn’t stop the words spilling, filthy and sweet all at once, whispering, “You’re so fucking good at this, Frank, no one's ever made me feel like this. No one—just you.”

His jaw twitched, his hips jerking harder as though your words alone pushed him closer, and he groaned against your neck, “Say it again. Fuck—say it again.”

Your back arched as he curled his fingers inside you, and your voice broke on a moan as you said, “It’s you, my perfect, filthy boy. Fuck, you love this, don’t you? Love getting me this messy on your hand.”

A strangled whimper tore from his chest, unexpected and desperate, and he buried his face against your shoulder, gasping, “You’re gonna fucking kill me talking like that. Don’t stop, don’t you dare stop.”

In the end, your thighs were shaking so hard against his sides you thought they’d give out completely, the tremors running through you like electricity, leaving you panting and gasping in sharp little bursts that made your lungs ache.

Frank grinned through it like he’d just hit the jackpot, like he’d been planning this exact unraveling of yours for months and was finally cashing in, his eyes dark and half-lidded, mouth hanging open as though he was starving for every single sound you made.

When his name finally tore out of you—not sarcastic, not playful, but cracked and desperate and raw. He let out a groan so grating it rattled through your bones, his forehead pressing into your shoulder as if he couldn’t hold himself together without anchoring there.

Your hand snapped to the back of his shirt, clawing and yanking, dragging it up with a desperation that left the seams screaming until you managed to wrench it over his head.

The dim glow of the living room light made the sweat on his bare chest glisten, catching on the black ink of his tattoos, and you wanted to ruin every inch of it—scar it with teeth, nails, bruises, anything that would scream you had been here.

Your nails ripped down his slender ribs, carving angry trails into his skin, and Frank’s response was a strangled curse, his hips bucking hard against your thigh like he’d lost control completely, like he was seconds from shredding every last stitch of fabric off your body with his teeth.

“You’re fucking ruining me,” he rasped, the words ground out from his throat as though his voice had been scraped raw. His mouth crashed over yours again, and you kissed him back with teeth, dragging his bottom lip into your mouth and biting until copper burst onto your tongue. once more

His groan cracked into a whimper, and you smiled into it, dark and breathless, pulling back just enough to sneer, “Good. About time someone fucking did.”

That was it.

That was the snap, the thing that burned away whatever control he had left. His hands shoved your skirt up in one brutal motion, so fast it bunched at your waist, and he had your panties down before you could even think to protest, ripping them off and flinging them across the room like they were nothing but trash in his way.

His boxers shoved low enough to free himself, his cock pressed hot and heavy against your thigh, so hard it twitched just from grinding there.

The moment hung sharp between you, the reality of what was about to happen breaking like glass, and then Frank was bracing one hand against the back of the couch, the other gripping your hip tight enough to bruise, as he thrust forward and buried himself inside you in one slow, devastating push that knocked the air clean out of your lungs.

Your breath stuttered in time with each sharp snap of his hips, every thrust driving the length of him so deep it felt like he was trying to carve himself into the very center of you, staking his claim with every rough grind of his pelvis against yours. His grip on your hip tightened until it was nearly painful, his fingers bruising you with the kind of possessiveness that made your insides clench around him, and the low groan it pulled from his throat sounded almost feral.

You couldn’t stop the words spilling out of you, half-formed and shameless, your voice breaking as you gasped them against his ear. “Fuck, Frankie—yes, yes, just like that. God, you’re so good. So deep.”

Your praise only seemed to unravel him more, his thrusts growing harder, sharper, his mouth dragging down to your collarbone where he bit, not gently, like he needed to taste the way you came apart under him.

The slick sound of your bodies meeting filled the room, each wet slap punctuated by your desperate moans and his broken curses. The couch groaned under the assault, rocking against the floor, and still you begged for more, clutching at his back, urging him faster, harder, as if you wanted him to tear you open and fill every corner of you.

“Fuckin’ look at you,” he growled into your skin, breath hot and ragged, “taking me so good, makin’ those pretty noises. Shit, I could fuck you forever.”

The filth of it made your stomach swoop, heat curling tighter low in your belly, your nails scoring deep red tracks down his back as you sobbed out your answer.

“Yes, Frankie, please. Don’t stop, don’t you dare fucking stop. I need it, I need you—”

And he gave it to you, over and over, merciless and breathtaking, his rhythm brutal but precise, angled to batter that perfect spot inside until your vision blurred and your voice cracked with every jagged cry he dragged out of you.

Your fingers tangled in his sweaty hair, the strands sticking damp to your knuckles as you yanked his head back just enough to crash your mouth to his, the kiss nothing short of feral, your teeth clashing and scraping against his, your lips bruised and swollen from how hard you both kept taking from each other.

You could taste the salt of his skin, the faint copper tang where you’d bitten him earlier, both of you gasping harshly into each other’s mouths like drowning people breaking the surface, refusing to let the other go even for air.

The rhythm between your bodies turned manic, frantic, desperate, a brutal pace that felt less like fucking and more like survival, like the two of you were hellbent on wrecking yourselves until there was nothing left but trembling limbs and raw throats.

His name tore out of you again and again, sometimes high-pitched and pleading, sometimes guttural and furious, sometimes a broken, incoherent cry you couldn’t swallow down, and each time you gave him that sound he went wild, pounding into you harder, rougher, like he was addicted to the way you called for him.

Your whole body shook under him, every nerve alight, your thighs clamping around his hips like you could fuse the two of you together, clinging to him as the edge loomed closer and closer, threatening to swallow you whole.

And Frank—sweat dripping down his temple, hair sticking to his face, tattoos flexing with each brutal thrust—was looking at you like you were something sacred and obscene all at once, his jaw clenched tight as he practically begged, “Come for me, baby. Fuckin’ come all over me, I need to feel it—”

Frank hadn’t even caught his breath, his chest heaving and slick with sweat, before you shoved at his shoulder with a force that startled even you, sending him sprawling back against the couch cushions, his back hitting the worn fabric with a soft thud as you climbed over him in one sharp, impatient motion, straddling his waist like you were claiming territory that had been yours all along.

Your skirt was still bunched at your waist, the fabric twisted and crumpled, and his cock was still buried deep inside you, stretching you open so completely that the sudden shift in angle dragged a raw hiss out of both your mouths at once, the sound almost obscene in how it cut through the air like a whipcrack.

