#voluptatem

The wind howls like a hungry wolf through the trees, dragging cold beneath the seams of the canvas tent. You’re bundled in your coat, arms tucked tight to your chest, and still it creeps in — that mountain chill that gets into your bones, turns your skin to ice.

Arthur’s beside you in the small tent, broad as a goddamn draft horse, shedding his gloves with stiff fingers. His breath clouds the air. “Ain’t much room,” he mutters, not looking at you as he starts laying out the bedrolls.

You’ve ridden hard all day, up out of the valley and into the high timber. The horses are staked and fed, the fire’s out, and now it’s just the two of you in this thin-walled shelter, hearts beating steady in the silence.

Your knees touch when you both lie down, facing opposite ways at first — like it’ll help anything. But your bodies give you away. The heat between you starts to rise, quiet and curling like smoke from a banked fire.

“Damn cold,” you say, your voice little more than a whisper.

Arthur swallows. “We… could share for warmth. If you’re alright with it.”

You nod. You shouldn’t. But you do.

He shifts, turning toward you. You roll to face him. You’ve never been this close — not like this — and his eyes flicker down to your mouth. His fingers twitch at his side. He smells like smoke and saddle leather, like pine needles and sweat. You press a little closer and feel the tremble in him when you do.

“Don’t think I can sleep, it’s too cold,” you murmur.

His hand finds your hip. Slow. Careful. Like he’s waiting for you to tell him no.

You don’t.

You lean in, and that’s all it takes. His mouth meets yours with a groan that sounds like it was dragged from the deepest part of him, like it’s been waiting weeks to get out.

The kiss is rough. Hungry. His hands are clumsy, big palms working up your ribs as though he's still afraid you’ll vanish. You moan into his mouth, and he swallows it whole, his hips pressing forward against yours in a fast, involuntary jerk.

He’s already hard. Straining against the rough weave of his trousers. And when you arch into him, threading your fingers into his hair, Arthur gasps like a man who’s been dunked in cold water.

“Shit,” he breathes. “You sure about this? ‘Cause I-  fuck, I want to, but…”

You kiss him again to shut him up. You tug him close until he groans and his forehead presses to yours. “I’m sure,” you whisper.

Your clothes shift in stuttering, fumbled pieces. He’s got callused hands, and they snag on your underthings as he yanks your cotton bloomers down. He mutters an apology when he nearly rips your chemise as he’s hiking your skirts up and over your hips. He works his trousers down just enough to pull himself out, desperate for you, and nearly stumbles as he climbs over you.

You press your thighs open for him, and he lets out the most desperate sound — almost a whimper — as he lines himself up and notches against your heat. You’re slick already, aching. Wanting.

“Christ, you feel…” He doesn’t finish. Just presses in.

It’s thick. He’s thick. But not slow enough. You gasp as he pushes in with a shaky grunt, barely giving you time to adjust before he starts moving — a stutter of hips that grows frantic fast.

“Oh—god,” he mutters, burying his face against your neck. “I—fuck—I’m sorry—I can’t—”

He slams in deep once, twice more, and then he’s groaning low and wrecked, arms trembling as he shudders through it. His whole body tenses as he spills inside you, breath hitching. It’s a lot. Hot and thick and fast. Too fast.

Arthur freezes. He stays inside, still breathing hard. Then slowly pulls out, his face a bright red mess of shame.

“I—I didn’t mean to—damn it, I ain’t—shit, that was… awful.”

You’re still blinking, half-dazed and unsatisfied, legs wet and still parted. He’s looking anywhere but at you now, jaw clenched, like he wants to crawl into the dirt and die.

“I ain’t done this in a long time,” he mumbles, grabbing the blanket like it might shield him from humiliation. “I swear I’m not—usually—I mean I’m—”

“Arthur,” you say gently.

He finally meets your gaze. His eyes are wide, scared, like a spooked colt.

You take his hand. Guide it downward. “Get back over here.”

His breath catches. “Y—you want me to…”

You nod. Slide his big, rough fingers through the slick between your legs, show him where and how. Your other hand finds his wrist and keeps it there. Your hips lift to meet him.

He swallows hard and starts to move them — unsure at first, but watching you closely. Watching how your breath hitches. How your mouth parts. How your eyes flutter.

“Little slower,” you whisper. “Just… like that. Yes. There.”

He moans under his breath like it’s him feeling it. He’s still flushed, still hardening again from watching you fall apart in front of him. You clutch at his forearm as your pleasure builds, stomach clenching, thighs trembling.

“Faster,” you gasp. “Right there—don’t stop—don’t—”

Your orgasm rushes through you like wildfire through dry brush, sudden and searing. You clamp your hand over your mouth to keep from crying out too loud, and Arthur’s eyes go wide with awe.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, reverent, still moving his fingers as your body twitches and bucks.

You shudder through the last waves of it and collapse back against the bedroll, panting, twitching, whimpering as the aftershocks roll through you, and he slows his hand, easing you down. He slips his fingers free, wet and trembling, and stares at them like he’s still not quite sure what he’s done.

“You alright?” he asks softly.

You nod, breath hitching as you reach for him, pulling him close until his body blankets yours, warm and solid.

“You were perfect,” you whisper into his throat. He freezes awkwardly in response.

His arm curls under your shoulders after a moment. He’s half-hard against your thigh, but he doesn’t move to do anything about it. Not yet. He just holds you—quiet, reverent.

“Let me try again,” he says after a moment, rough and low. “Next time. I’ll last for you.”

You don’t move from where you’ve curled on his cot, tucked under the heavy wool blanket. The camp’s noises have thinned to little more than the occasional murmur by the fire and the low hum of night insects. You hear the flap rustle, and then it’s lifted - Arthur stooping to enter, his shoulders nearly brushing both sides at once.

