#rdr2 fic

You met at a bar.

It was on your friend’s behalf that you approached Arthur to begin with; an act of charity for a wallflower in need, who nodded wistfully towards the leather-clad, lonesome cowboy, with his haunted eyes and five o'clock shadow and said, "I wanna talk to that one."

Way out of her league, in your professional opinion. Looked like he'd eat any one of your brood alive and spit 'em out on the sticky barroom floor — but such was the appeal of men like him. Older. Rougher. An empathetic young woman's idea of a 6'1" DIY project in Stetsons.

Spurred on by your cohort's encouragement, with the suede fringe of your skirt swishing at your calves, you slotted yourself between him and some other stranger and ordered yourself a drink.

The introduction you had in mind was perfectly friendly — but then he had to go and say something stupid like, "What's a little girl like you doin' orderin' whiskey neat?" And, well — then you had to fight him.

Debating Jack over Johnnie, Jameson over Jim — it was the most fun either of you had out in a long time. He ordered you both shots on his tab and soon the offense was forgotten — along with your wallflower friend.

You asked him about work and he shrugged and muttered something vague like "construction." You explained that your cap and gown were collecting dust in the back of your closet. That the “gap year” you meant to take between walking the stage with your diploma and grad school became plural for a number of reasons, not the least of which was the bottom line on your loans.

Arthur didn’t relate, but he listened.

“Tough break.” He winced against his whiskey. Ever sensitive, he said, “Well — if you’re dumb enough to care for all that schoolin’, s’pose a few extra thousand at the end of it won’t make much difference. I say if you wanna go, go.”

You found it oddly comforting, his brusque compassion.

The night wore on, your friends dispersed as if spurned, and Arthur never touched you. Never even tried. Just saw you safely to your cab with a bid that you, "Get home safe, miss." Then he rapped his knuckles on the roof and sauntered off into the shadows of memory, where such strangers were meant to remain.

"This here's called the dipstick."

You tut in mock disapproval. "Don't talk about yourself like that."

Arthur snorts and shakes his head. “Shut it, smartass. Just listen n’ learn.”

Sullied handkerchief in hand, he swipes the stick dry before tucking the cloth in his back pocket. His work tee, once white, stretches snug over thick bands of muscles, the hem tucked in his belted Levi’s.

“Now what’chu wanna do is…get it so you can see them lines on the indicator…and then,” he says, sliding the stick in the engine bay, “we’ll see what we get.”

Rattling it around in the chamber's depths, he ignores the lewd smirk on your face as he slowly withdraws the rod to examine its end.

"Shit, girl."

"What?"

"You seein' this?" He sucks his teeth with annoyance at your clueless expression, waving the dipstick around haphazardly. "Hardly a drop on this thing — reckon your engine's damn near bone dry."

You grimace. "Whoops?"

"Whoops ain’t the half of it." He scolds, looking you up and down. "That's a one-way ticket to trouble. Don't let this happen again. Unless you're fixin' to torch the damn thing with you in it."

You frown at him as he turns toward his truck. “Alright, well, no need to yell at me…”

“Yell?” He scoffs. “Be yellin’ at yourself when you’re broke down on the side of the road with an engine that up and quit 'cause you ain't changed your goddamn oil. You're lucky I keep some extra...”

Arms folded, you watch him hop up on his truck bed and rifle through the utility chest in the back, suppressing a pout.

“Ain’t your daddy ever teach you better?”

“He’s a biology professor.”

“Right.” Arthur laughs darkly, returning with a funnel, a fresh quart, and a few other tools you have no hope of surmising their purpose. “So he ain't taught'chu nothin’ that matters.”

Jutting your chin loftily, you taunt, “Guess you’re my daddy today." And you quickly learn that Arthur Morgan can blush.

“Just — turn the damn car on.”

The second time you met Arthur, you were not at your best.

"Well, if it ain't Miss Smarty." Came that telltale drawl, warm and familiar like the echo of a honeyed dream. Scowling at your phone you bristled, prepared to tell this stranger where to shove it, until—

"Oh." You blinked at him with dawning recognition, his hair ochreous under the bright cinema lights. The air was thick with petrichor, fresh puddles splashing under the tires of passing cars, streetlamps rippling in the damp. He stood at a respectable distance, his hands buried in the pockets of that same leather jacket.

"It's you."

"Arthur." He reminded you with an incline of his head.

"Right. Sorry, I..." You shook your head, gesturing vaguely with your phone as you tried to muzzle the gnashing irritation in your gut. "Y'caught me at a bad time. I was supposed to be meetin' somebody, but he just...up and canceled on me last minute..."

"That's too bad." He said gently, genuine.

"Thanks...I just — I mean — y'know, not for nothin' but what is wrong with you men nowadays?" You snarl, quickly amending with a half-hearted wave of your hand. "No offense."

"None taken." He smiled crookedly. "Reckon that's what'chu get, makin' plans with boys you meet on that damn phone."

You reclined on your heel, eyes narrowing. "And who said I was meetin' anybody off an app?"

"Well, were you?"

"...Not the point."

He laughed quietly and scuffed the sidewalk with the heel of his boot. And despite yourself, you smiled.

"Don't know what I'm supposed to do now." You mumbled, shoving your phone out of sight, defeated. "I bought the stupid tickets and everything..."

An opinion seemed to flicker in Arthur's eyes about that fact, which remained unspoken.

"...You seein' a movie, too?" You asked lamely.

His mouth worked thoughtfully beneath his stubbled mustache as he tilted his head back to read the blinking marquee. "I ain't sure yet."

You shifted your weight. "Well...I got an extra ticket, if..."

His eyes flickered to you with reserved interest.

"Unless—" You stammered, your confidence already wounded badly enough for one night. "Unless you're waitin' on— "

"I ain't waitin' on nobody."

Silence, charged with the current of possibility.

Your lips curved. "You always go to the movies by yourself?"

"Sometimes." He replied. "S'pose there's no gettin' stood up if you always go it alone."

You laughed, though you weren't certain he was joking. From your pocket you pulled the ticket stubs for two, holding them up for him to see. "Well, if you want...it's now or never..."

He looked at you. Then at the tickets. Then down the street, a conflict brewing under the surface of his stoicism that you didn't fully understand.

Finally, he took one and jutted his chin towards the main entrance. "So...you like butter on your popcorn, or what?"

“Alright. Pull up on that curb a bit so I can get under you.”

The arc of your brow lifts suggestively towards your hairline as you tilt your head out the driver's side window. He swears under his breath, ears tinged pink.

“I mean under your car, Miss Smarty.”

You snicker and shift into drive, coax the front left wheel up on the curb, and cut the engine. The lift gives him just enough clearance to crawl beneath the car with a torque wrench and a drain pan.

“Careful not to throw your back out down there, old man.” You tease, hip-checking the door closed behind you.

Arthur scoffs, voice muffled from the underbelly. “Reckon I’m in better shape’n you, princess.”

“Is that so?” Your eyes linger where the hem of his tee has betrayed the firm planes of his torso and the appealing tussock of hair trailing south below his belt. You swallow.

“Sure. Nobody got strong from book learnin’.”

"Maybe it's your brain that could use the exercise."

He chuckles. "True enough."

After a few minutes of grunting and swearing Arthur re-emerges, dragging the pan of odorous engine tar (or what was left of it) out with him, smatterings of fresh grime staining his front. "And now—" He rises to his full height, clearly trying to conceal the protest in his joints. "You get to do the final honors."

You look worried. "Me?"

"Oh, yes you. C'mere." He clicks his tongue by way of beckoning you to the hood, and to your chagrined amusement, you obey.

He fastens a small funnel to an opening on the engine. "Unscrew that quart."

You do, sniffing the open bottle out of morbid curiosity, surprised to find it mostly odorless.

"Now pour that in here. And don't spill too much."

"How do I know when to stop?"

"I'll tell ya." He says patiently. "Now pour."

You tip the quart, slowly emptying its contents in the basin below. And as you do, Arthur's never felt closer — so close you can feel the heat radiating off his frame, smell the old oil mingling with sweat and leather and cigarette smoke...

"It's thirsty." You mutter nervously.

"Sure." He murmurs.

You don’t stop until the quart is empty and he leans in to secure the cap back on the engine. He pulls away, clapping those work-worn hands and fixing you with a boyish smirk of satisfaction.

"Well, that's all there is to it, princess. I reckon she'll run a lot happier now."

“Thank you, Arthur.” You say earnestly, pulling from your pocket a wad of cash. “Here. Least I can do.” Sensing his hesitation, you push the payment toward him insistently. "Take it — for supplies, at least."

He looks at it for a long, conflicted moment before shaking his head and closing the hood with a thud. “Nah. I don’t want your money.”