His hands shot up instantly, instinctively, to clutch at your hips, his fingertips digging bruises into your flesh with a desperation that made your pulse race, like he was drowning and needed something—anything—to hold onto.

Before Frank could settle into the grip, you grabbed his wrists hard and shoved them back against the couch cushion, pinning them down like iron shackles, your nails biting into his skin as you leaned over him, glaring with eyes that burned with equal parts daring and cruelty, daring him to fight it, daring him to prove he could handle the storm you were unleashing, cruel in the way you smiled when his breath caught at the sight of you towering above him, in control, refusing to let him forget exactly who had him undone.

“You don’t touch,” you ordered, voice sharp, breathless but steady, your tone more command than suggestion.

Frank’s eyes darkened, pupils blown wide as his lips parted, told you everything you needed to know about just how much he liked hearing you say it.

His tongue darted out to wet his lips, chest heaving, and he nodded once—obedient, but with that stubborn edge that made you want to push him harder.

“Say it,” you demanded, rolling your hips down slow just to watch his face twist, just to hear that low, broken groan drag out of his throat like he couldn’t stop it.

“I—fuck—” His voice cracked, raw and strangled, but when you tightened your grip on his wrists, nails digging crescent moons into his tattooed skin, his eyes flicked up to yours with a spark of heat and he muttered, “I won’t touch. Not unless you say so.”

A grin spread slow across your face, mean and amused, and you rewarded him by grinding down harder, the friction blinding, the angle making your breath catch.

“Good boy,” you purred, letting the words drip with mocking sweetness, and Frank swore under his breath so loudly you laughed, rocking your hips harder just to watch him fall apart.

Once you released his hands, you settled with both knees braced tight against his sides, the couch dipping under the weight of your frantic rhythm, leaning back until your spine arched in a perfect curve, your breasts straining against your top as your hands slid down to grip the life out of his knees like they were your anchor in the chaos.

You were practically bouncing, reckless, furiously fucking yourself on his cock like it was the only thing keeping you alive, every downward slam stealing the air from your lungs, every drag back up sending sparks of heat racing through your belly. You weren’t giving him anything—just taking, using him for all your pleasure, treating him like nothing more than the body you needed, the cock you craved, and the harder you moved, the more it turned into a feverish display of ownership.

The sound of skin meeting skin echoed through the room, wet and lewd, each sharp smack ricocheting off the walls and mingling with the obscene squelch of your arousal. Your moans spilled out shamelessly, desperate, filthy things that tangled with his ragged curses, his voice cracking around the edges as if he couldn’t decide whether to beg you to stop or beg you never to.

The more you rode him, the more unhinged he became—his head tipping back against the couch with a dull thud, hair plastered damp to his forehead, spilling into his eyes, mouth hanging open as though he was on the verge of either screaming or shattering.

“Fuck, baby, you’re gonna kill me. Look at you, riding me like you own me. Jesus, you do, you fucking do—”

“You like that?” you snapped, leaning forward, your voice hot against his ear as you bounced harder on his cock, every thrust pushing another choked moan from his throat. “You like being my little toy? My dirty fucking roommate slut?”

The noise he made in response was half-groan, half-whimper, his hips jerking up involuntarily even though he couldn't touch you, and the sight of him unraveling under you lit something sharp in your chest.

“Say it, sweet boy,” you pressed, your voice harsher now, biting into his ear as you clenched around him deliberately, making him curse loud and desperate. “Say you’re my slut.”

“I’m—I’m your slut,” he gasped, the words breaking as they left him, but the second they were out his tongue pushed against his lip ring, a filthy grin spreading even as his face flushed red. “I’m your dirty fuckin’ slut, baby. Anything you want—”

Your laugh came out low and breathless, your whole body rocking with the force of it as you ground down harder, his cock hitting deep enough to make your vision blur.

“That’s right,” you hissed, leaning back to look at him, to drink in the sight of him wrecked and panting under you, “you’ll do whatever the fuck I tell you, won’t you?”

“Yes,” he groaned immediately, no hesitation, the word spilling out like confession, his wrists flexing under your grip as if he was dying to touch but too wrecked to disobey. “Yes, fuck, just—please—please, I want to make you come—”

The begging tore through you, electric, and you gave in by giving him the okay to finally touch you. Watching with a twisted satisfaction as his hands flew to your hips like he couldn’t help himself, dragging you down hard, grinding you against him in a frenzy of need.

His filthy mouth was at your throat again, panting curses and prayers into your skin, and when he looked up at you, sweat dripping down his temple, eyes glassy with hunger, he choked out, “Tell me how to fuck you—tell me and I’ll do it.”

You smirked through the moan that ripped out of you as you bounced faster, your hands tangling in his damp hair to yank his head back, forcing him to look at you while you rode him raw.

“You’ll fuck me however I say,” you spat, your tone half-growl, half-moan, “you’ll sit here and take it like the filthy little slut you are. Until I’m done using you.”

Frank groaned so loud it bordered on a scream, his hips slamming up to meet yours with brutal force now, every thrust angled sharp and deep, his filthy words unraveling into a stream of curses and praise. “Fuckfuckfuck—yes, yes, use me. Please, baby, ruin me. Make me your fucking toy—”

Your hips worked over him in an unrelenting rhythm, every slide of his cock inside of you making your thighs quiver, your nails dragging along his chest like you were trying to brand him. You felt him pulse, that telltale clench, and you smirked down at him.

“You gonna cum, my sweet boy?” you purred, rolling your hips slower just to watch him whimper, to make him chase it. “Wanna fill me up until I’m overstuffed with your cum? Yeah, baby, you want that?”

His head tipped back, his mouth falling open around a desperate sound. God, you and your fucking mouth.

He nodded frantically, but even then, his voice was wrecked and questioning.

“I—fuck," the guitarist choked out, "Wanna cum inside you. I wanna—please—’s it really okay?”

The way he looked at you nearly broke you, wide-eyed and begging, all that need spilling out of him. You were supposed to be teasing, but your heart softened, your tone gentler when you leaned in close.

“It’s okay,” you whispered against his lips, your hand slipping down to rub your clit with feverish circles. “I’m on the pill, Frank. I want you to cum inside me. I want you to let go.”