The tent’s small space fills with him immediately. The faint scent of cigarette smoke clings to him, mixed with the dry, metallic cool of night air. His hat comes off first, landing with a muted thump near the upturned crate you’ve claimed as a table. Then he’s shrugging out of his coat, folding it over one arm as he glances toward you.

“You’re already in bed,” he says quietly, voice warm and a little tired.

You make a slight noise of agreement. “It’s cold.”

It’s an excuse, actually. It is more that your insides feel like they are tearing apart at the seams. Again. The crescent moon comes and you know you’re in for it.

Arthur sets his coat on the crate and starts working at the buttons of his shirt. The lamplight softens the harsh lines of his face, but the tiredness stays. You watch the movements of his hands, the easy slowness of them, the way his sleeves slide back over the broad bones of his wrists.

When his boots hit the ground beside the cot, the fabric dips under his weight. He moves carefully - you’ve never known him to be careless with your space - but even so, the blanket tugs toward him. He eases himself down fully next to you, the heat of his body spilling into yours without contact.

You breathe him in before you touch him - the warm, sun-baked smell of his skin under the smoke, the faint tang of sweat, the heady scent of someone who’s been moving all day.

He doesn’t speak again at first. Just curls an arm around you, pulling you gently toward him. Your cheek finds the roughness of his shirt, and the steady thud of his heartbeat under it.

When his mouth finds yours, it’s not urgent, not yet at least. It’s the kind of kiss that starts slow and builds without either of you noticing until it’s too late to stop it. His hand comes up into your hair, the pad of his thumb brushing the curve of your temple, and you can’t help tilting closer.

The kiss deepens. You feel the shift in his breathing, the subtle roll of his hips toward yours. That’s when you pull back, your lips still tingling.

“We can’t,” you say softly. “I’m… bleeding.”

Arthur’s gaze holds yours without blinking. The corner of his mouth quirks, not in mockery, but in something close to disbelief that you think it matters to him. “Don’t bother me none,” he says, quiet but sure.

Your stomach knots. You’ve never liked this time of the month. You feel heavy in your own skin, achy in your belly, your face prone to puffing under the eyes. You’re aware of every shift in your scent, of the way you move less easily. You do not feel like the kind of woman men pull close in the dark.

But Arthur’s eyes don’t change. He looks at you the same as he did the night he first kissed you by the creek, as the night he first pressed into the grass with his hands buried in your skirts. As though none of it, the ache, the blood, the things you dislike about yourself matters in the slightest.

“It’s messy,” you tell him, frowning, half hoping that he will be as disgusted by it as you are.

He brushes his thumb along your jaw. “So’s most things worth doin’.” His voice is so certain, so matter-of-fact, that it’s hard to think of an answer. Then he adds, softer, “Ain’t gonna want you any less.”

Something in you loosens, though you’re not sure if it’s relief or disbelief. You’ve never felt like much during these days - bloated, sore, unkempt in a way you can’t quite hide. But Arthur looks at you the same as ever, like there’s not a thing about you that could shift his wanting.

When he kisses you again, you don’t stop him.

His hands are slow, deliberate, as he pulls back the blanket you had buried yourself in. He lifts your long chemise first, bunching the fabric around your hips before sliding his palms up the backs of your thighs. He murmurs something low, half compliment, half claim, and then takes his time tracing the lace trimmed neckline of that chemise. The swell of your breast stutters as you inhale a shaky breath.

“You’re beautiful,” he says when he pulls that neckline lower, his eyes roving the skin he’s uncovered.

You almost laugh, not because you don’t want to believe him, but because it’s such a foreign thought right now. “I don’t feel it.”

His lips cut off any further retort from you. Windchapped and a little rough, but addicting all the same. Arthur pulls back, pressing his forehead to yours as your eyes flutter shut. 

“Let me show y’ then.”

His hand, large, warm, calloused, slides to your belly where the waistband of your bloomers rests. He doesn’t flinch when it passes the tender ache low in you, just smooths his hand there a moment like he’s reminding you he knows exactly where you hurt.

The way he touches you is patient but intent, each pass of his hand making you feel more like you’re allowed to exist in this body without apology. When he slides his fingers to the waistband of your bloomers, he pauses, not for his own sake, but to give you the last chance to change your mind.

You breathe out nervously, opening your eyes to find nothing but love there. You nod, the heat in your belly starting to feel pleasurable instead of painful.

He peels the fabric of your bloomers down slowly, his knuckles grazing the tender inside of your thighs. You reach downward and pull away the scrap of linen that is stained with the evidence of your femininity. You frown, embarrassed, but he simply takes it and places it on the upturned crate, as if it was just another piece of clothing.

There’s a faint warmth between you already, and the scent of your own body rises with it. You tense for half a second, but Arthur leans down and kisses you through it, swallowing your self-consciousness in the sure press of his mouth.

By the time he gets to pushing his own trousers down, you’re already shifting to meet him. He settles between your thighs, bracing himself on his forearms so his weight doesn’t press too heavily. You feel the heat of him against you, and he watches your face as he begins to push inside.

It’s different - slicker, warmer - but he doesn’t flinch or pull back. His breath catches, not from discomfort or distress, but from the feel of you taking him in.

“You alright?” he asks, low and rough, soaked in want.

You nod, though your throat is tight. “Yeah.”

You’re swollen. You’re sensitive, but god almighty, as he slides into you, the ache of your womanhood makes you tear up, blinking away water from your eyes as you clutch at his shoulders.

He starts to move, slow enough that every inch feels drawn out. The faint sound of your bodies meeting blends with the soft rustle of canvas walls, with the night’s quiet outside. He presses his forehead to yours, murmuring things you don’t even catch all the way - your name, soft curses, small truths.

