Archive of Our Own ^beta

If you’d asked Charles a month back what the most irritating thing was about having Arthur Morgan as a lover, he’d probably have said something along the lines of how bashful the man was. It’d taken months of back and forth for Arthur to confess, with Charles having to go to desperate measures like wandering around the camp shirtless just to entice the man to finally admit his very, very obvious crush.

It’d tested the limits of his patience, but after the first few failed flirtations it’d been clear to Charles that even Arthur wasn’t certain what to do about his feelings. Once Tilly had told him about the two heartbreaks Arthur had suffered, Charles had decided it was best to let the cowboy make the first move.

Even if it had almost driven him insane.

Since they’d shared their first kiss—a quiet, intimate moment following John’s train robbery back near Valentine—Charles had been relieved of any illusions that Arthur was, in fact, bashful.

If anything, the man was too bold by half, especially in public spaces. Such as now, in the middle of the camp, where Charles was attempting to relax while Arthur busied himself with groping Charles’ chest.

Charles swatted lightly at sneaky, thieving fingers as they smoothed over his pecs, lightly pinching his nipples. “Will you behave?”

Arthur’s voice was low and warm in Charles’ ear, his bristling grin brushing the soft skin of Charles’ neck from where Arthur sat tucked in behind him, back against the log.

“My hands are above your waist, sunshine,” he teased. “Besides, ain’t no one watchin’ us.”

Charles clenched his teeth, refusing the arching need that demanded he thrill up into Arthur’s touch. The other man plucked and flicked his nipples, mischievous hands hidden under the sanctity of their blanket as they drowsed by the campfire together. It was an unusually cold night at Clemens’ Point, a chilly breeze moving across the lake in a cold snap as the last dregs of spring clung to summer.

Arthur’s hands moved in slow, minuscule movements, teasing and brushing across Charles’ chest in senseless patterns designed to drive him insane.

Charles had never thought of his chest as particularly sensitive. The few times before this that Arthur had groped him, it had been the thrill of being wanted, being desired that had excited him more than the actual sensations.

This entire misadventure had started earlier in the night when Charles had bluntly turned down Arthur’s request to ‘fuck those pretty tits’.

“Well, why not?” Arthur had asked, more curious than offended. To be fair, it wasn’t often that Charles turned him down.

“Don’t see how that’ll feel like much of anything,” Charles had said, continuing to whittle arrows. “Least when you fuck my thighs I get something out of it.”

“Don’t feel like—“ Arthur’s jaw worked. The stubborn, pig-headed look that usually ended with Charles busting the other man out of jail gleamed in his eye. “Oh, sweetness. I been touchin’ you all wrong if that’s how you feel about it.”

Charles shrugged. “Maybe I’m just not sensitive.”

“Lemme make you a deal,” Arthur bargained, running a solicitous hand up the curve of Charles’ hip. “I get you to beg me without touchin’ nothing else but those tits of yours? Then you lemme fuck 'em till you got a pearl necklace.”

“And if it doesn’t work?”

“I’ll eat your ass?”

“You like eating my ass, Arthur.”

“I’ll stop drinkin’ for a week?”

“Hmmm. Deal.”

It’d been a stupid bet. Stupider, still, for Charles to think that for once the other man would keep things to the privacy of his lean-to.

The gang was pretty much used to Charles and Arthur sharing space by now. They weren’t much for kissing in front of other folks—at least, Charles wasn’t—but cuddling was something Arthur had won him over on a while ago.

What they didn’t know was that Arthur’s hands had been dipped down past the unbuttoned front of Charles’s shirt for the last half hour, slowly kneading and pinching at the soft, heavy muscle there until Charles was blessing every god he didn’t believe in that the tent he was pitching in his jeans was hidden by the blanket draped over the two of them.

Arthur scraped his nails against the underside of Charles’ pecs, slow trails of thin fire. His breathing was steady in Charles’ ear, face tucked against the back of his neck.

Charles’ breath hitched as one of those devilish thumbs circled his nipple, scraping the bud gently, a whisper-soft tease. Arthur’s other hand busied itself kneading at the plush, heavy muscle, hefting the weight with proprietary surety.

“Think I could milk ya?” Arthur joked, a low brush of warm air against the shell of Charles’ ear. “Never seen a man with tits like yours, sweetheart. Hell, think Karen’s the only one with a nicer set than you in the whole camp.”