That made him moan, the sound raw and unguarded, his hips bucking up to meet yours, his chest heaving. You rode him harder, chasing the burn of your own release, gasping against his jaw.

“Come with me,” you urged, your voice cracking with pleasure, breathless and needy. “I want us to cum together. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes—yes, baby, fuck—” His voice broke, and then everything snapped.

Your orgasm hit like lightning, violent and consuming, clawing through your nerves until you were crying out, shuddering so hard you nearly fell forward—you felt it steal the air out of your lungs, tearing a cry from your throat as your body shook, grinding down on him like you couldn’t stop even if you wanted to.

It dragged his right over the edge with you, his cock twitching deep inside, pulsing, spilling with a raw, broken moan that ripped free of his chest, as though he couldn’t hold it back even if he tried.

Frank’s cock twitched and spilled deep inside, pulsing in heavy, hot bursts that made you see stars. He groaned—no, wailed—the sound guttural, like it had been torn out of him against his will, his hands bruising your hips as though holding tighter could keep him anchored.

You clutched at him, bodies tangled, sweat dripping, both of you trembling as the climax wrung you dry. He was still pulsing inside you when you slumped forward against his chest, gasping into his throat, both of you clinging like if you let go you’d fall apart. His tattoos burned hot against your skin, your mouths slick and swollen from kisses that blurred into bitten moans.

Frank clutched you so tight against him, and you swore for a second he might tear you apart from the sheer desperation of it.

Both of you shuddered, gasping, clinging to each other like lifelines as wave after wave wracked your bodies, until finally the frenzy broke, and you collapsed together, a heap of sweat-slick skin, spit-smeared mouths, and slick skin pressed hot against one another.

The room reeked of sex and smoke, the humid air sitting heavy, wrapping around your tangled forms like a second skin, sticky and suffocating in the best way. The guitarist's chest rose and fell beneath you in frantic, uneven bursts, the steady thrum of his heartbeat still racing under your ear where you rested against him.

Frank’s hair clung to his face in dark, damp strands, plastered by sweat, his tattoos shimmering faintly in the dim light, and his lips—red, swollen, bitten through with every kiss and curse—pulled into a half-smile that looked both exhausted and smug.

Cracking one eye open, lazy, daring, the corners of his mouth twitching like he couldn’t help himself even if he tried, and with a voice rough, gravelly, nearly destroyed from moaning your name.

He smirked through the wreckage of it all and muttered, “Guess I’m officially the best roommate you’ve ever had.”

The silence afterward was thick but not uncomfortable, heavy with the warmth of what had just happened, filled with the staggered sounds of both your breathing slowly evening out, the occasional groaning creak of the couch beneath your tangled, sweat-slick bodies, and the faint hum of the TV still running in the background, flickering light across the room like it hadn’t just witnessed something obscene and criminal.

You were still slumped over Frank’s chest, your hair damp with sweat and clinging to your temples, your thighs still trembling faintly where they rested against his hips, your arms wrapped loosely but needily around him like you were trying to anchor yourself back to earth.

Frank had one arm draped lazily around your waist, his hand splayed warm against your spine, like he wasn’t sure if he was keeping you close because he wanted to or if holding you together was the only thing keeping himself from falling apart.

The heat between your bodies was stifling, thick and suffocating, your skin sticking stubbornly to his with every shift, every drag of breath, every twitch of exhausted muscle making you achingly aware of just how messy, how filthy, how entirely ruined the two of you were.

After a long minute, you pushed yourself up on shaky arms, your voice raspy but sharp as ever. “We’re disgusting.”

You glanced down at the sheen of sweat, the tangled clothes half on, half off, and the obvious fact that neither of you looked like anything resembling decent human beings.

Frank tilted his head back against the couch and laughed, a low, scratchy sound that cracked halfway through.

“Speak for yourself,” he shot back, grinning even as his chest rose and fell with exhaustion. “I look fucking amazing. This is peak rockstar aesthetic—sweaty, half-dead, and covered in pussy.”

You snorted, reaching across him to grab a throw pillow from the floor and smacking him in the face with it. “Jesus Christ, you’re vile.”

“Yeah, and you'll keep eating that shit up,” he said, muffled through the pillow, then tossed it aside and leaned up just enough to kiss your shoulder, biting playfully at the skin where his earlier marks were already darkening into bruises. “See? Fits. You’re the hot, little sadist, I’m your filthy slut, we’re a perfect pair.”

Rolling your eyes, you slid off his lap with a groan, tugging your skirt down and grimacing at the mess between your thighs. “Yeah, my perfect pair of cum-soaked underwear is across the room right now, thanks to you.”

Frank grinned wide at that, eyes crinkling mischievously. “Frame ‘em. Sell ‘em on eBay. Some kid in Nebraska will pay rent money for those.”

You groaned, half laughing, half horrified, as you stumbled toward the bathroom, flipping him off over your shoulder. “You’re a sick fuck.”

By the time you came back with damp towels, Frank was sprawled dramatically across the couch, hair a wild mess around his face, still shirtless, legs spread like he was posing for some grungy magazine shoot no one asked for.

He whistled when you tossed one of the towels at him. “Aw, look at you taking care of me. Wifey material. If I spread my legs, would you wipe my balls for me?”

“Shut the fuck up and clean yourself before you glue to the couch,” you shot back, plopping down beside him and wiping at your thighs, pointedly ignoring the way his eyes lingered on you with that half-dazed, half-satisfied look.

Eventually, the two of you ended up back in your usual positions: Frank sitting slouched with his feet kicked up on the coffee table, you tucked against one corner of the couch, the faint haze of a freshly lit joint curling into the air between you.

You passed it back and forth wordlessly for a few minutes, both of you too wrecked to bother with more banter, until the sound of Jason Voorhees hacking through teenagers drew your attention to the TV.

“This is the best movie in the series,” Frank announced like he was delivering a lecture, his voice still hoarse but his grin intact. “Hands down—the best one. Jason’s practically a superhero here. The kills are chef’s kiss.”

You smirked, blowing smoke out in a lazy stream. “Superhero? He’s literally just stabbing people who trip over roots in the woods. It's so predictable.”

Frank leaned toward you, eyes narrowed. “And to think I took you to Fright Fest on the boardwalk. Blasphemy. You, my dear, don’t understand the art.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your grin as you took another drag, handing the joint back to him. “Please, I’ve seen scarier shit in our kitchen sink.”