You give him a look. “Arthur—“

“I don’t wanna hear it,” he says, pushing your hand away with surprising gentleness — and you’re startled to realize that it’s the first time he’s ever touched you. “Save it for school.”

You soften and gesture towards your front door. “Well, c’mon in for a bit, then. You can wash up and I can make you somethin’ to eat, or…”

He looks at you — really looks at you, and his cerulean stare roots you irrevocably where you stand. “I ain’t sure that’s a good idea, sweetheart.”

Your pulse pounds. "What, you nervous or somethin'?"

Jesus, he is. You can see it; the awkward shift in his weight, the unsure flexing of his hands at his sides — and that same look he had at the movies, glancing down the street as if he was debating whether or not to bolt.

"Arthur, what's wrong?" You press.

He wets his lips, eyes fluttering closed as if pained. "C'mon. Don't make me say it."

"Say what—?!"

"God damn it, I—" He rubs his face, heedless of the dirt he leaves behind, jaw working furiously. “I don’t — I don’t trust myself. Alone wit’chu.”

“...Arthur, you never so much as—“

“You think I don’t want to?” He interrupts, his voice as low and dangerous as you’ve ever heard him. “Think I don’t know what’chu been doin’, with your little jokes? Lookin’ good enough for me to eat? Like I ain’t over here, damn near givin’ myself a heart attack from tryin’ not to—to just take you in my arms and—“

You’ve never opened a door backwards before, but you suppose there’s a first time for everything.

You and Arthur all but destroy your entryway, a manic scramble of lips and limbs. Graduation photos knocked askew from the walls — a bowl of keys and spare change sent clattering off the bureau. Your legs lock around his waist like iron vines as he stumbles forward — or is it backward? You can’t tell — and you tug his hair in what you hope is the direction of the den.

“To the left — the left!”

He groans against your mouth, his tongue sloppily seeking yours in a claiming kiss. And the next bit of solid ground you know is your back on the couch, with him towering over you, eyes dark with the unbridled lust of a beast.

His weight pins yours to the cushions, the hot plushness of his lips in stark contrast to the pleasurable rasp of his stubble as it scrapes ever downwards. Filthy hands ruin your pastel camisole as he yanks the scalloped lace neckline below your bust. He suckles one aching breast and then the other, nibbling the pebbling peaks just to soothe them with flat swipes of his tongue.

Down, down.

Your body is a canvas for the smear of his fingerprints. He curls his hands in the waist of your shorts and pulls, with scarcely the patience to see them past your ankles before he's kneeling before you like a sacrament and spreading you wide. With a deep-bellied groan he burrows his face in the heady slope where your thigh sockets your hip, breathing you, biting you.

You yelp and squirm and those hands hold you fast — flattening your thighs as far as they can open just to stare into the core of you as though transfixed. You tremble with a vulnerability that's nigh on unbearable.

And then he tastes you.

"Jesus..." He marvels under his breath, blue-green eyes all but rolling as he flutters his tongue against your center, savoring you like a glass of top shelf rye. He works you with the whole of his mouth. Spit and slick flows freely down the seam of you and he laps you up like a desiccated dog under high noon.

Arthur laves you like he loves you, eyes soft and glassy. Observing every quiver of your hips, which strokes and caresses make you hum and sigh. His nose burrows against the soft mound above your clit. He moans like a man starved, the rumble of it like heaven against your swollen heat.

“Taste so good.”

He cups your ass, lifting you against his mouth and devouring you like a bowl of sweetest fruit. Slurping. Suckling. Chin dripping. Mellifluous praise spills from your parted lips and your thighs form a spastic frame for his face as you come, hard and fast, from his passionate feasting.

“One more.” He begs, bearing down on you with renewed hunger. “Gimme one more, baby—“

You count two — at least, while you still have wits enough to count — before he’s flipping you on your belly and parting you from behind.

"Ah—! Arthur, w-wait—" You whimper raggedly, clawing your way up the back of the couch in a boneless attempt to get your bearings. And then you feel him climbing behind you, caging you against the upholstery, his cock rock hard and heavy as he grinds the length of it between your cum-slickened cheeks. Barely has he kissed your slit with his head before he's fucking the dripping vice of your sweet cunt. Fast. Hard.

Your vision blurs. You can't breathe. He locks his forearm across your collarbone, veins undulating beneath his skin with the effort. His breath comes in animalistic grunts in your ear, shivers skittering down your spine. Your back bows, ass smacking noisily in erotic time with his piston thrusts.

“Feel so good, pretty girl. So good f’me.”

In the din of your frantic fucking, he doesn't last much longer — not that you could stand it otherwise. His grunts turn to soft-throated whimpers of their own, his pace stuttering and erratic, and you feel him spill hot, fast, and clumsy on the backs of your quaking thighs.

All is hush save for your shared breath and the chattering of your teeth as your body reels in the aftershock.

"H-hey..." He murmurs shakily against your skin. He holds you, firm yet gentle, his hand stroking the back of your head. "Y'alright?"

You nod, still at a loss for words, turning as best you can to loop your arms around his neck. He buries his face in the crook of yours where he stays for a long while, your bodies cradled in one another's in such a way where it's difficult to discern where one begins and the other ends.

"Shouldn't'a done that..."

You pant, chest heaving as you still chase breath. "Huh?"

"Shouldn't'a let me." He groans miserably.

"If this...is your idea of pillow talk..."

"I'm serious." He pulls back to meet your gaze and you've never seen him look so...tortured. "You're — you're young. Funny. Smart. You got — dreams, and things comin' your way that I — I'll ruin 'em, sweetheart. It's just about the only thing I know how to do."

Your eyes sting. "That ain't true."

"It is, honey girl." He presses the back of your hand to his lips with the reverence of a self-loathing sinner. "Want you so bad. Tried to resist you, best I could. I'm sorry. But I — I oughta go and...and I reckon I shouldn't see you no more."

Ice settles in your spine. "No."

He blinks dazedly. "...No?"

"No." You say, more firmly this time. "Idiot."

"Oh." He blinks some more, eyes shifting confusedly. "…Okay…”

You thwack him in the arm.

“Ow.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” You exclaim.

He rubs his bicep. “You want the shortlist or the whole damn bibliography?”

"We do all that and now's the time when you wanna drop some — some — self-loathin'-sorry bullshit on my lap?"

His mouth forms an exasperated line. "Ain't—"

"Y'know what, Arthur? When it comes to my car, you can boss me around all day — 'cuz I haven't a damn clue. What you're not gonna do—" You grab his face between your hands to force his shamed gaze, your own fiercely tender. "—Is make my decisions for me. Or — shoot our own damn happiness in the foot before we have half a chance to feel it. Okay?"

A storm of uncertainty clouds his expression, his eyes pools of sadness yet unspoken, hard-earned wisdoms he hasn't shared, grit that softens to reluctant vulnerability with your every word. Then the storm passes.

"Okay." He rasps.

"Okay." You echo, relieved. Your grip softens, thumbs stroking the arc of his cheekbones. He leans into your touch, eyelids fluttering closed.

"I like you, Arthur." You murmur sweetly.

"I like you, too, sugar." He replies. "I like you, too."

taglist: @anotheroutlaw; @babygirlarthur; @everlongingheart; @photo1030; @stupidgaynerd; @thedilfdiaries; @thorst; @vickylamborghini (thank you all so much for your interest and support! please lmk if you'd like to be added or removed for next time!)

when it comes to licking wounds, arthur considers himself more than proficient. in laving enzyme-laced saliva over lacerations and abrasions, in drooling biocatalyst bandaids over bumps and bruises. both figuratively, and literally; it rings true now most of all, the tip of his tongue tracing the bloodied innards of scar-tissued cheeks. and he's never been a sucker for self pity, but, he feels stuck. he's been staring at the flimsy ceiling of his tent for god knows how long. inebriated through the catatonic cocktail brewed up in the tight, throbbing bounds of his skull, knee-deep in the stagnant ponds of sleep deprivation. just about as murky as the olive-green swamps of saint denis. the hard heels of his palms rise to rub at dry, bloodshot eye sockets.

his head hurts. nightmare, night terror, sleep paralysis — he's not overly fond of any of the names, the loaded baggage which comes with them. he just wishes they'd stop. needs them to stop, more like. it's been long enough, the sizzling, buckshot-burnt hole in his shoulder is just another knurled scar now. arthur doesn't much like being cosied up in cruel old cotton country either, neighbouring with all the moonshine-swilling, inbred bastards; spinning a pretty yarn with his shimmering, silver deputy badge, and an equally as glittery tongue. chasing yankee gold and decaying dreams. and the heats been bothering him like a rock stuck in a horse hoof.