“You’re filthy,” Charles admonished, weaker than he meant to. A helpless jolt of arousal shot through him—he didn’t know where the hell Arthur pulled half the dirty things he said from, but damned if it didn’t get them both going.

Charles leaned back to settle closer between Arthur’s legs, resisting the urge to turn and nip Arthur on the shoulder when both of those big, warm hands cupped him, rough palms caressing across his hardened nipples. He gripped Arthur’s ankle with one hand, bracing himself by squeezing the rough, sturdy leather of the other man’s boot. He could feel the thick, hot length of Arthur’s cock against his outer thigh.

“Gettin’ a little impatient there?” he asked, breath stuttering when Arthur gave him another careful scrape, a jolt of buzzy pleasure shooting from his chest to his cock.

Arthur gave no quarter, nipping at Charles’ ear as he flicked his nipple again, pulling it gently until Charles’ lashes fluttered.

“Watchu talking’ about, big man?” he drawled, a low rasp that shivered down Charles’s spine. “I got my fella between my legs, two gorgeous tits in my hand, a nice fire, stars above—I could sit here and play with you all night.”

“Bastard,” Charles huffed, neck sagging so his cheek rested against Arthur’s shoulder. He clenched his teeth behind his lips, holding in a whine as Arthur ran his blunt nails against the underside of his breasts, a tingling tease. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe evenly, letting himself fixate on the warm electricity of Arthur’s touch.

Charles stiffened as footsteps approached their little corner of the campfire. They were more like stomps, every step an assertion against the earth.

Karen’s lilting drawl came low and soft through the night.

“Charles doin’ okay there?” she asked Arthur, all casual. “Don’t often see him dozing out in the open like that.”

“Been a long day,” Arthur offered.

His hands still busied themselves under the blanket, small, subtle movements as Arthur plucked and pulled Charles’ nipples, flicking the pulsing buds.

Charles was helpless to do anything but continue feigning sleep, the minute tightening of his grip on Arthur’s ankle his only recourse against the bastard strumming his chest as skillfully as Javier played his guitar.

“Should take your man to bed,” Karen suggested. A soft rustling and the sudden sweet tang of tobacco in the air indicated that she’d lit herself a cigarette. “Lord knows that can’t be good for his back.”

Arthur snorted, circling Charles’ tender nubs with callused thumbs. “You let me worry about Mr. Smith’s back,” he shot back. “Just got him down—it’d be a shame to wake him.”

“Arthur.”

“Hmm?”

“I don’t know about the rest of these fools, but I know what two lovebirds groping like teenagers under a blanket looks like. Get your asses to your tent before you scar Tilly.”

“Yeah!” Tilly yelled from somewhere behind them. “Stop being gross, Arthur!”

Charles shot to his feet, seizing Arthur’s hand in his. His ears burned hot as he pulled the other man back to Arthur’s wagon, turning tail from the two women’s laughter.

“Should kill you,” Charles muttered, shoving Arthur to the bed before climbing into his lap. The curtain Miss Grimshaw had affixed to the entrance swung heavy behind them, blocking out the campfire’s glow. The remaining light came from Arthur’s lamp, burning low and steady on his side table.

He pulled his shirt off over his head, biting his lip at the dazed look Arthur gave him when Charles seized the other man’s hands in his own, drawing Arthur’s palms to cup his pecs.

“Back to work, cowboy,” Charles insisted, grinding down on the solid heat of Arthur's cock. “You ain’t made me beg yet.”

Charles considered himself a careful man. He’d had to be, growing up running alone from thirteen, living outside the law on the edges of a society that despised him and his kind. He rarely made a move that wasn’t calculated; his body was a scarred tapestry of the consequences of his own temper, when rage led to rash decisions.

But he had to admit, staring up at the age-mottled canvas of Arthur’s tent, thighs trembling where they spread over Arthur’s lap, fingers digging tight into Arthur’s shoulders as his lover’s hot, wet mouth sucked another tingling kiss into the muscle of his breast—sometimes he miscalculated.

Charles’ lashes fluttered as Arthur released his mouthful, chest heaving when Arthur blew a stream of cool air against the swollen nipple, biting his lip as a tingling arc of pleasure ran straight from his abused bud to his neglected cock.