He barked out a laugh at that, clutching his chest dramatically, before settling back into the couch with the joint dangling between his fingers. And then, without warning, he flopped sideways into you, head landing heavy against your shoulder, his arm sneaking around your waist with the subtlety of a freight train.

“Frank,” you warned, though your voice lacked any real bite.

“What?” he said innocently, looking up at you with big eyes, lashes fluttering ridiculously. “I just almost died of an orgasm. You can’t deny a man a cuddle after he’s bared his soul and his slutty tendencies to you. You practically drained all the jizz out of me.”

You shook your head, laughing quietly, but your hand still found its way into his hair, pushing the damp strands off his forehead as you let him settle against you. “You’re a pain in my ass.”

“Mm,” he hummed, burrowing closer, already smug in victory. “And you’re warm. My little minx.”

The nickname made you snort into his hair, but you didn’t move away, didn’t push him off, just let his body curl into yours while Jason slashed another idiot across the TV screen.

Somewhere between the haze of smoke, the soreness between your thighs, and the steady weight of Frank clinging to you, it hit you—this wasn’t normal.

It hadn’t been for a long time.

AUTHOR'S NOTE I kinda wanna make this into a short series...

tags: @rileyisstuckinamoshpit @pollyprissypantsger @sspookymulder @gh0stmustd1e

MY MASTERLIST JOIN MY TAGLIST !

── .✦ series playlist

#frank iero #frank iero x reader #frank iero smut #my chemical romance #mcr #mcr x reader #mcr smut

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wormsnitches · 2 days ago

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i got a bad desire .. ! .. ⋆·˚ ༘

warnings: smut, porn no plot, pinv sex, rough sex, pussy spanking, choking, dirty talk, spitting (in mouth), daddy kink, size kink, slight degradation.

you had always wanted joel to choke you. after seeing him on patrols, all big and mean and scary. big hands wrapped in bloody bandages, thick veins trailing along his burly arms, skin smattered with freckles and thick hair. patrol was always a lost cause with joel, especially in the summer. his flannels rolled up and his biceps straining slightly against the worn, scratchy fabric. when he choked out the clickers, practically drooling at him as his arms would flex around their heads. you wished it would be you one day, in a weird dirty, depraved way. so your plan manifested later that night after patrol, you and joel rustling around in the sheets foolishly.

his big burly hand was wrapped around your throat delicately as his weeping dusky pink crown brushed up and down your folds, his free hand gripped his base. “you wanted this huh? like bein’ a filthy girl for daddy?” he purred into your ear, forehead pressed to your temple almost like a warning, tongue licking up the side of your face as he began slapping his tip against your swollen clit. you bucked your hips up and let out a tiny little moan, eyes rolling slightly. “yes daddyy..” you purred all needy and whiny. your voice came out all breathy, hips stuttering as joel ground his thick cock against your swollen, puffy folds. your slick gathered along the underside of his girth, painting his flesh in creamy white ribbons.

your hair was all splayed out over the worn silk pillowcase, skin glowing in the sunlight that flitted through the small crack in the curtains. your eyes were all wide and glassy, tearing up all pretty for joel. his other hand snaked around your hip as he continued grinding against your sloppy folds, low grunts escaping his lips, vibrating against your soft skin. “you gon’ let daddy ruin this pussy?” he ran his hand gently up and down your hip before gripping his base as you nodded all dumbly — notching himself inside your sweet hole, he pushed inside and you let out a needy little moan, your folds stretching widely around his girth. “goddamn tight aint’cha?” he growled, thrusting shallowly. “slutty lil’ hole already droolin’ around me, i ain’t even all the way in.” he purred as he fed his cock further into your cunt.

your hands scrambled to grip at the nape of his neck, scratching his skin and leaving little red crescent shapes. “thas’ it biiig stretch. attagirl.” he buried himself to the hilt, balls resting snugly against your ass now. his hand slid up and down your hip gently as he began thrusting in and out slowly. your breaths came out all shaky and stuttered as he drew in and out, whole body alight with little sparks of pleasure. “ohh daddy.. s-soo big..” you moaned, heels digging into the small of his back. after all this time you could still never get used to how big joel miller was, everything about him was so stupidly large. your nails scratched down the broad expanse of his back as he picked up his pace. “yeahh gettin’ it all creamy f’me ain’t ya?”

his fingernails grazed the sides of your throat as he kept his hand wrapped delicately around it, thrusting into you at a steady pace. “fuuck yeah look at’cha..” he moaned. his hand tightened just a tiny bit around your throat, your eyes rolled back and you let out a loud moan as you felt him begin to thrust into you harder, his hips slapping against your ass. “o-oh joel ohh my god..” you whimpered, his hand came down to slap against your clit which caused you to yelp loudly, other hand still firmly wrapped around your throat. “nasty lil’ girl.. wantin’ to be all choked out on m’dick.. fuckin’ filthy lil’ cunt.” he growled, giving your pussy another slap as he rammed his length into you deeply. your body trembled beneath him, letting out sweet little moans and gasps as he fucked you with vigor.

his thumb skated along your bottom lip, pulling on your lip gently. your eyes were all glassy and teary, lips plump and drool pooling at the corners. “all cockdumb now ain’t ya? jus’ needa be fucked stupid thas’ all you need.” he purred, pressing his forehead against yours before gripping at your jaw, pushing his thumb inside your mouth and forcing it open. “open ya mouth.” he grunted, hips slamming into yours and jolting you up the bed slightly. you moaned loudly as his tip kissed that spongy spot inside of you, your mouth falling open in that perfect ‘o’ shape that joel knew and loved. he pursed his lips, spitting onto yours tongue. “swallow it down nasty girl.” he said, gripping your cheeks as he thrust into your harshly again. you swallowed and responded with another loud moan as he began hammering into you, hips slamming against the fat of your ass repeatedly, the sound of skin on skin filling the room.