clemens point isn't all bad, though. the lazy days are few and far between, most of them spent with you. whenever he had the chance to whisk you away. offered to teach you how to play poker by the pronghorn hide tables a couple weeks back, to which you promptly assured him, you already know. robbed him blind to make up for the brazen presumption, beamed at him the whole way through. paired with the weight of your head over his denim-clad lap, an afternoon nap. impromptu, passed out by marigold-cloaked spindly trees at the sun-dusted edge of camp, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the nape of your neck.

spun you around under a star-soaked, candied violet twilight when you asked him to dance, too. told you he had two left feet, flushed a furious petal-pink, but indulged your coquettish request all the same. arthur wished he kissed you, then. he would've, if he wasn't so worried about giving you a whiskey-laced regret. he drank too much. and when he passed by that big old orchard on the way home, to bring you back cherries for breakfast; you were melt-in-your-mouth beautiful laying on your tummy in the sweet grass, with ruby-lacquered lips and tacky fingertips, tongue darting out to lap up tart juices trickling down your wrist.

would you suck him off like that? lick a kittenish, slippery path up the thick shaft of his cock? arthur would be gentle with you, he's sure, wouldn't force himself down your tight throat or tug at your hair harshly. he'd have plenty of ways to show his gratitude, after. hook your plush thighs over his shoulders, suckle a messy mouthful of your syrupy pussy and stuff his fingers inside knuckle-deep. make you sing for him. he doesn't know much, when it comes to you, can't read you right — he just knows he's bigger than you. stronger. could cup the backs of your knees and pin them to your chest without breaking a sweat. wouldn't let up until you squirmed sorely to get away, oversensitive, salted beads clumping on your bottom lashes.

he rises from his cot on uneven footing, forgoing a shirt, not so much as splashing his face with water. squinting at at the golden-sweet, swollen sun, trickling her luminous syrup into champagne-coloured clouds. just after five am, if he had to guess. early enough for camp to be entirely still. dawn starts to dilute the glaucous sky. he gulps back a big breath, citric dandelion and swamp air on his sinuses, and grimaces. huffs a virulence-dipped sigh. he could relieve one of the guards, could start on chores early. and still, he harbours a puffy predilection for your bed. he should let you sleep. he wants to, he does. you make it so hard.

arthur knows he's running on ravenous instinct over logic, when wandering to the sun-bleached flaps of your tent. dulled and disoriented, he only knows he misses you. not in the way he's missed anyone else before. it doesn't sting like scraped knees or fishhook-pricked fingertips, it aches abysmally, a flea-eaten, maggot-riddled cavity carved jagged in his chest. as vexatious and incessant as a swarm of insatiable fruit flies. swollen larvae rooted in the ravines of his ribs, making the muscles of his heart feel bloated, bulbous. clogging his adrenaline-fatigued arteries with muck. its a coffee-brown bruise to have a crush, and he dons the dappled contusions like fawn fur.

his forearm sweeps the cream canvas wide open without so much as a word, spilled sunlight warming the spotted skin of his back before the fabric flutters closed again. intruding. your name froths from his chest, fizzing out shotgun-fast, a shaken up beer bottle. messy, out of his control. as most things are, when you're around — ever the big, blustering idiot. his cheeks feel hot. you're sleeping, still. fists tucked under your jaw, in your little lace chemise. you look real pretty in it. plucked right from a fable, like a princess. something straight out of one of the faded storybooks strewn around camp. arthur's lips curl into a subtle, small smile. could've made your fortune off it in another life.

he should go. why can't he just go? works his weighted indecision around his teeth like clumped chewing tobacco. swallowing the acidic scald of his bruised pride, arthur slips in your bedroll beside you, your back flush to his chest. you stir, then, shimmying softly against his sinewed muscles.

“'s jus' me.” he mumbles thickly, waterlogged words muffled by the mess of your hair. you're warm, nothing like the muggy, heavy heat. a welcome weight anchored to his front.

but the comfort is gone as soon as it came, you roll to lie flat on your back, sluggish shells of your hands rubbing slowly at your weary eyes. “hi,” you scrunch your nose affectionately, blinking at the blankets pooled around his hips and his bare form; sun-spotted from the tenacious ferocity of lemoyne heat, freckle smeared, bronze-tipped broad shoulders and tanned, brutish arms. without his well-worn embellishments; his hat, his holsters, when he's not the brawn, the brute or the enforcer. when he's just arthur. heart-achingly human.

a dozy, drowsy smile dimples your cheeks. your voice is light, and it still manages to carry a sing-song softness. “can't sleep?”

god, you're so good to him. how are you so good? scrambling in his awkwardness, he grunts throatily, propping his weight up on corded forearms. clears the coarse block in his sleep-coated throat and decides a simple answer is for the best. “bad dream.”

something in your demeanour shifts, he notices, a knowing kink forming between your brow. your shoulders slump with a short exhale, you lean up, and kiss him. slot your peach-tender lips over his for a short second, then slouch back on the bedroll with a quiet thud. makes him wide-eyed and stupid. arthur draws in a bated breath, wincing at the delicate, lightning-bolt heartbeat pulsating under his pectorals.

you give a pitchy gasp when he closes in on you again. the bridge of his nose bumps back on yours, calloused fingertips cupping your jawbones and digging into the flesh firm. he panics, briefly, of coming off too strong, of crossing a burnt, singed line by matching your winsome affection with an aggressive appetence. but you whine over his wet tongue, and it's so, so sweet, on his bullet-shocked eardrums.

resolve as frayed the work-worn ends of his lasso, and amorous in his advances now, arthur's hungry hand clamps over your bare thigh. asking silently, squeezing a trail upwards, to the little divot between your leg and clothed cunt. the taut tendons in his arm screech from the suffocating embrace of self-restraint. rumpled sheets ruffle together as you spread them wide, rocking your waist up in waiting. he fumbles clumsily through the slick-damp fabric, swiping two thick fingers through the slippery mess. you're soaked, all strained breaths and trembling thighs, as he kisses a sloppy, honeyed path down your neck.

mouthing at the flats of your collarbones, pressing the heat-cracked skin of his lips between your heaving tits. he pushes into your drooling hole with his ring finger, slowed, swallowing a bitten off-moan when he works you up to take two. a shuddering breath gets lodged in his throat, caught like a rabbit's paw in a snare trap. you're soft, scathing around his driving digits, knotting his abdomen into lecherous twists. hot and needy, hiccuping something silky and shaky to him that's lost on deaf ears.

and it's cloyingly better than any ill-imitation he imagined up before, all the lonesome sooty, shadowy nights when he fisted himself furiously into his mattress. hooking the hard pads of his fingers into your soft walls, he curls up greedily, wringing another sequence of watery whimpers out of you. arthur wants to devour you whole, wolf you down like strawberry syrup. there's a sore, simmering desperation etched into the chalk of bones, zipping through his calcium-thick skeleton; his cock swells, throbbing fervidly at the leaky tip, your glossy beads trickling into his open palm.

he's huffing, now, can hear the dulled, heavy breaths echoing out in between your pitchy pants. pumping, forcing his entire forearm with the drive of it. your flittering fingers cinch around his wide wrist, thumbing the bulging, baby blue veins, catching on the keloid-shaped, sawtooth battlefields carved into his metacarpals.

“arthur, arthur —” you hiccup a hurting, torn wail, tugging lightly at the burnt-sand strands on his scalp. prying his lips off your shaky sternum, snaking your trembling hand to cup his blood-warm crotch. “just fuck me.”

he hisses a tangled breath out between his teeth when you squeeze, stroking the hard, hot outline of his cock. quick to serve your whiny plea, he hooks both thumbs into the crumpled crease of his waistband, wrangling it down to settle around his mid-thighs. you writhe, angling your sweet, swollen cunt up to meet his swaying shaft. jesus, do you always sound like that? look, like that? cinnamon-sweet and dizzying pliancy, all for him? arthur should be taking his time with you. would, if he were a different man. less mauled and mangled, maybe. his ruddy, dribbling tip taps your puffy clit, he lubes himself up with your dewy slick as much as his blistering impatience will allow.

the blunt head of his cock catches on the glistening rim of your cunt, he feels your arms loop shakily around his shoulders as he sheathes in. a slow, languid push, and he groans, tender and tortured; arthur's sought out the comfort of a soft cunt a couple of times, a no strings-attached fuck. the ones where he wiped the mess of spend from his stomach shame-faced, palmed a crumped billfold into the clasp of a disenchanted working girl, left in haste. left feeling worse than he did before. he's no stranger to one night stands, but none of them felt like this. maybe it's different because it's you.

it is different, because it's you. you've seen him at his worst. and you're shuddering underneath him, sweat-shimmering skin, glossy-eyed and dumb. breathily begging him to move, to fuck you like he means it. swinging your calves around the small of his back, love-locking him in place. raking red-hot lines down his tense, flexed traps, while he stuffs his cock in deep. slides his stocky, thewy arms underneath your back to fuck you all that harder. pumping his hips sloppily into your heat, rolling two fingers rough over your puffy, slippery bud. it doesn't take you much, arthur realises smugly, a responsive, sweet little thing like you, to bow your back, clench and convulse helplessly around his swelled base. drooling milky dew over the seam of his heavy balls, soaking the chestnut curls stippled over his skin.

he lowers his head again, planting clustered kisses against your sensitive skin, clumping together like honeycomb. your cheekbones, your chin, your cupid's bow, your temples, your jaw, the bridge of your nose. pecks your forehead last. warm and sticky, pollinating every plane and ridge of your pretty face with lust-sweetened adoration. he hears your teeth clink together once, shuddering in oversensitivity. with shaky syllables, you part your spit-shined lips. “inside.”

it's so simple — one airy word. lands like a loaded gun. still manages to cinch his lungs together rattlesnake-tight, sends an aching spasm down his blanketed cock.

