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Arthur wants to kill whoever thought it would be a good idea to give you that goddamn lollipop.
You’d walked around camp with it in your mouth all afternoon, and he’d barely been able to keep his eyes off you, doing his damndest not to stare too long lest you caught him looking at you with an unmistakable hunger he knew he would never manage to hide. It’s almost midnight now, and he’s still thinking about it - how you’d licked your lips every time you’d taken the candy from your mouth, as if gathering any last bit of sugar it might have left behind, or how your tongue would dart out for half a second when you went to put it back in. He wills his thoughts still so that he can finally fall asleep, but pictures of you flash behind his eyes all the same, his traitorous mind conjuring up wild fantasies that have heat rolling through him in intolerable waves. He groans in annoyance as he tosses and turns in his bed, sleep eluding him. Jesus, he almost feels like a teenager caught on some pretty girl he’d seen in the street. He turns to lay on his stomach, which he immediately realises to be a mistake as his hips roll into the thin mattress almost unwillingly, and he hisses quietly at the welcome friction against his growing hardness.
Growling in frustration, he finds himself sitting up in his bed, ripping the covers off himself before getting up. He is relieved that he’d thought of rolling down his tent’s canvas walls before going to bed, something he rarely did - he’s not sure he would have had the patience for it now. Guilt flickers through his mind even as his fingers work on undoing his pants - he shouldn’t be doing this, not to you. But he’s too warm and too tired and too goddamn irritated to dwell on it for too long - just once, he promises himself as he shoves his pants down to his knees. Just once.
He sits back on the edge of his bed, taking himself in hand before squeezing his eyes shut. He almost hates how easily he can imagine you kneeling between his thighs, how easily he can persuade himself that the hand wrapped around him belongs to you. He starts slowly, stroking himself as he pictures you smiling up at him with those perfect lips - he wonders hazily how sweet you would have tasted if he’d kissed you earlier that afternoon. He almost moans at the thought, but he knows how to be quiet - after 20 years in this camp, silencing himself is almost second nature. In his mind, he can see you leaning forward to take him into your mouth, just the tip at first, before you take more and more, inch by painstaking inch. You allow him to press a hand to the back of your head, and he grasps your hair as he loses himself in the warmth of your mouth, your tongue, your lips, pushing and pulling you up and down his length. He can just see you now, a perfect vision of flushed skin and tousled hair, looking up at him with darkened eyes, and -
“I wish Dutch’d let us go into town more often.” Mary Beth’s hushed voice snaps him out of his heated daze, and he stills as the sound of approaching footsteps reach his ears. “I’ve been cooped up here for weeks!”
“I’m sure he’d let you if you asked.” Arthur hips give an involuntary jolt as he recognizes your voice, and he bites back a low moan. Even as he hears you slowly walking by, he can’t help but thrust lightly into his hand as he imagines you coming into his tent right now and seeing him like this. The thought might have brought him shame had it crossed his mind at any other moment, but through the haze of his yearning he allows himself to picture how you would smile and come to replace his hand with your own. He forgets himself for half a moment as he bucks up into his hand roughly, long enough for a quiet groan to escape him, but he’s too far gone to worry about you hearing him, though he dimly realises that you must have - you’re only separated by a thin canvas wall, after all. But you and Mary Beth keep walking until he can’t hear you at all anymore, and his rhythm grows frantic, his fantasies now a disjointed series of images of you rather than a proper scenario as he nears his end, clutching desperately at whatever little remained of his self-control to not moan loudly with every stroke.
He comes undone with a long, low growl, spilling into his hand as he allows himself to whisper your name. He’s still for a long time after that, trying to steady his breathing and the erratic beating of his heart - and though he knows he had promised himself that he would only do this once, he expects that the memory of you with that damn lollipop in your mouth will haunt him for quite a while.