he gave your ass a slap before gripping the flesh tightly. “pussy suckin’ me in so good, she ain’t wanna let go.” he said, your heels dug harder into his back, thighs trembling as you approached your high. you began bucking your hips slightly, trying to grind down further on his cock. “fuckin’ needy girl, grindin’ like a bitch in heat.” he spat, gripping your face again and spitting in your mouth once more — you moaned loudly, fingers scratching harder against the skin of his back. “daddydaddy pleasee.. im cumminggg..” you babbled mindlessly, eyes rolling back into your skull as your orgasm washed over you, walls choking joel’s cock in the process. “fuuck yeah baby.. cum on it.” he grunted, hips stuttering as he neared his own climax, pace slowing down as he began grunting and moaning.

you whimpered underneath him, overstimulated and all fucked out. “fucked all stupid ain’t ya.. fuck baby m’not gon last..” he moaned, his pace faltering now. “daddy cum in me..” you whimpered, legs trembling from overstimulation, tears spilling and wetting your hairline. joel gripped your face one more time, pressing your noses together as you moaned and whimpered, he thrust wildly into you before letting out a loud groan, spilling his load inside you in hot spurts, his milky spend painting your insides. you cried out, babbling and whining as you came for a second time. “i know baby, i know…” joel murmured, thumb stroking the apple of your cheek delicately, he locked his lips against yours and you responded back, fingers curling in the greying hairs at the nape of his neck.

your tongues tangled gently as you both came down from your highs, saliva mixing filthily. joel’s free hand cupped your breast gently, thumbing your nipple as you let out a gentle sigh into the kiss before pulling away, a string of saliva connecting your lips for a moment before it broke. “did so good for me babygirl.” he said softly, slowly pulling out and watching his spend leak out of you and onto the sheets, your folds all puffy and wet. “so pretty darlin’ ohhh i love ya.” he said, stroking along your inner thighs with his thumbs. your body was shimmering with a slight sheen of sweat, hair all messy and sticking to your forehead, mascara smudged down your cheeks. you looked a mess. but joel still looked at you like you were the most precious thing in the world, cause you were to him.

“right let’s go clean up baby.” he said, gently picking you up bridal style and carrying you to the bathroom. he began filling your old tub with water and putting in your favourite lavender oils. oh your old man adored you.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #another one goes to the goon folder

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wormsnitches · 2 days ago

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Oh we are so back, folks

A gift.

Pairing: ModernAU!Arthur Morgan x Female Reader

Word Count: 5020 words

Summary: When Arthur feels like he doesn't deserve your love, you show him he deserves every part of you with a specific piece of clothing you've surprised him with, turning into a night of desperate sex.

Tags: Smut, pnv, tit sucking, creampie, fingering, dirty thoughts, slight breeding kink???, pre-established relationship… That's all I can think of… Arthur's hot

Disclaimer this is not prooread and I kept messing some things up, so if it's a bit weird just remember this.

You knew you didn't deserve Arthur, always begging for things from him you knew he couldn't make possible but he tried his hardest to get you the next best thing.

Always when you wish gifts of him, like beautiful jewellery from expensive jeweller’s he would always return with the next best thing that he could afford. You didn't deserve his love and you so wish you could give back the way he did, his way of loving you and cherishing you every second of his life.

You lay beside him now in bed, an apricot hue illuminating the bedroom you share with Arthur from the lamp that rests on his nightstand, tightly packed up against the corner from other items that have been shoved on the table.

The orange light accentuates his features, showing you how truly handsome he is. The glow on his face shows the stubble that pokes from his face, his long nose which curls up into a fat bump at the end that you desperately wish you were grinding onto right now, a glimmer in his beautiful blue eyes that darkened when you let him have his way with you now shining with the apricot tint of the light.

You've always known he's handsome, constantly flooding him with compliments but all he can do is weakly chuckle or wave them off with a smile. It breaks your heart that he doesn't believe he's as good-looking as he is despite the amount of admiration you show to him.

You have to force yourself to look away before the entirety of your panties are soaked with your slickness from the way he looks.

You remember the day Arthur had bought the undergarments for you, arriving home from his mechanical job earlier than usual, his heavy boots echoing quietly through the quiet home, apart from the sound of water running upstairs. As he approached the door to twist the doorknob, you could only faintly hear him muttering nonsense under his breath to himself, probably begging to God that you like the pair that he had chosen for you. But the fact that you could hear it over the roughly spraying water means he probably wasn't too silent about it.

It was just supposed to be an innocent drive to the mall, trying to get a shirt that he wouldn't rip up like all his other ones, all dirty with grime and oil but when he passed by a shop that had a beautiful display of panties sitting by the entrance with a big sign saying SALE he knew he had to buy you a treat.

The panties that he had bought you had a cheetah print pattern planted all over them, extremely cliche but extremely sexy. The rim of where the underwear stops is adorned with extravagant black lace which instead of feeling itchy against the skin feels soft and almost silky.

Once he had brought the panties home they were in a paper bag to not reveal where he had bought the clothing from, which looked like it was about to break through in an instant and send the contents inside to the ground. But thankfully that never happened, and you were in the shower. While your eyes were closed and the water was running over your face he quickly and quietly snuck into the small tiled room and swapped out your regular panties which rested on your pyjamas you prepared on the counter to wear for bed for the new ones he had just bought.

Foam curls through the tight room as you had stepped out of the shower, roughly scrubbing the droplets of water away from your body. Once you hang the towel back up onto the rack and go back to the counter for your pyjamas your lips twist up into a smile. One thing that is certain is that he certainly was getting paid back that night…

Maybe it was too much to wear on a casual Thursday night, but you loved to wear the panties. Loved to have him see that you have them on, a reminder to him that you love him and everything he does for you. Sometimes when you'll put them on you'll purposely push your pants down just a bit so he sees them when you're cuddling in bed or walking around, or when you're getting changed make it a big fuss that you're putting them on and doing something to get his attention your way. Not that his attention was ever else where.

Arthur's the same as you when it comes to deserving, he thinks he doesn't deserve your kindness, beauty and everything about you but that's just wrong. He deserves every inch, every word, every gesture, every movement against his body, which tenses when you place your lips against or run your hands down his hunky body.

So you decide that you're gonna buy something for Arthur. Despite it being a piece of clothing for a woman, not a man (despite how much you'd love to see Arthur in it) you're gonna show him that he deserves you so greatly, and deserves even more than that.

You'll buy one of those fancy robes, the satiny and silky one's that drape down with the fur that look like dresses, the cuffs full of that soft fluff and hugs tightly around your waist where it's tied up with that long bow.