“sweetpea,” he gasps a guttural groan, brows pinching together painfully. adam's apple bobbing and beading with sweat, arthur clasps his hands over your flushed cheeks, buttercup-soft, the tightened muscles in his tensed jaw whirring like steam train gears. slowing his thrusts into shallow, shy bucks, forcefully clenching the hardened muscles in his stomach. “you ain't thinkin' proper, you — i shouldn't.”

“i am,” you stutter through the twitchy aftershocks of your orgasm, fluttering lashes and helpless babbles. he watches with rapt, bumblebee buzzing attention as you struggle to steady your trembling tone. nudging, nuzzling your face into his open palms, cooing a promise. “i want it, i want you — i want all of you, arthur.”

moonstruck, he stares at you with sequinned, celadon irises. all the vertebrae in his spinal cord stiffening, the rapturous, gooey pool in his pelvis rupturing. he barely breathes his hoarse moan out before flooding your tight, tender insides, shoulders crumpling inwards with carnal pants while his cock spurts out warm, wet pulses. the cracked, callous skin of his palms hugging the meat of your hips, massaging the fat in a too-tight grasp. pounding your sappy pussy, filling you up with silky ribbons, your slick clinging a sticky film to his fuzzed thighs. and, arthur is happy. a fickle, fleeting thing, though the tightness in his chest is gone.

he's sure to avoid swathing you in his muscled mass, releases a drawn-out, abrasive sigh, all the way down from his stomach. doesn't bother pulling out just yet. brackets his arms around your skull, his fingertips stroking at the sweat-damp curls plastered to the crown of your head, tender. you're quiet. uncomfortably quiet. sealed eyelids, almost as if he never woke you in the first place. silent besides the shaky succession of your uneven inhales, and it forces a flurry of treacherous tar-black anxieties to bloom in his head. a hurricane, and again — he feels like an idiot.

“Arthur, could you hold this for me please?” You held your purse out to him, the keychains jingling as he snatched it from you. The sound always got on his nerves. He didn’t understand why you needed so many of those stupid things and that’s partly why you asked him to hold it. That and the fact that he had a very cute grumpy face. Eyebrows knitted tight together, bottom lip jutted out in annoyance. Such a stubborn brat he was, you just loved getting him riled up and putting him in his place.

You gave him a chaste smile and a pat on the shoulder before pushing the bathroom door open and heading inside. There you leaned over the sink to reapply your lipgloss, smacking your lips together to make sure both were thoroughly coated. The lid was twisted back on tightly and then you began making sure your outfit was presentable enough. While you did this a group of women walked in, giggling and whispering amongst one another.

“Did you see the look on his face?” One of them muttered as they passed by and it was immediately clear to you who they were referring to.

Was he seriously standing out there pouting?

“I did! But did you notice the other guy? He looked about ready to pounce on him!” This was accompanied by a few loud giggles before the ladies all filed into their own stalls.

Oh, you needed to get back out there. And quick.

The lipgloss was shoved back into your - oh yeah, Arthur had your purse. You groaned and stomped out of the bathroom, your outfit and makeup now the last things on your mind.

Arthur stood there with a scowl on his face. The second you reached him he shoved the purse back to you with a grunt, “Next time warn me before inviting Charles.” And then he was off and out the exit, probably to go sit in his truck and brood.

You turned to find Charles leaned up against the wall, eyeing you closely.

Damnit, he wasn’t supposed to get here until nine.

The two of them, Charles and Arthur, hadn’t been getting along lately and so now you’ve had to see them separately. They used to be inseparable, usually more in love with each other than with you. You were still unsure why they’ve been so pissed off or why they can’t just kiss and make up. Ooo, now there’s an idea…

Charles approached you and muttered a question over the club music, “He’s still in that mood?”

You side eyed him before slapping your purse against his chest and strutting off towards the exit Arthur left out of. Leaving Charles standing there confused but intrigued all the same.

The night air embraced you the second you stepped outside, your stilettos hitting the pavement with a couple loud click-clacks as you approached Arthur’s truck. The song he had blasting on the radio seeped out of the rusted vehicle.

Was that…The Subway by Chappell Roan?

It took all your willpower not to burst out laughing as you bent down to knock on his car window. That startled him and you watched with an amused grin while he fumbled to turn the dial. Seconds passed before the window was rolled down and he was leaning out of it casually, acting as if nothing happened.

“What? It’s a good song.” He shrugged.

A snort escaped you and he smiled fondly at the sound. That almost distracted you. Almost. But you had more important things on your mind.

“Listen –“

“If this is about Charles, I don’t wanna hear it.” He interrupted swiftly.

You sighed heavily, knowing just how stubborn he could be, “Arthur, please. Just tell me what’s goin –“

Someone cleared their throat behind you. A quick glance over your shoulder and you found Charles looming over you with his arms crossed and an expression on his face that said “explain yourself.”

Another cheeky smile crept up your face as you stepped to the side to give them a chance to talk, realizing too late that Arthur was already rolling his window up as fast as he possibly could. The window squeaked loudly and it took about five minutes for the thing to fully close.

You and Charles stood there in an awkward silence, watching in amusement as Arthur struggled to get the window closed. Though once he was finished, he turned the song back on even louder this time.

Charles huffed at that, “that stupid song…” he mumbled.

Damn it, these men really were the most annoyingly stubborn people you had ever met. Who sits in a pickup truck blasting Chappell Roan all alone when they could be making out with you or better yet, with Charles?

You had enough of this bullshit so you stomp back over to the front door of Arthur’s shitty car and tug it open.

“Now, Arthur Morgan, you’re gonna give Charles here one big sloppy apology kiss and I’m going to watch and enjoy it. Then we’ll all fuck in the back of this truck, y’hear?”

After that, the only thing that could be heard for a couple seconds was Chappell Roan belting her heart out.

Arthur stared up at you wide-eyed and dumbfounded, his breathing irregular. He parted his lips to maybe explain why Charles and him were acting this way but you didn’t care anymore. You put your finger up to his lips and shushed him, making sure to tug at his bottom lip as you pulled away.

“Now go on.” You stepped back and gestured wildly to Charles, who was just as silent as Arthur however his cool demeanor was cracking, a hint of a smirk forming on his lips.

Arthur approached him hesitantly, but soon his confidence returned, probably because his favorite part of the song was playing.

All that could be heard while your boyfriend’s locked lips was Chappell singing about how she got away.

And she got, she got away…… she got away, she got away……

The kiss was rapidly growing in intensity as the song came to a climax. In an instant Arthur’s fingers were tangled in Charles’ hair and their bodies were smashed together. You gasped quietly at how into it they were getting and before you knew it Charles had Arthur pinned up against the truck, his hands on his hips and his tongue practically down his throat.

A little moan escaped you while you watched Arthur grip Charles’ ass, the kiss getting sloppier by the second. It didn’t even occur to you that your purse was now lying flat on the ground beneath them, your keychains abandoned as Charles lost himself in Arthur’s kiss.

Finally they broke away from each other, their pupils blown wide and their chests heaving. The radio already playing an entirely different song.

Looks like they made up just fine.

Arthur glanced your way first, knowing damn well that you were more than eager to wreck the both of them.

Oh and you were…

The three of you barely made it to the back of the truck, clothes already trailing out of it and your purse left all alone on the cold pavement while you got situated in Charles’ lap. It wasn’t long before the both of them were lavishing you in kisses and praises and gripping onto every single patch of skin in sight.

“God, you’re gorgeous.” Arthur murmurs against your skin as Charles tosses your clothes aside. “Ain’t she just the prettiest thing, Charles?”

Charles responds with a low grunt before burying his face between your tits, all the answer either of you need.

You let out a breathy giggle, their praises and attention boosting your ego even higher.