“Knew you’d love this,” Arthur praised, using the muscular arm he had hitched around Charles’ waist to twist Charles’ chest, urging his spine into an obscene arc that presented his other pec to Arthur’s reddened mouth. “C’mon, sweet thing—cry for it.”

Charles groaned, fingers twisting in Arthur’s shaggy hair when the cowboy ducked to take his other tit, suckling and biting while his free hand gently flicked and twisted at its rosy, puffy twin.

“I—hah—” Charles stuttered, rocking his hips down, grinding his clothed cock against Arthur’s own. His trousers were a mess, drawers soaked through with precum as he fucked down into the slippery, rough friction. “Still ain’t begged.”

Arthur chuckled, running his hands from where they cupped and fondled Charles’s heavy, heaving chest up his broad shoulders. He traced his fingertips down the curve of Charles’ biceps, caressing lightly against the skin on his inner arms until his large hands encircled Charles’ wrists in a delicate hold.

“Just gettin’ started on ya, sunshine,” Arthur assured. Inexorable, he gently guided Charles’ wrists overhead, turning his torso so Charles tipped out of his lap to fall gracelessly against the cot.

Charles oofed, hair spilling out behind him in a raven halo. Ringlets stuck to the sweat-soaked skin of his neck and face as he gasped, trying to get his bearings. “Shit, Arthur—”

“I gotcha,” Arthur cooed, leaning over Charles to pin his wrists to the cot frame above. “Hold still for me, sugar.”

Arthur consolidated his grip, grasping both of Charles’ wrists in a crossed configuration as he pulled Charles’ legs onto the cot. By the time he settled his weight across Charles’ hips, the sting of cold air against the wet skin of Charles’ breasts had pebbled his nipples into sharp peaks, sensitive to every stir of the nighttime breeze that snuck into the tent.

Charles bucked, wheezing at the pleasant heaviness of Arthur’s weight against him. “C’mon, Arthur,” he urged, puffing his chest out. He savored the greed in that lake-green gaze, the twitch of Arthur’s clothed cock against the softness of his own bare belly. “Don’t tell me you’re done playing.”

“Gonna let you set a minute, sugar,” Arthur said, free hand trailing down Charles’ sternum, bypassing his heaving chest to run blunt nails through the sparse hair on his stomach. “You’ll let me know when you’re ready.”

Arthur kept his touch feather-light, a caressing tease that had Charles gritting his teeth by the third time those rough palms ran whisper-soft against the underside of his breasts.

Charles pressed his wrists up into Arthur’s grip, half just to feel the strength behind the hold. Not many men could push him around, fewer still could do it with any grace.

Arthur had a hypnotizing physicality to the way he moved. Not finesse, so much as the lazy, confident power of a predator, fully assured that the world would rearrange itself to suit him. The grip of his hands, the balance of his bulk across Charles’ hips, that hang-dog grin of his—

Charles had never been so happy to be manhandled, was the point. Never so thrilled by any touch like the proprietary sureness of Arthur’s hands.

Minutes of Arthur’s light teasing trickled by, the barely-there caresses charging static from Charles’ chest to build into a hot, crackling charge in his belly. Charles groaned, fingers and thighs twitching as he struggled to press closer, to get more of that warm touch against his skin.

“Arthur,” he panted, hips fluttering as he tried unsuccessfully to get friction against his aching cock. “C’mon.”

“All you gotta do is ask, angel,” Arthur purred, brushing the back of his knuckles against one of Charles’ sore nipples. He grinned when Charles’ breath hitched, chest straining up from the bed, desperate for more. “Tell me what you need, baby.”

“You.”

Arthur hummed, head cocking playfully, like a dog after a bone. “Where?”

Charles strained against that steel hold, groaning happily when Arthur just squeezed him so tight the bones rubbed together. “Anywhere.”

Arthur circled Charles’ pulse with his thumb, scoring the thin skin of his inner wrist lightly with the nail. “Here?”

Charles seriously considered breaking free and tackling Arthur over the side of the cot. Maybe he’d ruck Arthur’s pants down and ride his cock, maybe he’d shimmy out of his own and ride the smug look right off that scruffy, cocksure face. “Damn you.”