…

The next day when you wake up excitement is coursing through your body. Like usual you had slept in late, and Arthur's already gone to work well before you had woken up and the shops open for business early. You turn around to face Arthur's side of the bed to see a bright yellow sticky post-it-note stuck to the pillow. Your hand tiredly reaches out to grab it and to read it, Arthur's beautiful handwriting written on the note.

"Sorry I didn't get to say Good morning today, I love you." You felt warmth spread through your body at his words, they were simple but held so much adoration. He could've just texted you it but no, he had to put affection into it, spend maybe a minute more by doing something easily more loving.

You couldn't wait, you had to get up now. You had to go out this second to buy the robe. It was eating at you, you couldn't wait to see his reaction tonight, you so desperately hoped he would love it. He'd run his hands over the silk and grab tightly at the fur and let you show him how much he means to you.

You climb out of bed, letting your feet lazily push into the slippers that sat un-neatly beside your side of the bed as you make your way to the bedroom-bathroom which was conveniently just 2 steps away.

Pushing your hair back with a headband you immediately start to do your makeup. Turning the tap to let the faucet run cool water, you bring your hands to it and splash your face with the liquid before putting on your toner and moisturiser, putting a light amount of eyeshadow on, and applying eyeliner and mascara. After that you apply your concealer and foundation, adding blush and lipgloss and then doing your hair.

Going to your wardrobe, you take your slippers off and you can't help but stare at your clothes, running your fingers over the fabric of some of your shirts. You were so lucky to have Arthur, that loved every part of you. Every part of your figure, every stretch mark and mole, every scar and every bump, every curl in your hair, every single part about you. It made you feel like the luckiest woman in the whole entire world. And you were, you were to have him as your husband.

Slipping out of your pyjamas, you grab a bra and a simple t-shirt putting both on followed by panties which match your white bra and jeans. You thread a belt through the belt loops on your pants, putting on a cardigan jacket now, the buttons that are attached almost on the brink of falling off and you stuff your bag full of all the things you'll need, phone, purse yada yada yada.

Once you get to the front door, you sit down on the floor and accompany the pairs of shoes that sit beside you so you can more easily put your socks and shoes on without clumsily doing it while standing up. Once you're done with that and have your Mary-Janes on you're out the door and fumbling for your keys in your bag to start your car.

Once you're finally sat down on the comfortable driver's seat and have your keys in the ignition, the engine rumbles softly, you push the stick into reverse and pull out of your driveway, ready to buy something nice for Arthur.

…

Almost breaking out in a sprint across the mall, you finally reach 'Honey Birdette', maybe the kinkiest store at your mall. Your eyes scan around, landing on lacey matching pairs of bras and panties, little thongs and panties which are barely covering anything but the actual pussy part.

You decide you're gonna wear the panties Arthur got you again as a little treat, maybe give them an extra scrub to make them smell even better and since you had only worn them last night instead of buying anything fancy here. What Arthur gets you is the best of all.

Suddenly, towards the back of the store are the robes. The robes that you've been craving to get Arthur. Trying to not seem desperate and start running to the back, you quickly make your way there, your eyes scanning over each one. Robes with all different colours and types of lace meet your eyes, the silk looking like if you felt it your entire hand would go numb.

Your gaze lands upon one specific one, it's not like the rest of the other ones, playfully covering most of the body but having lace and fur around the ends and cuffs to make it all the more sexy and to the act. Pulling it slowly off the rack, your fingers glide past the satin, feeling the soft fabric and your hands grip at the light fur. This is perfect.

You make your way to the counter now feeling a bit scared. What if he doesn't like it? What if he'd want it in a different colour, what if it's showing too much or too little? You can't go back once you swipe your card, $200. An absurd amount of money for a piece of clothing, but it's absolutely so worth it to be able to see Arthur's expression. You can only pray that Arthur loves it as much as you do.

…

Hours have gone by painfully slowly, all you've been able to do is lay in bed, clean your previous panties and wait for Arthur to come home. Adrenaline for when Arthur would be coming through the door coursing through you but boredom mixing through that feeling as all you can do is stare at the tv which plays a reality tv show. The sun has gone down now, and it's just the moon and stars in the sky now.

You had turned off the volume to hear your thoughts more clearly, like playing out in your head how you hoped the night would go, but the silence is suddenly interrupted by the jingle of keys and the front door opening from downstairs. You try to suppress your lips from curling up that's trying to crack its way into a massive smile and act nonchalant for when Arthur would walk into the bedroom but it's too difficult.

When Arthur finally twists the doorknob to the bedroom, a cheeky smile appears on his lips when he sees you. "Hi love… what's got you all happy?" He smiles, making his way over to the bed to crawl onto his side and place a kiss on your cheek. All you can do in return is kiss him softly, making his eyebrows furrow together and eyes shut closed as he deepens it.

Finally pulling away from each other's lips, Arthur sits up and moves off the bed slowly. "Gotta get out of these uncomfortable clothes. I'll be back." He places one more quick kiss to your lips before moving around the bed into the bathroom.

It's still eating at you that you don't have the robe on yet, desperate to have the soft silk touching your skin that so eagerly and desperately takes in Arthur's touch every time it can.

Once he finally emerges from the bathroom, he's only in long pyjama pants that reach down to his ankles, light grey stripes contrasting to the black that fills the rest of the pants, his chest bare. Light hair covers all of his chest going all the way down to his nipples, thickly leading down to his lower stomach, where a lower patch connects to his pubes, covered by the fabric.

His arms are the same, hair lightly pattering all over them until it reaches his wrist where thinner strands are, lighter in comparison to the ones that snake down his limbs. His legs are the same, not that you could see that but you desperately wish you could, stripping off the 1 piece of clothing from his figure.

He bends over your side of the bed, where you lay and connects his lips again with yours. This is the right time to tell him that you've got your own pyjamas now, and it feels even more right to show him when he's looking so handsome in his sleepwear. "You look so handsome…" You admit breathily between kisses, making his cheeks turn bright red and kisses more sloppy.

Finally pulling away from each other’s lips you finally admit what's been making you so excited. "I got something today." Your smile widens, making his own twist further up as well. "Are you gonna show me?" He replies, placing a kiss on the place of your cheek he had kissed previously, and laying another one close by.