Soon Arthur’s hand is trailing up your thigh and his fingers are teasing you. He brushes over the thin fabric of your panties in a plan to draw gasps and whimpers from you, which you only give one of. A quick, shocked gasp before you grab his wrist to tug his hand away.

“Now, Arthur. I don’t think that’s very fair.” You tut, shoving his hand towards his own crotch. Another little wicked smile forming on your face as you do. “Touch yourself. Now.”

He loved when you got like this so he wasted no time, his jeans unzipped and thrown across the front seat in one swift motion. Then his hand was wrapping around his cock without a second thought, and you watched in awe as he obeyed your command oh so eagerly.

“Mmm, good job.” You praise, finding his submission admirable and downright pathetic in the best way possible.

With Arthur doing what you asked of him you turn to focus on Charles again, who is now watching the both of you with wide eyes. He’s desperate, you can see it and you can certainly feel it.

“Aw, looks like Charles is getting impatient.” You mock while grinding down against the bulge in his pants, sending a fake pout his way.

This was the best part, how they both let you degrade and tease them without a single complaint. It was obvious they loved it, with the way they encouraged it and all.

Charles is getting impatient alright because now he’s tugging your panties to the side before asking for permission and all you can do is laugh in disbelief.

He has always been a sweet lover, in and outside of bed. And as much as you adore that side of him, you love it even more when he shows you the other sides to him, the more desperate and needy sides. You especially love when your own game is used against you.

It’s only a matter of seconds before he’s showing you just how needy he is, freeing his cock from its confines and giving you one last glance to make sure you’re ready. As soon as you nod firmly to the question in his eyes he pushes up into you without anymore hesitation. The sting is painfully delicious, causing you to tense up and lose your sense of dominance for just a minute. Your hand flies down to his shoulder, your nails dig into his skin.

“Charles! Oh fuck!” You moan as your head lolls back from the sheer force of his actions.

Charles lets out a filthy groan and so does Arthur, who is still watching from the sidelines touching himself desperately. You turn your head to him weakly while Charles drags you up and down his aching cock. You watch through a misty haze as Arthur matches the pace of his movements to the bounce of your hips.

Your eyes flutter, your jaw falls open, and for a moment you of all people are rendered speechless. Then, as if it couldn’t get any better, Arthur moves from his spot and does something unexpected. He locks lips with Charles immediately, moving his hand quicker at the sensation. Your face contorts at the sight and it’s not long before you’re leaning down to join them in a sloppy passionate makeout session. Their muffled groans and your ecstatic moans fill the heated, suffocating air inside of the dirty old pickup truck while you all move together.

Soon you’re pulling yourself away and taking over again, slamming your hips down to encourage both men to continue tonguing each other while you watch. You reach down and slap Arthur’s hand away from his cock, replacing it with your own. Their moaning increases, your body tenses up and then you’re finishing all over Charles’ cock and squeezing Arthur’s even tighter with your hand.

You’re shaking and writhing so much that you barely hear the deep chuckle coming from Arthur, who now has his fingers near your pussy. His thumb is rubbing at your clit in an instant and you are seeing stars while you claw at Charles’ chest.

“D-Don’t…fucking stop!” You cry out as both men team up on you. And you’re entirely fine with it, too lost in pleasure to even care who’s in charge anymore.

Charles hips sputter upwards one last time before he’s spilling inside you with a low groan and a curse, his grip on your waist almost painful. Then before you know it, his cock is being replaced by Arthur’s, their places now switched. You’re on your back with your legs spread wide as Arthur fucks into you vigorously and Charles touches himself at the sight.

The truck is rocking back and forth, the windows are fogged up from all of your body heat. You’re all too loud and lost to hear it, but there’s a group right outside laughing and trying to get a glimpse of what’s happening inside. Clothes are still trailing out of the half closed doors, your purse somehow still on the pavement and not stolen. Yet.

You never find out why Arthur and Charles were fighting, maybe it was jealousy or maybe just some silly argument they had. It doesn’t really matter anymore, not with the two of them fucking you like their lives depend on it. Not with them making out again and again above you, causing your head to spin and your release to find you five times all in the back of Arthur’s truck.

And somehow, even through your pleasure filled haze, you find yourself thinking that he’s definitely going to need to replace this piece of shit vehicle after all this…

2nd a/n: going back and forth between writing very poetically to writing like this is just so funny to me but I feel like that explains my personality perfectly! Anyways, I overthought this fic and spent a lot of time crying over it, deleting and retyping things, even thought of getting rid of the entire smut scene but I persisted because even if I hate what I wrote, I’m sure bee won’t💕 I hope everyone who celebrates Christmas had a wonderful day and even if you don’t celebrate, I hope your day was just as wonderful. Being apart of this community has been the highlight of the last few months of 2025 for me so thank you all and once again, thank you bee! for being a friend🥺🫶i don’t know if you understand just how much having someone to talk to meant to me. I hope I can continue talking to you about whatever the hell comes up next year, and as I stated already you can do the same with me whenever! I appreciate you and everyone else so so much!!! And now, goodnight

Edit: wait, wait, wait I almost forgot to tag @morgansroan aaaa tyyyy for asking to be tagged in whatever I post next and also thank you in general for being such a sweetheart to me! I’m usually so on top of everything but I got so nervous posting this one that I didn’t remember that you had asked. I hope you enjoy this too, even though it’s quite all over the place😭🩷

First, it was the languid yet sensual touches in the bath. Hands, hidden underwater in dim candle light, roaming aimlessly. Squeezing, caressing, rubbing. You felt dizzy, almost high, from Arthur’s touch, his calloused hands deliciously exploring you like he’s trying to make a map of your body. 

Then, it was his cock in your wet, hot mouth. His hand rested gently on the back of your head, guiding you with restraint and patience. You knew he wanted to slam into the back of your throat, but he’d never let himself lose control like that out of fear of hurting you. Instead, Arthur let you take the lead, using your hand to assist where your mouth couldn’t reach. He was whispering soft praise to you as you hollowed your cheeks, sucking with determination. Eventually, he had to pull you off with a pop to stop himself from unloading in your throat. 

And now, he’s making a mess of you. With your face pressed into the mattress, Arthur is devouring you. As thoughtful as ever, he pauses to fold a limp pillow and slide it under your belly to make you more comfortable as you become weaker and weaker from his tongue working your clit. You wiggle your ass towards him, begging for him to resume. Instead of giving you what you want, he spread your pussy wide, watching it drip and pulse with need. 

“My sweetheart,” he coos behind you. Being this exposed makes your face grow hot. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Please, Arthur,” you whine, pushing your hips back again to tell him exactly what you’re asking for. 

Leaning in, Arthur sucks your clit into his mouth, groaning against you. The vibration makes you feel delirious and pulls a breathy moan from you. That only encourages Arthur who lets go of your clit and drags his tongue slowly down to your opening, dipping his tongue into your entrance. You reach back, tangling your fingers in his hair that’s been getting long, nearly brushing his shoulders now. It’s the perfect length to grip and you use it to push his tongue further in you. 

Arthur snakes his hand around your plush thigh so that he can have access to your clit, rubbing tight circles on the sensitive, swollen bud as he fucks you with his tongue. The pleasure is nearly overwhelming and you let your eyes flutter shut, succumbing to the feeling. You’re beyond dazed, lost in it, that you don’t notice Arthur’s tongue leaving your core. Oh, but you notice when he makes contact with your tight ring, the one that’s never been touched by anyone before, circling it with his eager tongue.

You squeak as your eyes widen. “Arthur!”

“‘M sorry,” he slurs, resting his cheek on your ass. “I just”—he experimentally licks you again, fast this time—“wanna taste every part of you.”

Much to your surprise, you find yourself aroused at the thought of Arthur doing something so taboo to you. Something entirely new. In some way, you think it would be an act of devotion, a way of promising yourself to him and him to you. Still, there’s part of you that feels embarrassed, shy even. Maybe Arthur can sense this because he begins to leave soothing kisses on the plump cheek of your ass, the crease where it meets your thigh. 

“I don’t know, Arthur.”

“You can trust me, y’know that,” he reassures you. Sliding his thumb from your clit to your entrance, he slowly slips it inside of you and you can’t help the moan that escapes your lips. “But we don’t gotta do anything you don’t wanna do.” 

Of course you know this. Arthur has never once pushed you to do anything—sexual or otherwise. As his hot breath fans over your hole and his sweet words echo in your hazy mind, you decide you do want this. The embarrassment, the shame seems to go out the window. It’s just Arthur. Your Arthur. Hard on the outside, brutal with others, but ever so loving with you. It makes your chest tight with affection.

“Okay,” you all but whisper, voice impossibly small and timid. It’s unlike you, but this whole situation is unlike anything before. “You can…do that.”

Arthur peppers your backside with kisses, finger entirely still within you. “Are you sure?”