And all through it, the knowing sits deep in your chest: that he is here, with you, in the very state you’ve been taught to hide. That nothing in him has lessened.

He nips at your chin, and you look up at him, and he smiles at you you don’t think you deserve. He catches your mouth and kisses you deep, as if between his tongue and his cock he could melt into you.

His lips hover over yours as he continues to thrust, slow and heavy and full. 

“I get to come in you now-” he growls, and you whimper in return, “I get to fill you up and stay inside you.”

“Yes,” your voice cracks, and Arthur places his forehead against yours once more, gyrating his hips as he is seated fully within you.

When you come, it takes you by surprise. Arthur breathes your name like a vow, his thrusts growing heavier until he follows, holding himself deep as he fills your aching womb with warmth. You cry out into his shoulder at the sensation. 

The two of you stay tangled together for a long moment, his weight a comfort instead of a burden.

When he finally eases back, you both feel the warm, damp mess between you, but Arthur doesn’t so much as glance down. He pulls you in against him, tucks your head under his chin, and strokes a hand over your hair.

“You’re mine,” he says into the dark. Not a demand, not a warning. Just a simple, unshakable truth.

The tent is a cave of shadow and flickering firelight, the night held at bay by canvas and breath and the scent of him; warm skin, gun oil, soap, sweat. The scent of pine smoke drifts from the campfire outside, but here… here is where surrender lives.

Arthur Morgan lies splayed on his bedroll, stripped down and flushed, a big man made bare. Shirt bunched beneath his shoulder blades, pants shoved clumsily to his knees, legs parted but tense, still unsure. Still bracing. But his eyes, half-lidded and shining in the lantern’s low glow…those eyes are begging.

She’s knelt between his legs, her touch feather-light but sure, trailing slowly over the thick muscle of his thighs. There’s a kind of reverence in her fingertips. In the way she presses soft kisses just above his knees, moving higher, higher. Her palms slide up to coax his legs farther apart, and he lets her. Doesn’t protest. Just breathes out hard through his nose, jaw working, chest rising fast with a kind of nervous hunger.

He’s big. Brutal. Callused hands and the body of a man built for killing. But not here. Not now. Now he’s trembling under her lips like he’s something far more delicate.

“Easy,” she whispers, her breath ghosting hot over the base of his cock. “Just let me take care of you.”

He groans—deep, from the belly—and his fingers curl into the bedroll’s threadbare edge. “Feels real strange, lettin’ you…” He murmurs, voice hoarse, eyes flickering down to his exposed body, “...like this.”

She kisses the crease where thigh meets groin. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”

He shudders. Doesn’t answer. Just lets his legs fall wider.

She mouths at his balls first, slow and deliberate, taking her time. Her tongue rolls gently beneath them, suckling softly. His sharp hips jerk, his saddle-hewn thighs flex. But he stays open, panting, letting her do it—letting her have him. Take him.

Then she goes lower.

Arthur’s whole body stiffens when her tongue slips past that seam, into the softness beneath. His breath stutters, arms rigid at his sides, as she licks him there - slow, firm, wet.

He makes a sound then. Not a groan, not a curse. A sound that caught in his throat, vulnerable. Shamed. Needy.

“You’re all right,” she murmurs, her voice the hush of silk against bare skin. She presses another kiss, then licks again, slower this time. “You’re doing so good for me.”

“God,” he chokes, voice breaking. “Darlin’, I—I ain’t supposed to…”

“You can,” she whispers, kissing the tight ring of muscle between his cheeks, the most hidden part of him, the part he’s never imagined being touched, let alone worshipped. “You’re allowed to feel good. Let me love you here, too.”

And he does.

His legs fall wide open, completely now, the last barrier broken. This bear of a man—gunman, outlaw, brawler—lying vulnerable and breathless, offering himself up. There’s no mask of manliness here. No control. Just Arthur, undone by her mouth, her praise, her tongue licking slowly, teasing him open with wet heat.

He whimpers. Fucking whimpers—hips trembling, arms slack, throat taut with the effort of not sobbing from the sheer intensity. His cock rests against his belly, dripping. His thighs shake with the force of holding still while her tongue circles and laps, insistent and gentle.

“I ain’t… can’t take much more,” he gasps, voice hoarse and cracking. “I feel like I’m gonna—”

“Let me,” she breathes again, licking him deeper now, firmer, as one of her hands wraps around his shaft and strokes him in time.

And then he does surrender.

With a shudder that racks his whole body, Arthur breaks. He comes hard, just from the pressure of her mouth and the weight of her love. His cry is raw, a wounded sound that rips through the tent, its the sound of a man unraveling.

He shakes apart on the bedroll, legs twitching around her, one hand flailing for something to hold: her hair, the blanket, anything. His seed spills across his belly, thick and hot, while he clenches around the gentle strokes of her tongue, milking every last wave from him until he collapses. She stays there a moment longer, licking softly, soothing.

When she finally crawls up his body, he catches her with arms that tremble, hauling her in like a lifeline. His face is damp with sweat, his breath hitching against her throat.

“Didn’t know I could feel like that,” he whispers, eyes wet, voice wrecked. “Didn’t know I was allowed.”

She kisses his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. “You know you can give in sometimes. You’re safe with me.” Safe. What a reversal of roles - him, this man who puts his body on the line day in and out to provide and protect her and the rest of his found family. Her, this woman who seems hell-bent on turning his life upside down. Everything upside down. Inside out. Reversed. 

Deep down, you had also known that this side of him simmered beneath the surface. Though he has been nothing but a gentleman to you through this courtship, or whatever you’d call it, you knew there would be a moment when he snaps, taut like a rope.

The pillow mercifully muffles your hoarse voice, strung out and breathless as you are completely under his control, pressed down into the mattress as if you were to melt into it.

