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.

The late afternoon sun drips through the canopy above, warm and golden, flickering across the trail ahead as Arthur guides his mare at a slow walk. You’re tucked up in front of him in the saddle, pressed snug against his chest, the back of your thighs straddling his hips. His arms are loosely looped around you, one hand lazily holding the reins, the other resting low on your belly.

“You’re wigglin’ awful much for a quiet ride,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear.

You shift deliberately. “Maybe your saddle’s just uncomfortable.”

He hums. “Ain’t the saddle that’s the problem—it’s what’s sittin’ in it.”

You grin, twisting a little in his arms. “So now I’m the problem?”

He chuckles dark and low. “You’re a whole damn mess. The kind a man’s lucky to drown in.”

The trail winds deeper into the trees, the shadows growing longer, and his hand doesn’t move from your belly. If anything, it starts to drift, fingers playing with the fabric of your skirt.

“You keep squirming like that,” he says, voice roughening, “and I’m liable to forget where we’re even goin’.”

“Maybe I want you to forget.”

His grip tightens for a heartbeat. Then his free hand leaves the reins and starts hiking the front of your skirt up. You gasp softly as the cool air hits your thighs, and Arthur doesn’t stop there—his hand slides down, slipping under the waistband of your drawers.

His fingers find you soaked, and he groans deep in his chest.

“Christ,” he mutters. “Sittin’ here all sweet and warm, actin’ like you didn’t want this.”

“I do want it,” you breathe, tilting your hips and leaning back on him to give him better access. “Don’t stop.”

Arthur obliges, thick fingers pushing inside you with a slow, practiced slide that makes your whole body jolt forward in the saddle. His other hand steadies you while the horse walks on, oblivious to the depravity happening on its back.

“You hear that?” he rasps, voice right against your ear. “That wet little sound you’re makin’? That’s all for me.”

You groan, hips moving now in a helpless rhythm with the horse’s stride. He matches it, pumping his fingers deeper, grinding his palm against your clit.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, kissing behind your ear. “Ruttin’ against my hand like you ain’t got a care in the goddamn world. Like you want me to ruin you right here.”

“Arthur—fuck—I’m close—”

“I know. I can feel it.” He thrusts his fingers harder. “You gonna come for me right here in the woods, in the saddle, soakin’ my hand like a needy little—”

A sudden snort breaks through the air.

Neither of you notices.

Not until the horse bucks.

The world turns upside down.

You’re weightless for a second, then you hit the dirt hard, your breath knocked clean out of you. Your skirt is tangled up around your hips, drawers twisted, and you lie there stunned, staring up at the sky, your body still burning and trembling with unfinished need.

A groan from the ground nearby. Arthur, flat on his back, curses under his breath.

“You alright?” he croaks, head turning toward you.

You glare at him. “No. I was about to come.”

He lets out a ragged laugh and winces, hand pressed to his side. “Shit. I think I broke my damn spine.”

You prop yourself up slowly, drawing your skirt down halfway, scowling. “Next time you decide to finger me in a moving saddle, maybe check the horse’s opinion first.”

Arthur is quiet for a beat, then mutters, “Think she was jealous.”

You throw a stick at him.

He groans again, then slowly drags himself up onto his hands and knees. But there’s a dark heat in his eyes now—his gaze locked on you, still flushed and messy and spread just enough to tempt him all over again.

“Can I finish the job?” he asks, voice low and rough, his hand moving to cup the thick bulge in his pants. “’Cause now I’m real uncomfortable right now.”

You don’t hesitate. “Yes. Now.”

You tug your drawers down your thighs and get up onto your hands and knees, arching your back, glancing at him over your shoulder. “Don’t make me wait this time.”

He growls like a man unhinged, fumbling with his belt. “Mouth on you,” he mutters, dragging his cock out—thick, hard, flushed red and already leaking. “You got no damn mercy.”

“You’re still talking,” you breathe. “That’s mercy.”

“Smart girl,” he rasps, grabbing your hips. “Let’s see how smart you sound in a minute.”

He thrusts into you with no warning, deep and hard, and you cry out, hands sinking into the dirt as he immediately sets a brutal rhythm. Every slap of his hips against your ass sends another shockwave through your overstimulated nerves, slick and messy where he drives into you.

“Goddamn, you’re tight,” he pants. “So wet—you makin’ a mess all over me, you feel that?”

You nod, moaning uncontrollably now as you meet every thrust with frantic need.

He leans in over your back, breath hot on your neck. “You gonna come for me?”

You can barely get the word out. “Y-yes—Arthur—please—”

“Come on, sweetheart,” he snarls, one hand sliding under to work your clit again. “Soak me. Come all over my cock.”