“I am. I-I..want to try it,” you admit sheepishly. 

Immediately, he obliges, letting a string of spit fall from his lips onto your asshole before fully committing. Arthur licks and laps at you with the ferocity of a starving man. Your whole body is tense as you try to adjust to the new sensation. With his unoccupied hand, he massages your hip. It’s like a gentle command, urging you to relax. When that fails, he replaces his thumb with his index finger and begins to fuck your cunt in earnest. The feeling of his tongue on your ass and his finger prodding at that sweet spot deep inside of you is divine. 

Bucking your hips, begging for more with your body, seems to send Arthur into a frenzy. He quickly inserts another finger and fucks you hard, dragging moans from you that interrupt your panting. A particular loud whimper earns a groan from Arthur and he tightens his grip on your hip. Reaching back, you place your hand atop of his and squeeze in encouragement. 

This must embolden him, the non-verbal praise, because he slips his tongue into your hole. 

“Oh!” you cry out, shocked by the intrusion, but not at all upset. “That feels—oh my god—so good, Arthur.”

Fucking you with his tongue and fingers, Arthur brings you closer and closer to the edge. It’s not long before he coaxes an orgasm out of you. Your pussy clenches around his fingers while your asshole tightens around his tongue. Not for a moment does he stop, working you through your orgasm until you’re squirming away from him, too overwhelmed to handle anymore. With a shameless moan, he pulls away and leaves a trail of open-mouthed kisses from your ass to your neck, burying his face there before flopping next to you.

Arthur gathers you into his arms, all loose-limbed and pliable, and kisses your temple. “Weren’t expecting you to like that so much,” he whispers. Ear pressed to his chest, you can feel the quiet rumble from his soft chuckle. “You did good for me, darlin’.”

Humming at the praise, you nuzzle your face into his solid chest that’s peppered with hair that looks golden in the candlelight. Arthur strokes your arm with the sweetest tenderness. The experience was nothing like you expected. No, it was so much more. The vulnerability has instilled a new trust between the two of you, you think. 

“Arthur?”

“Hm?” 

“Can we do that again?” you ask. 

He laughs softly, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Sure we can, but I think y’need some rest after that.”

Arthur is mostly silent as you nudge your horse into a steady trot. He knows how much you enjoy these scenic landscapes, after all, and he'll be damned if he's the reason your enjoyment of it is cut short.

'Course, he still fills the silence with a quip here and there. 

"You've got that grin on your face, darlin'," he says.

"What grin?"

"Y'know."

Ah, that grin. The one Arthur always says shows up at the end of a heist, when you know you've gotten away with it. A dangerous tick, if there ever was one, but you've yet to be caught… unlike a certain someone whose face is plastered on several wanted posters across this county.

"Reckon we'll be fiiine, mister Morgan. Ain't no law here to make sense of my slippery ways."

"Slippery ways, huh?"

You glance at him. Arthur has his head tilted in your direction, honey-colored strands falling over his crinkled eyes. It gives him a roguish look, one that immediately makes you feel like tiny birds are flapping their wings against your ribcage.

You turn away, gaze trained to the horizon. "Hey, how 'bout we take a break ahead?"

You don't see Arthur's reaction, all raised brows (what about Dutch and the rest, still waiting on you both?), but he ultimately obliges you, pulling on Boadicea's reins.

Before you know it, you're in a field of flowers, just a pair of outlaws lost in the wilderness. You watch as Arthur gets off Boadicea, spurs clinking against heat-tight soil. He turns, gait unhurried and slick, and then approaches like he wanted to help you down.

You snort.

What a dolt. You can take care of yourself, thank you very much, but it sure does something seeing the big, bad enforcer of the gang wanting nothing more than to help you—you, just another lost soul who's gotten too good at running away from things.

"Naw, lookatchu, Morgan... what a gallant gentleman you make," you tease. "M'afraid I still got my pride... Outlaw code and all."

Arthur snorts, an easy smile on his lips. "Thought ladies liked these sorta things." 

"What things?"

"Being wooed." 

Now that garners a laugh from you.

"You're a funny man, Arthur Morgan. 'Sides, you and I both know I ain't no lady."

Arthur smirks, shielding his expression beneath his hat in the way he does when he has no wordier response to give you. He guides Boadicea towards the closest pine tree, a beautiful old sentry with a patch of moss growing along its trunk.

If you had Arthur's talent for drawing, a scene like this one might've made it into your sketchbook.

Since you don't, you unceremoniously sling off your horse instead. You join Arthur's side and tether your horse to his, idly chit-chatting as you do. For a while, that's all there is to it: tending to your mounts, removing saddles, using grass to dry the animals' sweaty flanks. You rinse your hands with water from your flask, and comment about the summer heat in passing. 

When all is said and done, there is the scent of horse and leather deep in your lungs. Arthur has his arm snaked around Boadicea's neck, whispering  sweet-nothings to her when he thinks you're out of earshot. 

It might be that particular sight that makes you want to stretch out your time together while you still can. 

"Shall we soak in the view for a bit?" you ask. "Get a little victory nap while we're at it?"

Arthur seems to consider your question for a moment. Then, that familiar smirk. "Why not?" 

The two of you get to it then, working in tandem to set up a spot in the shade. By the time you're both comfortably installed on a blanket, bearings and guns within reach, a half-finished can of sweet peaches by your side, the sun is slowly setting over the horizon.

Arthur seems to have taken your suggestion as the directive of the hour. While you clean out the grime beneath your nails with a pocket knife, Arthur lightly snores next to you—his head propped under one arm, gambler hat concealing most of his face. 

You bite back a smile.

It's still new, your relationship with him. A part of you is still giddy at it all; you feel like a damn teenager all over again, stupid and foolish and in love. The other part, the outlaw in you, perhaps, wonders when it will inevitably blow up in your face—especially when Arthur acts as he does now, so openly trusting you to have his back. You could tease him for it, but the truth is, you trust him like he trusts you, and you don't remember the last person you let in like this.

It must have been—

Your mother.

This place reminds you of her in many ways. Your ma was so fond of flowers, and maybe that's something you carry in you too, because being here with Arthur, you feel a certain type of blooming swell in your chest. 

A breeze stirs the grass. You reach out to pluck a daisy, rolling its stringy stem between your fingers. You watch a bunny no larger than a fist scavenges for food in the distance. There's the passing sight of dragonflies, too, and you wonder which great lakes they make their homes in.

As you idle there, thoughts colored by memories of youth and dreams, you fish out the cigarillo tucked in your vest pocket. Soon enough, smoke mixes with the pine-sap air and you draw into a squat, cigarette pinched tightly between your lips. There, like you were just six all over again—wanting nothing more than to please your mother—you begin to assemble a bouquet. 

You select the ugliest of them without even realizing—fuzzy purple heads, then yellow ones that look like cigar burns. You even add a few little white ones Arthur once told you were called "baby's breath", which makes you snort even now.

By the time your hands are full, it's less bouquet and more stack of weeds, and you're not sure why you did what you did, but it makes you smile in the way singing off tune satisfies you.

Arthur inevitably wakes, like a dog with an ear tuned for trouble, only to find you—you and your bouquet in this fever dream of wildflowers.

You hear him before you see him, "Watcha doin'?"

"What's it look like?" you mumble, lips still clutching the lit cigarillo. "I've gone pickin' flowers."

You listen as Arthur shuffles closer, his tall shadow folding into yours. "Flowers?" he repeats incredulously. "Huh."

At that, you have to tilt your head and peer at your outlaw. Arthur's face looks softer than it did an hour ago, sleep still in his eyes, and there's that lovely constellation of auburn freckles you love to admire up close. 

"Care to explain that tone, mister?" you ask. 

Arthur shrugs, leaning back, his tall figure towering over you. "Didn't figure you for the type."

You raise a brow. "The type to what?"

"Y'know," he drawls. "Frolickin' in the fields, dainty little flowers in hands." There goes that roguish smirk again. "Outlaw code and all."

You bark a laugh, almost losing your cigarillo in the process. 

You suppose Arthur has a point; back at camp, you hardly ever pay attention to nature, too busy cleaning guns or trying to outmatch him or smoking your worries away.

And hell, maybe it's not even fitting for someone with so much blood on her hands to be holding something as fragile as flowers.

(Maybe your mother would be horrified by who you've become.)

Your laughter dies out. You stare at a point in the mountain ahead, the colors blurring at the edge of your vision. At your side, the bouquet slips out of your fingers. 

"Hey," Arthur ushers, kneeling to your level and picking up the bouquet in your stead. "Where you driftin' off to, sweetheart?"

You shake your head, standing up. Arthur does the same. "Ain't driftin'." 

"You're quiet," Arthur remarks. "Quieter'n usual." 