Thoroughly used and fucked out, your moans and cries have become guttural as you smother them by shoving your face into the pillow, having lost your fight with gravity long ago.

Although you can do nothing more than accept, he on the other hand is still full of energy he is taking out on you. Your arms have gone useless, unable to hold you up for some time now. Having fallen forward into the pillow, your back is arched and hips held up by one of his large hands.

“Tha’s it,” he grunts above you, throwing his hips into yours, mercilessly pumping his cock into your cunt. You groan again into the pillow as he slams into you hard.

“Take it, fuck - take it,” he hisses as he leans further over you, one of his hands leaving your hips and clutching at the headboard of the bed. It’s been banging against the wall for the last several minutes, surely alerting the other guests of the hotel what you were up to.

You mewl piteously. You won’t be able to ride a horse for a week at this point. Your cunt is sopping wet as he pounds into you, bruises from his fingers already blooming across your skin. You’ve lost track of how many times you’ve come; from the second he shut the door behind you in this hotel room, he’s been on you like a man possessed.

Maybe he’s riding the high of the score. Maybe it’s taking frustration out.

“Ngh, Arth- agh - Arthur-”

Hearing his name muffled into the pillow seems to drive him wild, clenching your hips with one hand and pressing you down, down into the mattress as his cock hits spots so deep inside you you swear you’re going to pass out.

“Fuck, you’re such a good girl-” he pants as his breakneck pace begins to falter, leaning heavily on the headboard, his knuckles white from gripping it.

“Gonna fill you up, g-gonna-”

His babbling devolves into a low moan as he slams his hips down into yours one final time. He remains still for a moment, breathing heavily as he finds his release deep into your waiting cunt.

Arthur groans as he pulls out, his cock near dripping with his spend and your slick. He flops down next to you in the bed as you slowly roll onto your side.

He breathes out through his nose, and chuckles softly as he turns his head toward you, “Well that was different there, darl-”

“Shit, shit -” his satisfied grin drops as he sees your tear- streaked face, “Oh, oh honey - I didn’t - shit.”

He draws you into his embrace, cupping your cheek as his brow furrows, you can see in his eyes the guilt overtaking him.

“ M’okay-”

“Jesus, what a bastard I am-”

“Arthur-” You press your hand against his sweat-dotted sternum, “I’m fine. Seriously. Maybe just gonna a bit sore riding.”

He clenches his jaw, obviously not thrilled with your answer.

“Christ, I’m sorry. Last thing I ever want to do is hurt-”

You cut him off by surging forward and pressing your lips to his, pressing your tongue inside, throwing your leg over his hip to plaster yourself against him.

He’s breathless by the time you pull away, one arm tight around your waist.

You smile, reaching up and brushing a lock of his hair from his forehead.

“Just warn a girl next time, Mister Morgan.”

There is something you like about being smothered by him - being covered in the mass of muscle and sinew and bone that comprises your lover. That the arms that wind around you also tear men apart - that the thighs that press against yours hold on to a horse with the law in hot pursuit.

“Y’sure you're alrigh’?” he hoarsely whispers in your ear, tucking a strand of your mussed hair behind it. The long lines, the arcs, the shapes and angles of his body presses against yours.

You nod and murmur in the affirmative, your head laying against the pillow of this hotel bed - the dollar Arthur had paid to get out of camp for the night was certainly going to be put to good use.

He presses his lips against your cheek, the scratch of stubble makes you smile against him as he settles in, hands moving down your sides starting your ribcage, where the swell of your breasts are pressed against the mattress. Down, down the curve of your waist to the flare of your hips. His hand grasps your thigh, your skin indenting against the strength of his fingers. He presses your thigh outward, and you give a soft, quiet moan as you feel your folds parting as he spreads your legs. Another shift of his body, strong, large, hard, against yours and you feel the hot, blunt head of his cock press against the rim of your cunt, slipping in as he shifts his hips forward. Your voices cracks as he begins to push himself into your body, and he rumbles in response, the deep timbres of his voice echoing out from his chest, smothered against your back.

“Oh my girl-” Arthur groans out as he slides forward, his hips finally flushed against your rear, your cunt stuffed full of his hard flesh. You stretch your legs outward just a little more to accommodate him, and he grunts in approval. One of your hands grasps at the pillow like a lifeline, and its not a moment more before he covers it with his own, pulling it away from the pillow and interlacing your fingers.

“Oh honey, are you sure yer alrigh’?” he whispers into your ear, squeezing your hand affectionately.

“Yes-” you raise your head, craning your neck until you press your temple against his jaw, “Please, Arthur-”

He moves - and each thrust of his hips, each notch of his cock back into your cunt, its like the first time he fills you - that pain-pleasure of carving a space for himself in the very core of your body. His elbows land on either side of your shoulders as he curls himself over you completely. Oh, to be underneath him is to be surrounded completely, to be walled off from the world, for anyone or anything to get to you, it would have to go through all of him.

He leans on one elbow and snakes his other hand under your hip, forcing you to arch your lower back slightly, until his fingers find that nub of pleasure just south of where he spears into you. Immediately, you throw your face into the pillow, hoping to smother the embarrassingly loud moan that escapes you.

“Tha’s it-” he grinds his cock into you, as deep as he can go, and mercilessly circles that nub of flesh, even despite your gasping, begging, pleading.

It’s too much, the heady inches of him stilling within the vicegrip of your cunt. Its too much, his fingers pressing and squeezing and teasing your sensitive hood. Its too much, caught beneath all six foot of the gunslinger, caught between him an a mattress of the Rhodes Parlour House. Its too much, your lover giving you everything.