And you do. You come hard and wet, your whole body spasming, sobbing out a curse as slick gushes around him, thighs trembling violently. You nearly collapse, only held up by the force of his grip.

Arthur grits out your name, thrusts turning sloppy. “Fuck—I wanna come inside you—fill you up…”

Your head spins from the sound of it. Dumb as it is, in your post-orgasm bliss, you want it. “Do it,” you whimper.

But at the last second, he pulls out with a guttural growl, stroking himself fast.

“Shit—fuck—” he chokes, and then you feel it—hot, thick ropes painting your ass and lower back as he spills himself all over you, chest heaving, voice breaking with your name.

He stays there for a long moment, hand still gripping your hip, the other steadying himself in the dirt.

Then he exhales, slow and ragged. He looks around briefly.

His mare is nowhere to be found. 

You watch him suck air through his teeth at the first taste of coffee in the morning. His brows furrow under that hat as he nearly chokes the first swallow down, standing there next to the campfire.

Alas, you did not crawl out of bed early enough to save the camp from Pearson’s brewing skills. You had been sneaking out of bed early to beat Pearson to the kettle, and it seems that Arthur had noticed the difference in the quality of coffee, noting how surprised he was at the terrible taste.

Not this morning. This morning you crept from another cot entirely, shrugging your chemise on as you quietly searched for your bloomers in a tent that was not your own. Before you left, you had turned back toward the cot, looking back upon your bedmate fondly, still asleep in the cot, half dressed, snoring peacefully.

It would be at least an hour more before he woke up, still sleeping off the whiskey imbibed.

Lest he finds you staring, you quickly scurry over to the laundry pile, where a basket with dirty shirts overflows, waiting for washing. Before Grimshaw catches you dawdling and tans your hide.

You heave the basket up, propping it on your hip.

You have to stop, suck in a breath. 

Oh.

A blooming soreness shoots through the very core of you, burning a path through your hips that was so pleasurable last night. You are certain your cheeks blaze red, a flush creeping down your chest. Regaining your composure, you head toward the lakeside, each step that soreness making itself known.

Through the corner of your eye you see him still at the campfire, trying to drink that shit coffee.

Does he even realize? Does he know? Does he know that he has carved himself a blaze of pleasure within your body? 

Does he know that you now feel so empty?

Oh, how you wonder. Oh, how you wish.

You thrust a shirt underwater and start working at a stain, trying to block out the hot whispers and deep groans in your ear when he pushed into you last night. Your cunt clenches at nothing, recalling through your tipsy haze the perfection of him laying you down in his cot. The feeling of him pawing at your bloomers and flipping up your skirts after you had just enough sherry to get over yourself and sit in his lap earlier in the night.

Oh, how you wish for something more. How you long for it.

You decide to go for broke - you need no sherry anymore. Not when you’ve heard the things he whispered to you with each thrust of his cock last night.

He’s staring down at the ground, still holding on to the cup of coffee as you approach.

“Hey.”

Arthur looks generally surprised. A flush painted across the apples of his cheeks, and he looks up at you with those damned blue eyes and suddenly the feared enforcer of the Van der Linde gang is as awkward as a teenaged boy.

“You feelin’ okay?” He asks, as his cheeks continue to blaze red.

Oh, this man. Your heart flutters.

You smile, lean in, and kiss his cheek.

“I’m hopin’ that wasn’t the last night we spend together, Mister Morgan.”

It was better than you saying what was really on the tip of your tongue - of how you were sore from him, but can’t stand the thought of not being in his cot tonight. “Darlin’, let… let me-” he swallows, obvious discomfort across his features, “Let me take you into town. Let me bed you right.”

You smile as you reach toward the coffee cup, trying to contain your excitement.

The sun has barely risen in the east, but in the warmth of the tent, you have been up for what feels like hours. Or it feels like hours that Arthur has been between your legs, lapping at your core, one hand holding your bucking hips down, the other up and squeezing your breast as you nearly cry from the overstimulation. 

“A-Arthur, p-lease-” You stutter as his rough tongue licks up the seam of your body for the umpteenth time. He grunts into your cunt; breath hot, and continues his assault. It is only after he has wracked from you another two orgasms that he relents, sitting up on his knees and wiping his damp beard. You can do nothing but stare at the pitch of the tent, utterly spent.

“Y’ make such nice little noises there, darlin’,” He rumbles with a self-satisfied smirk.

Perhaps, as you try to catch your breath, this is his penance for acting the fool yesterday. Perhaps this is him trying to garner your favor. 

You hear him spit into his hand and then the telltale sound of wet skin on skin fills the tent as you know he’s stroking his cock. One of his hands grabs the meat of one of your thighs, moving your leg to hook over his. Arthur leans over you and his face finally comes into your line of sight. 