“I’ll give you anything you want, darlin’. Just ask.”

“Fuck me,” Charles gasped, turning his head to hide in his bicep. Stubbornness lost out to need. It wasn’t surprising; Charles just wanted to make his cowboy work for it. “Arthur, please.”

Arthur swooped down, leaning heavily on Charles’ wrists, a delicious weight that made his bones creak. He pressed a wet kiss against Charles’ cheek, grinning when Charles turned to seal their mouths together.

Arthur kissed like he fought—confidently, assured, and completely overwhelming.

Charles pushed back as good as he got, biting the other man’s lower lip until it swelled and reddened to match the mess Arthur had made of his chest.

Arthur pulled back with a jaunty peck to the tip of Charles’ nose, pleased. “Told ya,” he bragged, free hand squeezing Charles’ right breast, kneading.

Charles huffed. “Still don’t see how you plan on gettin’ me off.”

“Don’t you worry none.” Arthur released Charles’ wrists, shuffling down the cot until he was kneeling on his trunk. He quickly divested them both of their boots and socks, pressing a scruffy kiss against Charles’ instep as he went. Then he braced on knees and elbows so he was hovering directly over where Charles’ aching cock was staining his trousers.

Arthur seized Charles by the hips, breathing deep as he buried his nose against the damp spot, huffing.

Charles whined, thighs straining the fabric of his trousers as he humped up into the friction. “Fuck, Arthur—“

Arthur surfaced, pupils blown. “Smell so good, darlin’.” He mouthed against the front of Charles’ trousers, one hand coming up to fiddle with the buckle of his belt. “Here’s how it’s gonna go,” he continued, thumbing open the buttons on Charles’ fly.

“Long as you keep your hands on those pretty tits of yours, I’ll put my mouth to work.” Arthur drew Charles’ cock from the opening in his drawers, grip sure as he positioned the shaft to his liking. Charles moaned as Arthur thumbed against the uncut tip, peeling the foreskin back to expose the slick, pre-cum shiny head.

Arthur looked up through his eyelashes with a wolfish grin. “Be good for me,” he commanded, giving Charles a tight, twisting pump. “Touch yourself just like I touched ya—nice and soft, then a little mean. Long as you keep at it, I’ll keep busy down here. You stop? I stop.”

Charles nodded, scooching himself down the bed to slip his calves under Arthur’s arms, locking his ankles behind the other man’s broad back. He drew his hands down to his chest, pinching a nipple each lightly between his thumb and forefinger.

Arthur’s grin sharpened, ravenous. His eyes flickered like the hottest part of a furnace, blue heat.

“So fuckin’ good for me, sweetheart,” he breathed, then bent his head, taking the crown of Charles’ cock in his mouth.

Charles grit his teeth, eyes fixed on the obscene stretch of Arthur’s pink lips against the warm brown of his cock, the flick of his red, wet tongue against the shaft. He pinched and pulled at his nips, trying his damnedest to mimic the skillful way Arthur played them, to summon the same buzzing crescendo that the cowboy pulled from somewhere deep in his belly.

It wasn’t working. Despite himself—and despite the tight, wet heat of Arthur’s mouth around him—Charles huffed, frustrated.

Arthur pulled off Charles’ cock, regarding him from below fawn-brown lashes as he continued to pump lazily at his shaft. He bit a sucking kiss into the tendon of Charles’ thigh and licked the indent of his own teeth before cocking his head, teasing.

“Havin’ trouble, big man?”

“Don’t feel the same,” Charles admitted, scratching his nails against the underside of his breasts experimentally. It didn’t feel bad, but it wasn’t the tingling, pleasant fire of Arthur’s touch. “Think it only works if it's you.”

Arthur breathed deep, eyes blowing impossibly wider. “Don’t think you know what it does to me when you say shit like that,” he muttered, swallowing down on Charles’ cock to take him back in. He went deeper, bobbing forward until Charles was fucking into the back of his throat, making wet, hungry sounds while his free hand dug vicious bruises into Charles’ hip.

Charles tossed his head back against the stretched canvas of the cot, biting back a whimper. Determined, he tried brushing the heels of his palms against the very tips of his swollen nipples, gasping when a bare tingle of electricity shot from his tits to his tightening balls, lighting up every nerve along the way like the sky over Saint Denis at Mardi Gras.