When you come, it's like he’s wrung you dry, your legs shaking, your voice crooning into the pillow, tears collecting under your eyelashes. He groans when you convulse around him, and there is no end of you, no beginning of him. Wetness seeps from the stretched rim of your cunt, leaking out upon the stem of him, dampening the curls at the base of his hard flesh. He cannot last but a moment more, gasping as he pumps his hips one last desperate time, filling you with the dripping warmth of his release. Your lover stutters himself into you, possessive, your body completely hidden by his, his panting breath hot in your ear.

At some point, he pulls himself from you, and you keep softly as you feel the combined moisture of your love drip from your body.

His truck is old and beat up, the kind of Chevy that rattles when you roll down the window and smells like pine air freshener, motor oil, and the Marlboros the man chain smokes. That warm, leathery scent you swear clings to your skin after he has held you too long.

The two of you parked just outside of town, far enough that the lights fade and the grass swallows sound. The field hums with crickets and cicadas and low country wind, the truck bed cushioned with old flannel blankets and a couple of pillows stolen off his couch. Arthur’s got one arm behind his head, the other curled lazily around your waist as you lie across his chest, the rise and fall of him steady beneath your cheek. His fingers trail soft, absentminded circles against your lower back, occasionally slipping under the hem of your tank top.

Above you, the sky flashes — the first firework goes off with a low whump, a golden burst that lights up his stubble-shadowed jaw.

“You see that one?” he murmurs, voice low and lazy.

You hum against him, tilting your head back so you can catch his smirk. “You askin’ like I’ve got my eyes closed or something.”

Arthur chuckles. “Well, you’re lyin’ on me like I’m a goddamn mattress. Thought maybe you fell asleep.”

You draw a slow circle with your finger on his chest, right over his t-shirt — a worn grey one, clinging just enough to let you feel the muscle underneath. “You’re the one breathin’ like an old dog in the sun.”

“Ol’ dog, huh?” He raises a brow, catching your hand with his. “You’re feelin’ real bold tonight.”

“Might be,” you say, and wiggle a little closer.

Another firework booms, this one a bouquet of blue and green, and it lights up the side of his face just long enough for you to see the glint in his eye. His beaten-up old ball cap is pushed back behind his head, and the tips of his hair that escape are tousled from your fingers already. He looks too good under an open sky like this. That golden boy grin, those thick arms, the veins on his forearms flexing every time he shifts to hold you tighter.

“You smell like motor oil and sweat,” you tease softly.

He shrugs. “Ain’t that what gets you goin’?”

You grin. “You think a greasy mechanic with a bad attitude and a busted truck is my type?”

“Don’t think you got much room to deny it.”

You tilt your head up and kiss him — slow and warm, a little smirking thing that deepens the second his mouth parts for yours. He makes a low noise, something like a growl, and his hand slides down your back, fingers flexing on your hip. He kisses you like he has all night and no rush to get there. Lazy and full.

Another firework cracks the silence, and you jump just slightly. Arthur smirks against your lips. “Aw, you scared?”

You murmur against his jaw, “Not scared. Just distracted.”

“By me?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you let your hand drift. From his chest, to his stomach — slow, teasing — fingers brushing the edge of his jeans, feeling that warm line of skin just beneath his shirt. He goes still under you.

“Oh,” he says, a little breathless now, “you’re up to no good, ain’t you?”

You keep your voice soft. “Thought you liked when I was trouble.”

He’s already hardening under your hand — not full yet, but getting there. You kiss down the side of his neck, feeling that pulse hammer under your lips. His fingers tighten at your waist.

“Jesus,” he mutters, “you don’t waste time.”

You prop yourself up just enough to look at him, smirking. “Should I stop?”

“Hell no,” he growls, pupils blown and suddenly darker than the sky.

You grin and undo the top button of his jeans, real slow, watching his face the whole time. He watches you right back, jaw tight, chest rising with every breath. The fireworks keep going - a red one, then gold, then blue again, and the color flashes over both of you in waves.

You ease the zipper down and slide your hand inside. Arthur hisses through his teeth.

“Goddamn,” he mutters.

You tug him out, slow and deliberate, until you’ve got him in your hand. Already thick and twitching under your palm. You stroke him gently at first, just enough to make him buck his hips once, then still, like he’s trying to behave.

But he’s not good at behaving. Not when it’s you.

Your voice is like honey when you lean down and whisper in his ear. “You always this hard just layin’ with me?”

He groans. “You always this mean?”

“Not mean,” you say, wrapping your hand tighter around him. “Just like seein’ you lose that rough cowboy act.”

“Ain’t no cowboy,” he grits out, though he’s already panting. “You’re the one makin’ me act up.”

You lean in and kiss him again — deeper now, teeth dragging his bottom lip — and your hand keeps working him in slow strokes that twist just right. He lets out a strangled sound into your mouth, hips shifting under you.

Then you feel his hand slide down, gripping your ass tight, fingers digging in. “Goddamn tease,” he growls.

“You like it,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he pants, “I like it. Like that little hand of yours on my cock. Like that mouth talkin’ dirty in my ear.”

You kiss him again, let your teeth graze his neck. “You gonna be good and let me finish you?”

“You keep talkin’ like that,” he grunts, “ain’t got much of a choice.”

Another firework goes off — a massive gold burst — and it lights up the sweat on his brow, the flushed red climbing down his neck. You keep stroking him, wrist twisting just so, thumb teasing the head. He’s a mess now. Groaning softly, head tipped back, thighs twitching.

“You look so good like this,” you whisper. “All worked up, beggin’ me.”

“I ain’t beggin’-” he tries, but you tighten your grip, stroke him faster, and he chokes on the rest.

“Oh, you’re gonna,” you purr. “You want it that bad, don’t you?”

He growls low. “God, you’re filthy.”

“You love it.”

“I do,” he gasps. “Fuck, I do.”