You turn to him again, hating how right he is. Sometimes, Arthur seems to know you better than you know yourself, and you're not always sure what to do with that fact. 

"S'just…" You hesitate, taking a long drag of smoke, then exhale harshly. "You ever think 'bout it? Carve a little piece of this for yourself?"

You gesture to the valley with its flowers and trees. 

At that, Arthur presses his lips toegether and stays silent. Both you and him know that the gang, that his role within it—it's different for him than it is for you. Both of you know that a life far away from bloodshed would be near impossible. And yet—

"Wouldn't rightly know how," Arthur says. 

Your eyes flicker to him and for the first time today, you're at a loss for words. 

Because Arthur still has your bouquet—your mangled, weirdly hopeful collection of wildflowers that barely deserves the name. He glances at it, then back at you, and something about his gaze is enough to swallow down the knot in your throat.

"You could learn," you point out.  

"Ain't never been one for learnin'." 

"Ain't true... You learned how to draw, you learned how to shoot. Learned how to survive." At his dubious expression, you scoff. "I'd prefer not to list every damn thing, if it's all the same to you."

Arthur's jaw twitches. "Those things are different."

"Are they?" you murmur. "Don't reckon learnin' to settle is much different, one way or another. Just takes time."

Arthur doesn't immediately offer a response to that. Instead, he reaches down and straightens one bent stem of a flower, clumsy but careful, then gently lifts one of your hands into his. There, he cups your palm into his, so that the bouquet is tucked between your joined limbs.  

"Reckon," he says, thumb grazing your knuckles, "if anyone could make somethin' grow outta nothin'… it'd be you."

"You're deflectin'."

"Yeah, well. Ain't the only one."

He's got you there.

You slip your hand away, looking to the side. The wind moves through the meadow again, bending the grass low before letting it rise again. 

"That why you gone ahead and gone weed pickin'?" Arthur asks, voice lighter now, more curious. "Thinkin' of hangin' your hat and openin' a flower shop?"

"Nah." You snort weakly, thought tainted by your mother and the ache in your heart. "Just wanted a break and get my mind off things, 'suppose." 

For a beat, silence stretches out like a wired thread. You busy yourself picking horsehair off your skirt, not quite trusting yourself to look at Arthur just yet.

You can feel his eyes on you all the same. 

"Well..." he says, "I can think of somethin' else to get your mind off things, y'know."

Arthur's mischievous tone is impossible to miss. You raise a brow. 

"Mister Morgan," your lips twitch, "how crass."

Arthur's mouth slowly curves into a sly smile.

"Out in the open like that, too?" you tut, placing a hand on his chest. "A lady might wonder about your intentions."

"Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am," he responds in kind, taking the cigarillo from you. He takes a long drag from it, never breaking eye contact with you. "Is the view not to your liking?"

It is to your liking, and he damn well knows it. You love this part of the country, with its mountains and rivers and nature.

Most of all, you love the sight of him.

Arthur steals the last drag of your cigarillo, then crushes it out in the dirt. He gently lets the bouquet down on the ground. Then, with a lazy sort of gait, he grabs your hand and lures you back towards the picnic blanket. You allow him to guide you, a smirk on your lips, and no sooner are you laying down does Arthur drop to his knees. There, your skirt hiking up, he parts your knees and his thick, callused fingers travel up the expanse of your thighs, advancing like a prowling wildcat, but perhaps lacking the full grace of one. 

"I reckon," he murmurs, "you may be right. I learn quick, when it matters."

You huff at that, but your hands are already sliding up his shoulders, fingers curling into the worn fabric of his shirt. "Careful," you warn lightly. "Might be a hard lesson, this time 'round."

"Sure, but I'll manage."  

Of that, you have no doubt. 

Arthur bends down to kiss you—quick, at first, then slower—with a hunger that's been simmering since the heist, perhaps ever since you leaned closer this morning and brushed your cold fingers beneath his shirt. You giggle as his tongue darts past your lips; he tastes like peaches and the tang of cigarillo smoke and everything that makes you feel alive.

You place your hands behind Arthur's neck, anchoring him down, your mouth greedy and wild. Arthur's hands push up your skirt, and you arch up off the blanket so he can get a better grip, your own fingers curling into the hard plane of his shoulders. He kisses your cheeks, your forehead, your nose—no parts of you untouched—and when his mouth captures yours again, you nip at his lower lip playfully, drawing a small amount of blood as you do.

Arthur makes a low noise at the back of his throat, animalistic and unrestrained. The sound goes straight to your core. 

"You're trouble," he mutters into the kiss, and you lick the blood away to make amends. 

Arthur's revenge to your biting, as it were, is simple: he shifts impossibly closer, pressing his hips between your thighs, his hardening erection creating delicious friction against your cunt, enough that you're left gasping in the dry summer air. 

Yes, perhaps Arthur Morgan is a quick learner; he sure got to learn you pretty quick.

Another roll of his hips, another delicious pang straight to your center. You groan, and Arthur's mouth curves into a wolfish grin. You attempt to move again, craving that sensation again, but this time, Arthur decides it's time for payback, hands falling to grip your waist and hold you in place.

You stare at him, baffled. His mocking expression is definitely too self-satisfied for your liking. 

"Arthur," you whine when he still doesn't move, "Arthur, c'mon."

Arthur has the gall to feign innocence. "Hm?" 

God, this man. 

"You sure like to play dumb, Arthur, but you and I both know you ain't all that. If you don't move now, I swear—" 

But before you can curse him further, his mouth—Christ, his mouth—presses against your jaw in a way that makes your thoughts go blank. Your breath stutters, just as Arthur's mouth descends down the hollow of your throat, mapping the edges of your collarbone. His stubble scrapes every inch he touches, and a shiver wrack down your spine. Your head tips back, eyes half-lidded, breathing in the pine and sweat in the air, and you think that if you were to die right now, well... you wouldn't have much complaining to do.

"No need to run your mouth wild, woman" Arthur says, all hunger. "Gonna take care of you proper." 

And who are you to contest those words? For all your sharp edges and hard exterior, you sure do melt quickly when it comes to him.

It's painfully slow, the way Arthur proceeds to unbutton your blouse, exposing a strip of your skin. He presses a languid kiss there, and then, his hand slips into your bloomers and past the thick hair—

You nearly choke on your saliva as two thick fingers slide inside your cunt, his thumb flicking your clit just so.

"There she is," Arthur murmurs the moment you clench around him.

Not finding the words to respond, you comb your fingers through his hair, dragging the tips along the nape of his neck, feeling the sweat collecting at his scalp. Arthur makes another pass with his thumb, more insistent this time, and the wash of wet heat that follows is nearly embarrassing, nearly enough to make you want to bury your face into his neck. But Arthur's not the shying away type, never has been, and he leans back to see it all: the way your body arcs off the blanket, how his name tumbles out of your spit-glossed lips, how you go all loose and wanting for him. 

He smirks. 

Arthur's got you, and he knows it—knows you too well, in fact, because he knows to slow down just when you think you're about to come undone.

You glare at him the moment you feel his fingers leave your heat.

"What the hell, Morgan," you hiss. "Don't leave a lady hangin'."

"Thought you weren't no lady," he muses smugly, blue-green eyes shining enough mirth that makes you want to slap him. "'Sides, ain't you heard the saying? Don't rush a starvin' man." 

And just when you're about to bite his head off (because, really, why the hell is he arguing with you right now?), Arthur does the most unexpected thing: he lazily raises his slick-coated digits into the air, his scarred fingers glistening in the sun, and then—

Proceeds to lick them clean, one by one.

Your mouth hangs open.

Seeing your delayed reaction, Arthur's smirk widens, his fingers reaching back to your swollen cunt, thumb lazily stroking your clit. “Still feel like threatenin' me, sweetheart?”

That damn tease. You scoff, grinding yourself against his palm and sinking onto three fat fingers.

"Just…" you mutter, "just finish what you've started, will ya?"

"As my lady commands." 

And oh, does he ever. Arthur's rhythm is merciless in an instant, fingers curling wide and deep, while his thumb reaches for your clit in a way that instantly tightens the coil in your belly once more. You whimper, hips rutting up to chase his touch. You grab onto his suspenders, pulling him impossibly closer until you sink your teeth into his shirt.

To Arthur's credit, his fingers never waver, even when your hips jerk and your legs start kicking like a bucking bronco and he curses from your biting. It's all you can do to keep breathing, to keep from crying out with how good it feels—his meaty fingers unwinding the tension out of you, one slick movement after another.

"That's it, darlin'," you hear him praise once you start to clench around him. "Let yourself go. Just like that..."

And you do, melting into the dirt and blanket, boneless and sated, and in the wake of your orgasm, you call out to him, like he was the litany whispered in the darkness in your search for light.