“Fuck,” Charles groaned, digging his heels into Arthur’s back to brace himself against fucking up into the other man’s throat. He tried the touch again, unable to choke back a whine when the jolt of pleasure shot through his gut, arrow fast.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Arthur—” he chanted, running the tips of his nails just barely over the curve of his breasts.

Arthur pulled off Charles’ cock with an obscene pop, panting. “Change it up,” he demanded. “Couple a’ circles round those pretty nips, then grab yourself good, squeeze tight.” Then he was back on him, sliding smooth down the length of Charles’ shaft with a wet choking sound.

Charles obeyed immediately, unable to stop the arch of his back when the dirty thrill of being grabbed shot straight to his balls, a precision bullseye.

“Arthur,” he warned, releasing his chest to flick his fingers over his sharp tips, stomach jumping as his balls drew tight. “Close, so close—”

Arthur just surged forward, pulling Charles’ hips closer, taking the last bare inch that he could, nose fully nestled against the thatch of Charles’ curly pubes. His face was a mess, drooling, tears shining wet in the moonlight. He pressed close to Charles with his whole body, greedy, throat jumping and tightening as he swallowed ruthlessly.

Charles abandoned his chest to twist his hands in the thick, shaggy mid-lengths of Arthur’s hair, gripping tight for an anchor as his orgasm swept through him in a bright, sweltering wave of heat that hooked behind his belly. His release burned out from deep inside him to his fingertips, the curl of his toes. It left him trembling, breathless and dazed. Arthur swallowed him deep, one big hand stretching up Charles’ belly to rest possessively on his sternum.

Just as Charles started to twitch and whine, overstimulated, Arthur relented, pulling off to rest the side of his face on Charles’ spread thigh, looking up at Charles through the sweaty mess of his bangs.

“You really like doin’ that,” Charles panted, petting his hands through Arthur’s hair. He smiled when Arthur nudged into it, eyes fluttering closed as he leaned into the scratching of Charles’ nails. He made a soft, sweet sound when Charles ran a thumb against the mess on his chin, ducking to clean the trail of spit and cum from Charles’ fingers.

“You’re pretty when you cry,” Arthur rasped, voice shredded, completely unrepentant. His hand curled over the curve of Charles’ breast, tracing the furrow of his chest, covetous. “Ready for me?”

Charles nodded, scooching back up the cot to settle on Arthur’s pillow. “Just don’t get it in my hair.”

Arthur crawled back up Charles’ body, laying lengthwise against him, head to toe. He looked impossibly fond as he dropped a kiss against Charles’ brow, tucking flyaways behind Charles’ ear, the tips of his fingers lingering on the shell, sweetly affectionate.

Arthur smiled at Charles, precious and secret like the glint of gold in a riverbed. “Sunshine, I would never.”

Charles leaned up, pecking another kiss against those lips, tasting his own bitter salt. “How do we—”

Arthur pushed himself up, rearranging his limbs until he was kneeling on the cot, knees braced to either side of Charles’ waist.

Charles looked up at him, languorous, head resting sideways, one hand in his own hair while the other rested above his head. He stretched, spine arching against the taught canvas of the cot, sated satisfaction burning lazily from the joins of his shoulders to his curling toes. He regarded Arthur from under his lashes, warmth blooming in his chest when Arthur slid one hand to caress his right pec, thumb brushing lightly over his nipple. He tilted his jaw upwards, the sharpness of it beckoning Arthur forth for kisses.

Arthur obliged, nipping at the soft skin under Charles’ chin. That hunger was back in his eyes, sharp as a jackal’s.

Arthur rested his palms on the swell of Charles’ chest and ran his fingers against the abused flesh. With a hot look, Arthur ducked to bite and kiss against his handiwork, sucking further bruises into dark, scarred skin. Charles gasped, as Arthur pushed Charles’ tits up and in, kneading.

“Fuck, Arthur,” Charles whimpered, toes curling as Arthur fucked his tongue lewdly into the furrow he’d created. “Tryna kill me?”

Arthur released his mouthful with a wet pop, lightly brushing his thumbs against Charles’ nipples just to hear him whimper, strung out and small.