You kiss him again, hard and wet, hand working him faster now. He bucks into your touch with a groan, grabbing your ass with both hands now like he needs something to hold onto, or he is gonna fly apart.

“C’mon, baby,” you whisper against his ear. “Wanna feel you lose it. Right here. Under the fireworks. Just like this.”

He’s panting now. “You -fuck, you keep doin’ that-”

“You gonna come for me?” you tease, squeezing just right. “Gonna make a mess all over my hand?”

“Jesus,” he groans, voice shaking. “Yeah. Yeah, baby, fuck- don’t stop-”

You don’t. You stroke him faster, twisting at the top, eyes locked on his face. He’s beautiful like this - all flushed and wrecked, gasping your name, begging without even realizing he is.

Another explosion lights up the sky, a roaring finale, and under it, Arthur groans deep in his chest, hips jerking as he spills hot into your hand.

You stroke him through it, slow and gentle again, murmuring sweet nothings in his ear while his body shakes beneath you. He’s cussing low, breath hitching, hand still clamped tight to your hip like he needs to ground himself.

When it’s over, he collapses back against the blanket with a ragged sigh, chest heaving.

“God damn,” he mutters, voice wrecked.

You grin down at him, wiping your hand on the edge of the blanket. “Better than fireworks?”

He cracks one eye open and smiles that lazy, ruined smile. “Darlin’, you’re better than anythin’ they could put in the sky.”

You roll your eyes, then stretch out beside him again, tucking your head against his chest. He pulls you in tighter, kisses the top of your head, still catching his breath.

Your hand curls around the wrought-iron bed frame, banging against the wall for several minutes. Maybe you’re doing it to muffle the sound, but more likely, you’re grasping the metal to keep yourself from collapsing face forward from where you’re on your knees.

Your knees shake, body roiling with every rough thrust into your sopping cunt. You pant, hair disheveled, seeing stars. You can’t count the number of times you’ve found your pleasure; you feel as wrung out as a washcloth on laundry day.

A large hand steadies you, spreading out below your navel, above where the curls of your pubic hair begin. Warm, strong, rough - it presses inward, and you sputter as your insides constrict as if your lover is trying to feel himself through your body.

“Good girl-” 

All you can respond with is a pitiful mewl. He’s on his knees behind you, all those hot, long, hard inches of him buried in your cunt. 

His hand snakes down further, through your dark hair, to right above, where he pierces you with his flesh. His trigger finger finds that hooded nub of nerves and circles at it in time with the thrusting of his hips.

“A-Ar-Arthur!” You cry out, wrecked, overstimulated. You clench around him with yet another bone-shattering orgasm, and your warm, liquid arousal gushes softly from your body onto him, wetting his curls each time he continually thrusts into you.

With one final, overwhelming moan, he slams his hips into yours animalistically before withdrawing, you whimper as suddenly you feel so empty.

The slick sounds of him pumping himself fill the bedroom, and he leans over you again, his front to your back - his forehead pressing lightly between your shoulder blades - and grunts loudly as you feel hot spurts of his pleasure land on the back of your thighs.

For moments, you remain there, holding onto the bed frame with one hand as one of his braces against your pelvis. You swear it's him keeping you from collapsing. His pants are loud behind you, and finally, after what seems like forever, he lets go of you, moving off the mattress and stepping ungainly toward the bowl of water on the bureau across the room. You hear him dip a washcloth into the basin and wipe himself clean.

You roll down onto the bed, your sore body wanting to curl in on itself. Laying on your side, a jolt goes through your smarting core, and you whimper quietly as you tuck your hand between your legs and close them tightly together.

Arthur drops the washcloth immediately and comes back to bed, sliding behind you and molding his body around yours, uncaring of his drying spend on your thigh now pressed against him.

“Y’alright?” Oh sweetheart-” he coos softly as he draws back errant strands of your hair from your face.

You don't turn toward him, remaining still as his fingers trail down your arm, gentle and soft.

“I just - don’t you wish you had someone who c’d keep up with you?” you whisper harshly, that self doubt creeping in. You could barely stay upright during the more passionate of your encounters. Sometimes the soreness from his cock cleaving into you has you telling him no to further lovemaking that day. The way you felt now, it seemed like it would be the case for the rest of the evening.

He had rented a hotel room and everything.

“Now you stop with that talk, darlin’ girl.”

His hand trails from your arm up to your collarbone then reaches your breast's swell. A gentle rub over your nipple makes you shiver before his hand engulfs it whole. “Perfect size.”

Arthur’s hand squeezes and kneads your breast for a moment as he leans over and presses his lips to your shoulder.

His hand moves downward to rest on your waist below your ribcage, “ ‘and here, perfect for me to grab, in bed or outside. Perfect for me to hold when you're sittin’ on my knee by the fire.”

“Yer so good t’ me.” He rumbles into your neck, and his hand traces lower, lower, until it reaches yours, tucked between your aching legs. Instead of pushing them open, he slides his hand over yours and pulls gently, just enough so that you remove your hand from between your thighs.

Your fingers intertwine, resting gently in that thatch of dark hair.

“ ‘nd here, I feel so safe and warm when I'm inside you.” 

He can’t see you roll your eyes, but you half turn your head to make yourself heard, “How could I possibly make you feel safe?” 

He was a foot gunslinger of muscle born of beating men and hard labor. One of the most fearsome men in the country. He certainly didn’t need protection, not from some flit of a woman like you.

“When I’m inside you… stripped of all my guns and everythin’’… I just…” he trails off, and you crane your neck to make eye contact with him.

His hand leaves yours and quickly cups your cheek. 

“Guess when I’m inside y’, I feel wanted. Like you’re takin’ me in and shieldin’ me with all of you.” He whispers.