"Mhm. Let me grab it, okay?" You place one last quick kiss to his lips like he had before to you before playfully rolling off the bed and ducking into the bathroom where the attached walk in closet settles, holding your robe inside the drawer.

Clumsily trying to get your clothes off in a rush, you fumble the belt through the loops once more to untangle it, letting it fall to the floor with a thud. You rip your shirt up off your head and quickly undo your bra at the back, feeling like your arms might snap off from how quickly you're trying to do this. Making him wait might be more teasing and fun, but you couldn't wait a second.

Finally getting all your clothes off, you skip the bra and go straight to your panties, putting on the cheetah patterned ones with the smooth silk. Finally, it's time to put the robe on. Once you slip it over you, you almost moan from the sensation. It's so soft, the fabric feeling like you're in the clouds. You tighten the lace around the middle and tie it into a bow at the front, making your waist look even more snatched.

Without looking in the mirror, confidence consuming your entire figure you walk out of the bathroom, sliding the door open to let him see you.

It's like his eyes are immediately glossed over by the sight of you, his mouth falling open a little, and he just stares silently at you like he doesn't know what to say, or that no words can even form in his now drying mouth. "I— You look stunning." He mutters, almost ashamed with the words that are coming out of his mouth.

"Do you like it?" You grin at him, earning a frantic reply. "God yes, you're like a goddess." You approach him, climbing onto the bed. Just like you had imagined he pulls you onto his lap, eagerly grabbing at the fabric of the robe and feeling at the fur. His lips are immediately on your neck.

He sucks there, and licks, biting there and kissing it to soothe it, his lips planting kisses all over your face and exposed chest. His hands slide down your body slowly, keeping his eyes shut and lips all over you while expertly undoing the bow and sash to expose your body beneath. While undoing it at a torturously slow pace he trails kisses all over your face and neck sweetly, almodt humming quietly as he placed every single one.

Before he reveals your body beneath to him, he fondles at your covered breasts, rubbing his thumbs over the hardening nubs through the thin satin of the robe that covers your body down to your ankles yet curls up closer to your crotch and kneads at them needly.

He opens his eyes to see your body, pulling back from the kisses he plants onto your skin to examine your beauty, ogling at you. "You're so gorgeous." He almost moans, letting out a deep groan instead and connecting his mouth to one of your breasts. He sucks around the mound, his other hand doing the work for the other one.

Pulling his mouth away, he flicks his tongue against the hardened bud, making a moan escape from your lips. "Good girl…" He coos with the second he has, before flicking his tongue back and sucking once more. Your hand tangles at his hazel hair in a desperate attempt to hold onto something as his finger now comes down to press against your clit through the fabric of your panties.

"You wear these panties just for me, huh? Because I bought them for you?" He mumbles against your breast, making you nod just as eagerly as he was before. "Yes…" You let another moan tumble from your lips, your voice shaky as his thumb works on your clit in lazy figure 8's.

"You sound so amazing," His deep voice shakes a little, showing a hint of desperation that showed very much before, and almost vulnerability. Showing how much he loves you. He continues to rub at your clit, picking up the pace a bit and kneading at both your breasts as he places a hot kiss to your lips.

Slowly extracting his thumb from your clit he mumbles, "Let me get these off of you, okay?" He patiently waits for your nod of approval, until getting the green light then slowly pulling your panties off, and seeing just how wet you are. He gently sets the undergarments beside the both of you, his fingers sliding between your folds tenderly to feel just exactly how wet you are.

He lets out a deep growl at the feeling, bringing his fingers to his mouth to taste you and lubricate them. Asking once more for approval, and once again getting the green light.

At this his 2 digits slowly fill the inside of you, filling you so much more than 3 of your fingers ever would, feeling the tightness of your pussy and twitch of you which makes his mouth water. "You're so wet… All of this because of me?" He murmurs against your neck, his hot breath fanning there, the smell of tobacco and alcohol stuck in his mouth so close to your nose that it sends a shudder through you.

Processing what he said to you slowly, you gradually nod. Clearing your throat like it'll save you from the shaking in your voice and hitching in your throat before letting words escape you. "Always for you Arthur…" Making only now a small moan escape him, it's faint, quiet and he's trying to desperately to hide it. But he can't.

Knowing that you've adjusted now his fingers move slowly through you, moving at a snail's pace. He feels like he's about to snap, pull his fingers out and take you the way he wants to, slam his hardened cock inside but he can't do that. He won't do that, making love to you is more important than any quick sex. He'd prefer to take his time with you, show you his love and how much he cares for your health and wellbeing. You so greatly loved that about Arthur.

"You can take a little bit more… Yeah?" He asks teasingly, already knowing the answer when he picks up the pace a bit letting his fingers ease through your slickness faster. This drives you even crazier, making you grind down against his fingers in time with how he fucks you with them. You mewl from the feeling of his fingers, his hand running through your hair to comfort you.

"Look at me," He tells you, but it sounds more like a question than an order. "Look at me love…" He repeats, beckoning for your eyes to open so he can see the prettiness of them. Slowly you do as he says, looking at his handsome face. His cheeks are flustered despite not even having his cock in you yet, his forehead damp and eyebrows furrowed, mouth half open.

You feel that same sensation in the pit of your stomach you always do when you're close, a warm sensation boiling in you with tension, and about to snap any second now it just decided if Arthur was going to be nice, or cruel.

"Are you close?" He asks, watching your face to see if you'll respond or instead nod, which nod is the right answer because words are no longer able to escape from your lips which have a thin coat of lipgloss on that you applied for Arthur before he had got home. "Need you to come for me…" He begs, working his fingers slightly faster inside of you and snaking his thumb around to continue the torture on your clit he had done previously.

He curls his fingers tight inside of you, rubbing even quicker circles on your clit to draw you further, teasingly rubbing up against your g-spot, he knew how to pleasure a lady, being with many. But especially you, so many nights of intercourse that he had to memorise every place you loved. "That's it… look at'chu…" He purrs quietly.

And that's what did it, his fingers on your clit and the torturous rubs, your back arches and head tilts up, pussy tightening impossibly tight, eyebrows knitting together and eyes squeezing shut impossibly tight. A moan that seems to never stop escapes your mouth that is stuck wide open, almost like lockjaw. Your hands press roughly into his shoulders, pinning him against the bed and desperately trying to cling onto something but instead just clawing at his bare skin.