“Just lie back, gorgeous,” Arthur murmured, shoulders hunching in muscular relief against his shirt as he bent double to take Charles’ mouth. “Lemme have ya.”

Charles’ breath mixed with Arthur’s as he whined, lips working against Arthur’s own lazily. “You got about ten minutes before I’m conked out, Arthur.”

Arthur chuckled, fishing himself out of his jeans. His cock was an angry red, tip practically purple and dripping like a faucet. Charles hummed in sympathy—his man must have been aching for over an hour, now.

Experience had taught Charles that there was nothing Arthur loved so much as this; Charles laid out for him all loose-limbed and sated, eyes heavy-lidded, content as a cat in the sun with the aftershocks of what he let Arthur do to him.

It was strange, feeling coveted, precious, desired. Charles knew he’d always been handsome enough, in his own way, but no one had ever wanted him the way Arthur did. To sate themselves on his pleasure, rather than just taking their own.

It made it easy, so easy, to let Arthur do whatever he wanted. He’d proven time and again that what he wanted was Charles, however he could have him.

Arthur scooched forward, biting his lip at the short, sweet slide of his wet cock against Charles’ chest as he settled into position.

“Not sure I’m supposed to admit it,” he breathed, ears scarlet, “But we’re gonna be lucky if it takes five. I’m fit to bust.”

“Get a move on, then,” Charles teased, reaching down to slap Arthur on the ass. “Giddy-up, cowboy.”

Arthur pinched one of Charles’ nipples in retaliation, licking his chops at the overwhelmed whine that earned him.

“Gonna need your hands,” he said, seizing Charles by the wrists. He guided Charles to cup his own chest, pushing the heavy muscle of his pecs up and in to make a bosom.

Charles had to admit—Arthur was right. Pressed together, his tits looked full and soft, decent competition for any of the camp gals besides Karen. His mind flashed to corsets, how he’d look trussed up with cream lace edging his dark skin, rendered soft and, fuck, delicate. Pretty, even.

Heat flashed through Charles’ gut, his cock twitching a valiant effort against his thigh as the image sent a dirty thrill down his spine. It wasn’t something he’d ask for. Least, not yet, when he still wasn’t sure if Arthur wanted much more than to fool around. One day, though. Maybe.

“There we go,” Arthur purred, pleased. His cock twitched against Charles’ diaphragm, eager. “Press those sweet titties in, just like that.”

Arthur bit his lip, eyes fixed greedily on the furrow between Charles’ pecs, flicking to the swollen, reddened peaks of his nipples. “Damn, Mr. Smith, you’re too pretty by half.”

Charles swallowed, pressing his tits higher, giving them a bounce just to watch the gleam of avarice in those thieving eyes. “You can cut the sweet talk—you’ve already got your cock on my chest.”

Arthur barked a laugh, fucking forward so his shiny, wet head fucked into the channel between Charles’ breasts, plowing the furrow. “I’ll cut the sweet talk when they hang me, sugar, and not a minute sooner,” he shot back, hips rocking as he began thrusting between Charles’ tits with abandon.

He reached down to brace himself, pinching the abused nubs of Charles’s nips, drooling over the stuttering whine that got him. “Fuck, you’re so puffy and swollen,” he panted, “So damn hot—”

Charles bit back a groan, throwing his head back as that buzz of pleasure shot through his overloaded nerves. “C’mon, Arthur,” he said, pulling his flesh tighter, higher, working the hot, thick cock fucking against him. “Thought you were gonna fuck ‘em, not take ‘em to dinner.”

“Just showin’ my appreciation, angel.” Arthur paused, leaning in to hawk a thick glob of spit between Charles’ pecs, slicking the way. He pressed his hand down against his cock, forming a tight, hot channel between his palm and Charles’ tits. He thrust forward, spreading the slick mess. He fucked deeper, driving his cock so the wet head caught Charles under the chin, leaving a filthy kiss of pre against his neck.

Charles had never felt so dirty, so used, so hot. He groaned, straining, bending his neck and opening his mouth to suck at that dripping cockhead as it drove against his lips.

“There he is,” Arthur groaned, strained, greedy. “God, you’re such a pretty slut, such gorgeous tits, such a perfect cocksucker mouth—”

Charles tilted his head back, eyes closed, wheezing. Arthur’s weight was heavy and perfect, his riding pressing the air from Charles’ lungs as he fucked him, leaving him lightheaded and breathless. “Fuck, c’mon Arthur. Give it to me.”