Your brow crinkles, and you feel your eyes start to water over before you blink away unbidden tears. Turning around in his arms, you throw yours around his neck as you lean in to kiss him, and he fervently meets you halfway.

It’s several moments of this, of tongues pressing together, of breathing each other’s breath, of sweat-slicked skin plastered against each other.

When he finally pulls away, you cannot help but smile, placing your hand on his cheek. His scruffy beard tickles your palm.

“Now let me hold you for the rest of the night,” he says, a smile gracing his face.

The snowmelt had turned the ground to mud. Cold, dense stuff that pulled at Arthur’s boots and deadened the sound of each step as he moved through the trees. The sun had barely started its slow crawl over the ridge, throwing gray over the forest as if the world hadn’t quite woken up yet. Good. Jobs like this were always easier when the marks were still half-asleep.

Arthur adjusted the rifle strap on his shoulder, feeling the familiar weight of his Lancaster settle against his back. Dutch had wanted him, Bill, and Javier to hit the courier camp before they packed up and started moving cash down toward Valentine. “Strike first,” Dutch had said. “In and out, scare ’em, take what we need.” Arthur knew the difference between scare and kill in Dutch’s tone by now. He didn’t argue. They needed the money, and after the long winter and the constant pressure from O’Driscolls, no one was feeling particularly generous.

Besides, Arthur needed it too. Back at camp, in the worn canvas tent whose flaps barely held against the mountain wind, his wife was trying to mend a coat that wouldn’t last another season. They’d been saving toward a decent horse for her, maybe a tent that didn’t leak every time clouds even thought of rain. Money was thin.

Last night he’d told her he wouldn’t be long. She’d kissed his cheek and said she knew. 

Then he’d come out here.

And now there was smoke curling above the treeline.

“Three men awake, one still sleeping by the fire,” Javier whispered, crouched beside Arthur behind an old gnarled pine. “No lookouts. They think they’re safe out here.”

“Reckless,” Bill muttered. “Idiots deserve what’s comin’.”

Arthur ignored the comment and squinted toward the camp. Canvas tents. A couple of horses and a mule tied to a post. One of the men fussing with coffee over the fire, steam lifting from the tin pot. They were relaxed. They’d never see it coming.

He felt the familiar quiet settle into him- the cold, steadying sensation before he was about to unleash violence. It wasn’t hatred. It wasn’t even adrenaline. Just focus. 

He glanced at Javier.

“You take the one by the mule,” Arthur said low. “Bill, get the fella at the fire. I’ll handle the last two.”

Javier nodded. Bill cracked his knuckles.

Arthur adjusted his hat and readied his repeater.

---

The first shot broke the quiet morning. Javier fired clean into the first man’s chest. The man dropped without even a shout, his coffee tin clattering uselessly from his hand. Before the others could react, Bill charged forward like a bull and slammed the butt of his shotgun across one man’s jaw, snapping it sideways with a sickening crack.

Arthur was already moving. He fired twice, hitting the closest man in the shoulder and spinning him backward. The last one - still half tangled in bedroll and blankets - scrambled up, reaching for a pistol at his hip.

“No, you don’t,” Arthur muttered.

He closed the distance in seconds and slammed his boot into the man’s wrist. The pistol skidded across the campsite and vanished into the mud. The man cried out, tried to roll away, but Arthur grabbed him by the collar and dragged him up to his knees.

The camp had erupted into chaos - shouts, curses, the crackling of fire as logs shifted.

Bill’s opponent was already down, blood sheeted across his face. Javier finished his wheezing target with a quick, merciful shot to the heart.

Arthur shoved the kneeling man forward and kicked him square between the shoulder blades. The man toppled, coughing, hands scrambling through dirt.

The one Arthur had shot earlier moaned somewhere near the collapsed tent, clutching his shoulder.

Two still alive. Both would need to be dealt with.

Arthur didn’t enjoy killing, persay. He didn’t relish it. But jobs like this, necessary jobs, didn’t leave much room for preference. If survival meant he had to shed blood, then so be it.

“Come on,” Arthur said darkly, stepping over a spilled crate of salted pork toward the wounded man. “Let’s get this done.”

The wounded one looked up, face streaked with dirt and panic. “Please - please, I ain’t got anything to do with those others,” he gasped. “I just… just cook for ’em, don’t - don’t shoot-”

Arthur’s jaw tightened. He hated when they begged. It didn’t make things easier. It made them worse. But the man had seen enough to be able to rat them out to the law. There wasn’t anything his begging could have done to save him at this point.

“Should’ve found better company,” he said, voice flat.

He lifted the repeater.

The man sobbed.

Then Arthur pulled the trigger.

The forest swallowed the sound.

-

When the echo faded, only the last man remained alive- the one Arthur had thrown into the dirt. He was on his side now, coughing, hands clutching uselessly at the ground as if there were something there he could hold onto. Blood dripped from his nose. His lip was split. His shirt was torn where Arthur had grabbed him.

Arthur walked over.

Behind him, Javier and Bill were rummaging through crates, checking for the lockbox Dutch promised would be here. Arthur tuned them out.

The man rolled onto his back, gulping air. His eyes flicked up to Arthur, then darted around the ruined camp. Bodies sprawled. Supplies overturned. Smoke drifted like ghosts around them.

“You-” The man wheezed, swallowed hard. “You slaughtered them. We - we weren’t even armed. Not proper armed. You-” He coughed again, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. “You ain’t no man.”

Arthur crouched in front of him, one knee sinking into the mud.

“Then what am I?” he asked, his voice dark and sinister.

The man’s breath hitched. He lifted a shaking hand, pointing weakly at the blood-soaked ground, the dead, the ruin.

“After everything you’ve done,” he rasped, voice torn open by pain and disbelief, “how do you sleep at night?”