For a second, you can't move, can't even think, except maybe, "you utter son of a bitch". All the while, Arthur just watches: soothing you, cradling you, waiting for your breathing to slow. It's the prettiest you've felt dragged through the dirt and damn, if you wouldn't do it all over again. 

It is like this that you watch the dusk unfurl overhead—blue spilling into pink, then rust, then the first hints of silver. And when at last you come down from your high, clutching his wrist to keep him there inside, Arthur laughs. You scramble weakly to kiss him—first the corner of his chapped lips, then his nose broken once too many times, then his crow's feet deep set from days spent in the sun, and finally, his stubble—your favorite part, with patches of clear skin and scars you've learned to commit to memory.

When you come back to your senses, Arthur's still there, stroking your hipbone, thumb making lazy circles, and he's got that lovey look in his eyes that never fails to make you feel too vulnerable.

"I can't believe," you harrumph, "that you had the nerve to eat it off your own damn hand."

Arthur shrugs, not at all apologetic. "Didn't feel right, wastin' it."

"Hmph." You feel yourself growing flustered. You need the spotlight away from you, and quickly. "Then I reckon it's your pleasure we shouldn't waste next, huh?"

"Sweetheart—"

You've already moved.  

With ease, you've pushed him back and swung your legs over his waist. Arthur groans as your weight settles on him. You make quick do of his pants, of his suspenders and shirt, of his union suit, all in the quest to have him naked and beautiful. Through it all, Arthur could easily stop you, have his way with you, but he never does. He lets you make quick of his clothing and admire him from up close. 

And what a sight he is.

In the end, Arthur's barrel chest might be your favorite thing in the whole world, each rib and tendon corded with purpose. There's a splay of golden hair over his chest, and his belly is soft from food and mead and the good life when you can seize it.  You rake your nails past an old gun wound, just so you can see his muscles jump, and when he look up at you, smug and sheepish at once, the world seems brighter for it.

You waste no time, wrapping your hand around his cock—the hard, hot thing in your palm. Arthur curses, body contorting the moment you begin to slowly stroke him, thumb brushing the vein that protrudes there.

Your grin widens as your eyes flicker up, catching Arthur looking at you like you were damn holy. A flush has risen to the tips of his ears, and his Adam's apple jerks as you stroke him one last time and climb closer, greedy for it all.

"You alright there, Morgan?" you coo.

"Oh, sure," he says, the edge of his voice betraying his emotions.

The first time you sink down, savoring the stretch, his head tips back and he lets out an honest-to-God moan, all restraint lost in a heartbeat. The start is slow at first, both of you finding a rhythm that works, but neither of you seems to mind. In fact, Arthur never stops staring at you, one palm pinning your thigh with reverence, the other traveling up your side, across your ribs, cupping your breast.

Your blouse is quickly discarded, exposing you to the open air, and Arthur's mouth is hot as his mouth connects with your nipple. He suckles, teasing you, his teeth occasionally nipping at the soft edge in an obvious attempt to get you to focus on your own pleasure first, but this time, you don't let him.

Instead, you ride him hard, with the sun bleeding out behind the horizon.

"Christ," he rasps as you plant your hands on his chest and angle your hips to take him deeper. "J-jesus." 

"Don't you die on me now, Morgan."

Just for good measure, you roll your hips again and feel him groan beneath you. 

His hands fly to grip your ass. "Y'know… Knew you was trouble the first time I heard you talk. Knew I was in trouble."

The sudden confession has you stilling momentarily; you widen your eyes, lips parting as you look down at him. This is the first time Arthur's talked about his first impression of you, and you're unsure what to do with the intimacy offered to you.

Before you can linger on Arthur's words and how to respond, however, the outlaw reaches for his hat splayed out near and places it firmly on your head.

"Guess," Arthur says slightly out of breath, tapping the crown, "guess I was right."

You grin.   

It gets wilder, then: you ride him with abandon, relishing the way Arthur and you explore each other. The two go from laughing—laughing, because you're out here, in a flower field, fucking—to feeling desperate as you rut against each other like the world is ending. It's not graceful and maybe that's the point; the world is dirty and so are you.

Through it all, Arthur is there—repeating your name like a damn sinner at church—and when you clench around him during the wave of your second orgasm, he picks up the pace, fucking with a rhythm that makes your mind go blank. You feel the moment he meets his end, the veins on his neck standing on end, and then with a great hiss he surges upward and wrenches you off of him, and you can only grab at his hair for purchase, yanking him down so his lips crash to yours. You swallow the moan that tears out of him as he paints his stomach with his spend.

When all is said and done, you hold him, or maybe he holds you—you're not entirely sure. You've both made a real mess of yourselves, that's for sure, but you're too far gone to care.

All you know is that Arthur's gaze is on you, forehead to forehead, and that somewhere above, a hawk screeches.

"You feelin' better?" he asks with a raspy voice. 

"Yeah."

And this time, you mean it.

Eventually, you prop yourselves apart and get yourself cleaned up. You get dressed. You fumble for the flask in his bag. The whiskey burns so good on the way down you have to close your eyes and hiss through your teeth. 

"Pass it over," Arthur grunts. He's half upright now, his shirt open and his hair a real mess. 

You oblige, watching the column of his throat as he finishes off the last inch of the drink. There's a contented grunt, then  silence, filled only by the distant chitter of bugs and the grazing of the horses.

"Reckon we oughta set up here for the night," he says after a moment. "Think there's a river not far to wash up." 

You raise a brow at him. "What about Dutch? Ain't he expecting us?"

And Arthur stares at you, a silent understanding passing between the two of you that you know you will remember later on. 

"Dutch can wait," he says.

And this time, he's the one to mean it. 

The next morning, Arthur wakes up to find you picking flowers again. This time, you've gone ahead and selected only the nicest flowers you could get your hands on—a cluster of bluebells, pale yarrow, and even a bright purple lupine. 

His inquisitive gaze is enough to make you speak up. 

"These are for little Jack," you tell him. "I wanna teach him what my momma taught me about flowers."

"Flower education?"

"Uh-huh."

And so you do just that for a while. You pick your way through the meadow, Arthur at first busy with his journal, then focused on finishing to pack. All the while, you are in another world: you pluck one, two, three yellow yarrows and strip them of their greens, pause for a battered echinacea. You walk down the valley on a quest for untouched flowers. 

It is there, fifteen minutes in, that you see a hand pop in your peripheral. It is filled with a handful of wild lupine so deep purple they seem black at the center.

You look up, squinting at the sun, only to notice Arthur standing there. 

"Watcha doin'?" you ask. 

"Helpin' you, 'course."

You grin.

And this is how you spend the next minutes, enraptured in selecting a large array of different wildflowers you think Jack will take a liking to. Daisies for luck, bluebells for gratitude, yarrow for courage, and lupine for imagination. You talk about their meanings, real or invented, Arthur's baritone chiming in with stories of his own. At one point, he claims a weed is called "pricklebutt" and insists it means resilience in adversity.  

It's the kind of moment that makes you ache inside, because you know it's a borrowed one. Tomorrow or the next day, Arthur's going to get shot, or you're going to get caught, or Dutch is going to get some bad notion in his head and run the whole gang off a cliff.

Or maybe, just maybe, you might get lucky and keep finding these tiny, improbable pieces of heaven scattered through the mud and blood of your lives.

When at last the morning comes to an end and you're finished packing camp and turn around, wiping your hands on your trousers, feeling crumbs of earth and leaf stuck to your palms, you notice Arthur close to you.

He has something in hand. 

You raise a brow. "What you hidin', mister Morgan?"

Arthur offers you a flower, a yellow thing you instantly recognize. The man tilts his head, hides his flustered state by pinching the tip of his hat and turning away.

"S'for you," he says simply. 

You bite back a smile. "D'you know, buttercups are a bad omen. Matter of fact, they're given when a man wants to break off an engagement with a lady."

Arthur looks back at you then, all affronted. Reaches like he's about to pluck it away—

You pull his hand down, slipping your fingers between his own. "I'm just teasin', Arthur. I quite like your attempts at wooing me, don't you worry, and like I said yesterday… I ain't no lady."

Arthur relaxes, a sheepish smile tugging at his mouth. For a moment, the gruffness slips away and he looks almost bashful, his thumb brushing against your knuckles.

"Reckon you got me actin' a fool out here."

"Naw, don't need me for that," you tease, pulling him alongside as you make your way back towards the saddled horses. "Though... you may be right; we really do need to get your flower education in."

"In case you open shop, you mean?"

You stop walking and look back at Arthur. His eyes are earnest and blue, all for you. 

A grin tugs at your lips, and your next words come out soft, softer than you've ever allowed yourself to be.

"Yeah. Just in case."

Hope you enjoyed! Arthur has become very precious to me and I look forward to exploring him more in my writing.

Feedback is always welcome (and appreciated!).