“Yeah?”

Charles nodded, hands slipping against the slick skin of his tits. He dug in, relishing his own warm flesh spilling between his fingers as he hefted himself higher, trying to make a tighter channel for Arthur to fuck.

“Wanna feel you come on me,” he gasped, eyes fluttering open to fix Arthur’s blown-out eyes with his own. “Hell, in me. Want your hands, your mouth, your cock—all of it, all the time.” Charles swallowed, savored the desperate look it earned him, Arthur’s eyes fixed on his lips, the jump of his throat.

“Can’t get enough of you touchin’ me,” he admitted. “You fuckin’ me. Never had anyone like you, never want anyone else.”

Arthur looked gut-shot, eyes wide and helpless as his hips stuttered. “Shit, Charles, can’t just say shit like that—”

“Never want another’s hands on me again, Arthur Morgan.” Charles fixed Arthur’s stare with his own, an eagle spotting its prey. He went in for the kill.

“Just you,” he said, pressing his knees up behind Arthur to rock him forward, bring him closer. He clenched down on his tits, chest sore and aching as he pressed in on the hot cock fucking against his sternum. “Always you.”

Arthur’s head snapped back, his red mouth dropping open in a helpless moan as he came. “Shit!”

Charles keened, back arching as hot, wet come spilled against his breasts. Ropes of cum glistened across Charles’ chest, strings of pearls shimmering in the lamplight, trailing perfect and sticky from the pouting head of Arthur’s spent cock.

A final shot of release hit Charles on the chin, coating his lips. The salt of it was warm and bitter on his tongue. “Fuck, Arthur, fuck, yeah—”

Arthur collapsed, hands scrabbling to draw Charles’ breasts towards him, struggling to grip the slippery, filthy skin of Charles’ ruined chest. “C’mere, Charles, lemme—”

Charles groaned as Arthur latched back onto his tits, licking and biting away his own come with eager tongue and teeth. His already abused nipples stung and tingled with the attention, sparking lazy curls of arousal in his belly.

“Taste so good,” Arthur panted, lathing a hot, wet stripe against the thundering of Charles’ heart. “So fucking good, all mine—”

“Yours,” Charles panted, abandoning his chest to curl his arms over Arthur’s back and pull him down into the mess. Closer, warm and filthy and perfect. “Just yours.”

Arthur whined like a kicked dog, wriggling up to lick against Charles’ mouth, overcome. “Shit, Charles, you ain’t hardly even know me yet.”

Charles stroked his hand through Arthur’s short hair, the strands slipping like silk through his fingers. He ducked to seize the firm tendon of Arthur’s neck between his teeth, sucking a desperate kiss against the flushed, freckled skin. His chest felt tight, full of something unnameable.

He hadn’t meant to say it. Had felt it, for a while now, but hadn’t dared speak it aloud.

“It's okay,” he promised, lips brushing the indent of his teeth in Arthur’s neck. His heart was heavy in his throat. He’d take whatever Arthur could give, even if it was just glorious fucking and sweet scraps and their steady friendship. Placing his hopes on a man like Arthur—a man like himself, who existed in the margins, who wasn’t a stranger to violence, who could die on any job-gone-wrong—was gambling with fate against a broken heart.

But it was a gamble worth taking, for the sweet possibility of never having to sleep another night without Arthur’s warmth at his side, live another day without that rasping chuckle in his ears, those chapped lips against his own. “I just—I wanted to say it.”

Arthur’s hand pet carefully through Charles’ hair, gently urging Charles to look at him.

Charles made a small noise, burying his teeth into Arthur’s shoulder instead, sucking another bite. If he looked up into Arthur’s eyes and saw pity there, it just might kill him.

Arthur sighed, tugging more insistently against Charles’ hair. Not yanking, but firm. “Charles—”

Charles released his mouthful, burying his nose in the crook of Arthur’s neck. “You don’t have to say it back.”

“Don’t have to—“ Arthur squirmed down Charles’ body, ducking his head to get up into his space, seeking his eyes.

“Charles Smith,” he said, firmly, sounding so much like Hosea delivering a reprimand that it was almost funny. “You think I’d be doin’ this with you just for, what? A roll in the hay?”