Arthur looked at him for a long moment. The wind drifted through the pines. Somewhere far off, a crow cawed, sensing the fresh death.

He thought about the question.

He thought about his wife back at camp - her soft voice in the early dark, the way she curled against him for warmth, the steady way she breathed when she slept. He thought about the way her hand rested on his chest, grounding him in a way nothing else ever did.

He thought about the fact that no amount of death haunted him more deeply than the love he was afraid of losing. That he lived in two worlds: the one where he killed, and the one where he came home.

His eyes met the bleeding man’s.

A shadow crossed Arthur’s expression - one part truth, one part cruelty.

And he answered darkly, voice like gravel scraping over stone:

“Next to my wife.”

The man stared, eyes wide. The answer hit him harder than a bullet.

Arthur rose to his feet.

And fired once.

The man’s head snapped sideways, body going still.

Silence fell.

-

Javier kicked open a small wooden chest and whistled. “Found it.”

Bill laughed. “Told Dutch he was right. Bastards didn’t even try to hide it.”

Arthur holstered his gun, breathing out slowly through his nose. The cold morning air stung his lungs, clearing the taste of gunpowder from the back of his throat. His hands were steady. His pulse barely raised. That was always the worst part - how used to it he was.

“You good?” Javier asked, glancing over as he stuffed bills into a burlap sack.

“Fine.”

They gathered what they needed: money, supplies, anything worth taking, and doused the rest of the camp with the mule’s water bucket. No evidence. No trail. Just bodies cooling in the mud.

Arthur took one last glance around before grabbing the saddlebag and walking away through the trees.

---

The ride back to camp was long and quiet. The air warmed as the sun finally rose, melting the frost from the grass and turning the mud slick. Arthur’s thoughts drifted, not to the dead men, not to the gunshots or the begging or the last man’s question, but to the tent waiting at camp.

To her.

She always woke early. She’d be sitting near the fire with a cup of tea, one of his coats around her shoulders, hair loose from sleep. She’d look up when he returned, eyes scanning him in that careful way she had, not assuming the worst, but checking for it all the same.

She’d ask, “All right?”

And he’d answer, “Yeah.”

The trail bent, leading down into the valley. Smoke rose from campfires below. He could already hear the faint murmur of voices carried on the breeze- camp waking, pots clattering, horses snorting.

He rode in slowly, tying his horse beside the water trough. Bill and Javier rode ahead, laughing about something. Arthur didn’t join them.

Instead, he walked to his tent.

The flap rustled.

She was there- sitting in the low canvas chair, wrapping a blanket tighter around her shoulders. Her eyes lifted when he stepped inside the ring of shade cast by the tent. Relief softened her expression.

“You’re back.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice low, tired.

She stood, stepping closer. Her hands came up to his face, brushing his jaw, checking him like she always did. “Any trouble?”

“Nah,” he grunted, noncommittally. 

She nodded, though her eyes lingered on him, searching for the things he didn’t say.

Arthur leaned forward, pressing a slow kiss to her forehead.

She let him, smiling once she caught his eye again.

“You get some rest,” she murmured, touching his cheek. “I’ll fix you a plate.”

He nodded and sank onto the cot. She moved about the tent, soft and steady, the opposite of everything else in his world.

He watched her.

And he knew the truth.

He slept at night because of her.  He woke each morning because of her. He walked back from jobs like this because she made him believe he still could.

But he also knew the other truth - the darker one.

He murdered for her. Countless, countless men. Their blood could carve rivers through a mountain pass.

Arthur stretched out on the cot, letting exhaustion pull him down. His eyes drifted closed.

---

She slipped into the tent after a few minutes, the canvas stirring with the faintest whisper of cold morning air. Arthur hadn’t entirely fallen asleep, but he kept his eyes closed until he felt the soft dip of the cot beside him.

Her hand brushed his shoulder. “Arthur,” she murmured, gentle as a warm lamp in a winter cabin.

He opened his eyes.

She was watching him, concern quiet in her face but not pressing, not prying. Just there, the way she always was when he came back from something bloody. He reached up and touched her cheek, and she leaned into his palm without hesitation.

“You should rest,” he said, though his voice was low, already softening under her touch.

“So should you.” Her fingers slipped into his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. “Come here.”

He did. He didn’t need prompting. He slid his arms around her waist and guided her down to lie with him on the narrow cot. She kissed him slowly - warm, patient, reassuring - and the tension in his shoulders gave way under her mouth like winter ice breaking under a spring sun.

Their bodies found each other easily, without hurry, without hunger. Nothing frantic, just two tired souls closing the distance the world kept trying to put between them. She cupped his face as he moved over her, as he breathed her name like a prayer, as if he were a godly man.

When she pulled her blanket over both of them, the cold morning vanished. There was only the quiet rasp of their breath, the slow rise and fall of their chests, the steady rhythm of them finding each other again and again.

At the soft peak of it - when Arthur’s breath hitched against her shoulder and his hands gripped her waist like he was afraid she’d slip away, she wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered into his ear:

“I love you… so much.”

Arthur froze, trembling in a way he never did in a fight, never did with a gun in his hand. The words washed through him, warm as a summer stream, sweeping away the last clinging pieces of blood from his blackened soul. He pressed his forehead to her collarbone, breath shuddering. Then he buried his face deeper against her chest, into all that warmth, all that softness, all that love he didn’t deserve but needed more than air.

They finished together quietly, as if the world outside the tent had vanished, leaving only the small space where her hands held him and nothing he’d done could ever reach him.

When it was over, she stroked his hair, slow and sure. Arthur stayed where he was, head on her chest, breathing her in.

He hadn’t lied to that man he killed just an hour earlier. Death and killing were not something that kept him up at night. 

Especially when the nights were warm in her bed.