You have the wherewithal, at this point, to move your other leg outside of his thigh, spreading yourself open for him and he hums in approval, leaning over you further with a hungry look in those blue eyes. 

Arthur’s cock prods at your entrance, and you spread your legs wider to grant him access. He hisses as his hips buck against yours, his cock sluicing through the arousal of multiple orgasms - cursing as he slides in so easily. He’s not a small man by any means - but you are just so goddamn wet and ready for him that before either of you realize it, he’s buried to the hilt.

“Fuck-” he spits out as his fingers splay across your thigh, clenching at your skin and leaving red marks in their wake as he finds a rhythm - hard, sharp, fast - there is no softness about this man, but as you’ve seen him beat other senseless, the restraint he has with you in his bed is probably as close as he can get.

A grunt that echoes through the tent recenters you, “Wanna fill you up-”

“We can’t - y’can’t,” you moan high and flighty as his cockhead keeps hitting that sensitive spot inside you, “You can’t get a child on me.”

“Why - oh goddamnit - why not?”

“Arthur- you’re not seri-”

One of your knees gets heaved over his shoulder, and you’re unable to respond in words, instead a hoarse, needy moan bubbles up from your chest.

“I should take you and find a little house and make you my little wife, come home and fuck y’ stupid every night.” Arthur snarls, heaving his hips into yours with little care for gentleness. A strangled noise escapes your throat as your other thigh is pulled up and propped on his other  shoulder. He looms, predatory, before slamming his hips down as he veritably bends you in half.

“I should put a baby in you. Yeah, you’d like that, huh?” He rasps through pounding, punishing thrusts, “Keep you home and chasin’ my children. Belongin’ utterly to me.”

“Ar-Arthur!”

“Yeah, girl, you want it?”

“I want it-!”

“Fuck-” 

He throws his head back and moans, loudly, as he pours his hot spend into your cunt. Spurt after vicious spurt, panting hoarsely as he wrings himself dry. You mewl, completely uncaring of volume out here in the woods, as your body seizes in response, making Arthur nearly collapse on top of you.

The gunslinger wheezes as he lets go of your legs, letting them fall to either side of his hips before he rolls off of you, landing on his back next to you in the bedroll. You recover your wits, gasping as the final throes of ecstasy roll through your body.

And then, you realize what he did. You realize what you said.

“Are you goddamn serious?” 

Arthur doesn’t look at you, covering his eyes with his forearms as he pants, coming down from his exertion.

You turn over in the bedroll facing away from him, hugging yourself, trying to calm yourself down, and failing miserably as you feel his spend drip between your thighs.

“Y-you can’t say that and not mean it.”

You’re ashamed as tears begin to roll down your face - mad at yourself for being so easily upset - mad at yourself for letting him upset you so - furious at him for using you for the cheap high of coming inside a warm cunt. Mad at yourself for wanting that - wanting him in that way. Wanting something that seems so entirely out of character for him, who on a good day, you would hesitate to call him ‘lover’. Mad at yourself at even thinking of a possibility of a future like that.

His burly arm wraps around you and pulls your entire body back against him, his skin still warm and clammy from exertion. 

“Why’re you sayin’ I don’t mean it?” His hand settles over your belly, rubbing gently. 

Your fists unclench, “Wh-what?”

Arthur sits up on his elbow, unwinds his arm from your waist. Drawing back the curtain of your hair, he scowls as he sees the wet trail of tears down your cheeks.

“Look’it me, woman.”

You turn, blinking up at him. His thumb, callused and trigger-worn, swipes across your wet cheek.

“D’you want to be with anyone else?”

“N-no.”  You sniffle.

“D’you want somethin’ after all the runnin’ around we’re doin’?”

“Yes….”

“Good. It’s settled.” He says, manner-of-factly, as if he didn’t just ask you for a future when your entire relationship has felt like a series of one-night stands.

“And if you just got a child on me?” You confront the issue head-on, and you can still feel the dripping of him from your body.

Arthur smirks, haughtily proud at the idea. Before you can make a retort, he leans in and presses his lips against yours insistently. You are surprised, letting him easily press his tongue into your mouth and against yours. One of his hands weaves into your hair, cupping the back of your head gently - almost lovingly.

At the sign of affection, you tremble in his embrace, moaning into his mouth as you throw your leg over his hip, opening your core to him again, rolling your hips against his pelvis and his member, hardening as it fills with blood once more.

He pulls away and you gasp, breathless, your hand tight on his bicep, holding on for dear life.

Arthur Morgan smirks, in that way that he does before he’s about to rob someone blind.