Charles met Arthur’s eyes, holding a breath. “You’ve said it yourself,” he defended, tentatively hopeful. The moment felt like a soap bubble—beautiful, delicate, easily popped. “We’re thieves, Arthur. I don’t…I try not to expect too much.”

Arthur’s eyes dulled, his shoulders hunching up around his ears like a child waiting to get struck. “Not sure how I should take that,” he grumbled, a little sour.

Charles closed his eyes, took a deep breath. He’d dug this hole for himself, opened his damn mouth. “Just take it for what it is,” he said. “Mary Gillis…she could give you a family.”

“Damn Tilly,” Arthur sighed, slumping forward to press a morose kiss to Charles’ collar. His gaze was hardened when he lifted his eyes, lake-blue eyes iced over with a hopeless sort of acceptance.

“Mary Gillis and I were just… some silly dream,” Arthur said, slowly. He took Charles’ hand in his and drew it to his lips, pressing a bristling kiss against Charles’ scarred knuckles.

“You, the gang, this—It ain’t perfect. Hell if I even know where we’re going with it.” Arthur laughed, a short bark of self-depreciation. “I ain’t exactly a prize catch. Everytime I wake up next to you it's the best I can do to hope it ain’t for the last time.”

“Wish you wouldn’t talk about yourself like that,” Charles frowned. “And I ain’t leavin’ anytime soon,” he said. “Thought you weren’t lookin’ for me to move on.”

“I ain’t,” Arthur insisted. “Damn, I’m makin’ a mess of this,” Arthur muttered, ducking to nuzzle against Charles’ palm. He sighed. “Look, Charles. I like you. I ain’t much for words, but I thought I’d made it clear that I think we got a shot at somethin’ real. And that’s worth a whole lot more to me than some fairytale.”

Charles swallowed, fingers curling to cup Arthur’s jaw, drawing him close enough that their lips brushed.

“Somethin’ real, huh?” He took a breath, let himself savor the flutter in his heart, hope like a sparrow’s wings. “Okay, Arthur. I’d like that.”

Outside the warm bubble of intimacy that was Arthur’s wagon, those of the gang unfortunate to still have decent hearing or who had yet to drink themselves to sleep gathered around the fire to commiserate.

Tilly took another slug of gin from the bottle generously offered by Karen.

“I shoulda gone with John and Abigail into town,” she bemoaned. Her head tilted back to regard the heavens, searching hopelessly for some sort of mercy, any reprieve from the very, very explicit noises coming from her adopted brother’s tent.

Karen hummed, stealing the bottle back. Her eyes remained fixed on the faintly glowing outline of Arthur’s wagon, the flush on her cheeks visible in the flickering firefight. She took a swig, offering the bottle to Sadie, who sat next to her. “Why?”

Sadie snorted, accepting. “Cause Marston and Abi don’t fuck like two cats in a sack gettin’ beat against a wall? Cause she wants to get some damn sleep?”

“Arthur only gets this loud and gross when Jack’s outta camp,” Tilly explained. She turned to Javier, clasping her hands as if in prayer. What she could hear of Arthur’s dirty talk was scarring on an elemental level. “Javi, if you love me you’ll play louder.”

Javier cocked a brow. “I don’t know,” he teased. “My fingers are getting pretty sore on this guitar.”

Tilly snagged the bottle of gin from Sadie, proffering it like an offering.

“I’ll tell you more stories about the dumb shit John did when we were kids,” she begged. “In God’s name, Javier, I don’t need to hear what my big brother thinks of Charles’ tits.”

Javier laughed, taking a swig before obliging. The loud strumming of his guitar rose in the night air. It couldn’t fully cover the loud, happy noises and grunts coming from Arthur’s wagon, but the principle of the attempt was soothing to Tilly’s grossed-out little-sister sensibilities.

“To be fair,” Javier sing-songed with a dirty grin, “They’re pretty great tits.”

Sadie snagged her beer from her side, toasting the air. “Fantastic tits.”

Tilly leaned back against the log, arm thrown dramatically over her eyes. “They’re amazing tits,” she admitted. “And I’m happy for Charles, really. That man has been much less of a grump since he and Arthur got together. I just don’t need to hear about it!”