Finally coming down from your amazing high, Arthur presses a delicate kiss to your jaw before softly whispering in your ear "One more round my sweet girl…" And shifting you up so he could free himself from the confinement of his pyjama pants, shuffling them down and throwing them God knows where.

His hard cock springs up, erect and bothered, veiny and leaking at the pinkish tip. "Look what you do to me girl." He grumbles, slowly stroking his own cock. "Cmon…" He coos, stopping the touch to his member and now aligning his cock with your hole. You do the work of sinking down his thick length, trying to make him feel good as well and it certainly worked from the non-shameful moan he lets out as you let out a shuddering gasp.

"You are so beautiful…" He rumbles, hands gliding over your body once more like before. His hand slides down your neck to your shoulder, down your arms and squeezing your hands softly before stroking up your stomach and rubbing at your shoulder blades before moving back down to your hips to hold onto them tightly. Every sensation of his calloused fingers stroking on your body makes you feel even better, warmer in your stomach and whole being.

Once he starts moving, you have to bend over his figure, and lay atop of him, desperately grabbing onto his shoulders and burying your head into his neck. At this action, Arthur's arms wrap around you, allowing to have his rough arms feel the fleecy robe that holds onto your body just like Arthur is.

His grip is tight around you, like he's keeping you in place on top of his body as he slowly thrusts in and out lazily, rolling his hips without a care in the world only thinking about your pleasure. But you're thinking about Arthur's pleasure too, you so desperately wish he was feeling as euphoric as you were. So tilting your head over a bit, you mutter in his ear almost like speaking of sins, "Do you feel good?" Earning a chuckle to escape from his lips and a shallow nod of his head.

With the act of Arthur bobbing his head, you take it upon yourself to slowly move your hips with him, matching his pace. You can hear him stifle a groan, trying his hardest to not let any sounds come out, but you wish he would just let go and let you hear his angelic sounds of pleasure.

The both of you slowly get quicker and quicker until he's hitting every ridge inside of you every second, perverse sounds of wet skin slapping together echoing through the bedroom and the headboard gradually knocking against the wall every so often.

Neither of you are able to control yourselves anymore, letting out any erotic sound you please that wants to escape while your hips crazily rock up and down. "Arthur, Arthur…" You repeat, gasping out his name as he drills into you. "That's it girl…" He sobs, letting one of his arms drop to your butt, squeezing there keenly and pushing himself impossibly deeper into you. "Straight outta my dreams…" He rambles, telling you how magical and beautiful you are.

Arthur was a machine, a drill, pounding into you deeper and deeper every second, trying to keep the same pace with every thrust that he shoves inside of you, your toes curl and grip onto the light sheet beneath you, you could feel his pubes tickling slightly against your skin, wet from sweat and your slickness.

He lets his hand slide up your back from your butt coming back to your back, "This perfect pussy…" He stars, "Squeezin' me so tight." He lazily smirks, not that you could see it from your head squished into his neck but you could certainly hear it in his voice, smugness, but also happiness, happiness that he gets to have you this way. Love. Love that he knows you're his.

You were the luckiest woman in the world to have Arthur.

Still feeling a bit pent up from your previous orgasm, your one comes quicker to you than ones you've had before due to the fingering, you feel it coming back in your stomach, you found it progressively harder to match his pace, getting a bit lazier and sloppier. But you tried for Arthur, since you knew he needed it. And as soon as he starts fucking into your g-spot aggressively, you know neither of you will last very longer.

Loud cries after cries escape your lips now, unable to stifle anything. He didn't even need to be pushing his finger into your clit to get you this close, he was just too good. Tears prickle at the corner of your eyes, and you grab even tighter at Arthur's shoulders as you ramble nonsense in his ear. "F—Fuck, fuck… Need you Arthur… Love you so much… I'm so lucky to have you." You mewl. "I love you too…" Arthur gasps, just as needy as you. "Need you too… So fucking badly." He bleats, his hands pulling at your back which his arms are tangled around still. "Cum now, please."

His words send you spiralling over the edge in seconds, a silent cry escaping your mouth as it hangs open, eyes squeezing even tighter than ever before, unable to do anything but shake in Arthur's clutch. Hot fireworks bursted through you, feeling even better than how his fingers were for your previous orgasm. Your pussy tightens around his cock, sucking him even further in somehow.

Arthur wasn't just there yet, still fucking into you making your orgasm all the more intense, "Cum inside of me." You beg, "Fill me with your sperm… Make me pregnant with your child, please…" You continue, slumping further into him. And that's what did it for Arthur, instantly sending gushes of hot white seed inside of your pussy, pushing right into your cervix and filling you to the brim with him, painting your pussy walls with the sticky mess.

The both of you stay still for a few minutes, coming down from each other’s high and panting in one another’s ears. Your breathing eventually slows back to normal, and the both of you smile softly. Arthur detangles his arms and you sit up, looking at his blissed out look. His forehead sweaty, hair damp around his head and eyes glazed over with that stupid lazy smile on his face that makes your smile widen even further.

"I love you Arthur." You stroke his chest slowly, letting your hand run over his body. "I love you too girl…" He looks into your eyes, pressing a loving kiss to your lips and letting his fingers thread through your hair tenderly like before. You knew he had loved the robe and you were certainly going to wear it again for special occasions.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan smut #rdr2 smut #modern arthur morgan i love you #modern au #until his beard is bleached #holy shit wow #long live modern arthur morgan

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wormsnitches · 2 days ago

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as a fellow mexican-american, we are officially kin 🤝

I made an Arthur and Mary animatic (my first time actually using the animation tools correctly)

#arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan rdr2 #rdr2 fanart #mary linton #genius work of art

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wormsnitches · 2 days ago

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how many donuts do you think you could stack on arthur morgan’s dick?

hands down, the best question i've gotten asked as someone who works in customer service LOL

#arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2

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wormsnitches · 2 days ago

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ALRIGHT I PUBLISHED THE FIRST CHAPTER

HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE IT!!! PLEASE LET ME KNOWWWWWWW WHAT YOU THINK <3 <33

so long and goodnight, lovers ❦.

ok ok before i go to bed...

does anyone want to be tagged in this?? :D your girl is lowk ovulating lol

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan smut #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #rdr2 smut #modern au

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