Archive of Our Own

Arthur watched Ennis and Old Boy disappear into the night with their riders in tow. They headed in opposite directions, intent on keeping away from camp a bit longer before they returned to Horseshoe Overlook. We should all go it alone right now, he had said, but he could feel Charles’ stare on him and, when he turned Galahad off the road, he heard Taima following.

He didn't think he was being too presumptuous, and he only had to wait until they broke the treeline for Charles to prove him right. The other man said one word, “Arthur,” and it was all the prompting he needed to pull Galahad to a stop and drop from his saddle. 

Instantly, Charles was at his chest, pushing him back, back, and into the trunk of a tree. The horses snorted their offense at their riders’ antics but Arthur barely registered the sound. Charles’ knee was already nudging his thighs apart, his grip on Arthur’s shirt pressing the collar hard against his neck and leaving him gasping.

”You are so stupid,” Charles growled, and kissed him. It was a rough thing, all clashing lips and searching tongues, and Arthur moaned shamelessly into it. Charles’ hands worked his gunbelt off with such efficiency that Arthur didn’t even feel it, didn’t know it had happened until his guns hit the ground by his boots with a soft thump. “What the hell possessed you to stand on top of the damn wagon?”

“Is this supposed to be a reprimand?” Arthur gasped, as Charles bit into his neck and started working the buttons of his pants free. “’Cause it—it don’t much feel like one.”  

"I ain't sure what it's supposed to be.”

His hand had found its way into Arthur’s jeans and Arthur’s weight sagged. It was all happening so goddamn fast and was so unlike anything they’d done before. They’d never fallen into each other like this. It had always been gradual, always a thing Arthur could see coming over the horizon, never anything at all like this. Charles' mouth was still buried in his neck. He wasn’t even kissing him proper and still Arthur felt like he couldn’t catch his breath.

Despite the lack of oxygen to his brain, he managed to understand Charles as he added, “I just know I've never seen a man look so good while doing something so idiotic."

“It’s somethin’ of a talent of mine,” Arthur gasped. He slid his hand beneath Charles’ hair to cup the back of his head. He held Charles’ eager mouth against his skin, already panting as he let his head fall back against the trunk of the tree.

Truth be told, he'd been half-hard standing on that wagon, full of adrenaline and hovering near all that energy—the train in motion and the stored potential of hundreds of gallons of fuel beneath his boots. The tracks had rattled as the train approached, vibrating him from the heels up. When the train's horn had blared, its single great headlamp staring him down, he'd felt like he was going to come apart. He'd had his rifle slung across his hips, but there weren't no way he would've been able to fire and hit anything. The headlamp near blinded him, but he'd been able to make out the shapes of the other men rushing out of the woods as the brakes screeched high and loud in his ears. The bandana over his face pushed his own hot, wet breath back at him and reminded him of that night outside of camp, with Charles' hand over his mouth, Charles' strong body beneath his.

He'd climbed down, blinking the stars from his vision, as Charles dragged the engineer off the train.

"What's going on here?" The man had demanded.

Charles had merely growled, "Nothing good," and then knocked him unconscious with a single blow. He’d crouched down to search his pockets and Arthur had forced himself to look away, for fear that otherwise they'd end up in a situation like they were in now—only with Charles the one pinned beneath Arthur’s weight instead.

The practical brutality that had followed, along with the firefight, had killed some of his arousal, but it was back in full force now. How could it not be? Charles was already freeing him from his pants and union suit, giving him a few rough, dry strokes as he dropped to his knees.

"Shit, Charles—" Arthur gasped. He scarcely had time for his hands to find the other man's shoulders before Charles was swallowing him down. Distantly, he registered that Charles had shed his coat at some point between robbing the train and leading Arthur into the trees. His fingers scrabbled over the rough denim of his vest and he tried to calm down his frantic, excited brain long enough to focus on what was happening.

He hadn't had the pleasure of Charles' mouth before. A part of him had assumed Charles just might not like the idea. He knew Charles was relatively inexperienced or, at least, that his experiences were fewer and further between than Arthur's own. And Arthur had been content—no, thrilled to live with what Charles could do with his hands alone. Whether wrapped around him or pushed deep inside of him, those gorgeous fingers could bring Arthur straight to the edge and kick him over in no time at all.

It was honestly becoming something of a problem. Last time he'd lingered too long watching Charles whittling, he'd had to excuse himself from the fire and into the cool of the night, hoping that it might chill his blood. He'd also hoped none of the others had read too much into the way he'd grunted as he stood, or seen him adjusting his own trousers as he stepped around one of the wagons.

But it seemed like Charles had only held off on this particular action due to lack of opportunity and other priorities. Now, Arthur found his knees going a bit weak at the other man's sheer enthusiasm. If Charles didn't like sucking cock, he was certainly doing a good job of hiding it.

He'd clearly done it before, or else he was blessed to not have much of a gag reflex. It took him a few minutes to find a rhythm and adjust to the intrusion of Arthur's length. Once he was comfortable, he was also unrelenting. He moved with confidence, pushing through the occasional gag to take Arthur in deep. He didn't even need to use those clever hands of his. One was firmly holding Arthur in place by his hip, the other—well, Arthur was so lost to the sensation that it took a moment for him to look down and realize that Charles had put the other to use elsewhere.

Charles, ever practical, ever capable, had used his single hand to free the buttons of his own vest, untuck his shirt, and now was working his pants open. He had to pull away from Arthur to rise up on his knees and shimmy them down past his hips but Arthur didn’t much mind. It gave him the opportunity to plant his feet proper so that he didn't collapse in a heap without Charles bracing him.

Charles pressed a few wet kisses to his hip in apology as he retreated, and Arthur had the pleasure of watching him push his jeans and underwear down to his knees. It was only then, managing for a moment to tear his eyes from the gorgeous shape of Charles' cock, that he spotted the little tin resting on the ground between his own boots.

“Oh, fuck,” he gasped. His own hand flew to the base of his dick, squeezing tight as it pulsed a bead of precum onto his union suit. “Charles, are you—?”

“Need you bad, Arthur,” Charles murmured, kissing his thigh and then resting his forehead against it. Arthur whimpered. Charles’ clever right hand disappeared behind his back. He needed to be raised up more on his knees to accommodate the motion of his hand, and rather than bow his shoulders to put his mouth in proximity of Arthur’s cock, Charles’ left hand pinned Arthur against the tree by his hip, pushing on him hard, until he was forced to lever himself onto his tip-toes.

“C—christ,” Arthur stammered. Already his calves were starting to burn, his toes aching where they slid down into the ends of his boots. “Am I gonna fuck you, or are you fuckin’ me, big man?”

“Does it matter?” Charles asked coolly. His mouth trailed over to suck lightly at the side of Arthur’s dick. It was an insane tease of heat and saliva and hot breath. It weren’t nearly enough pressure. It was also perfect. Any more and Arthur sure as hell weren’t gonna last long enough to make it inside that sweet, tight hole Charles was kindly preparing for him.

“Suppose not,” he managed in reply.

Pinned to the tree, his body pulled tight as a bowstring, he felt like he really was coming apart now. Being obliterated by a speeding train be damned, this was how he wanted to go. His nerve-endings and muscles felt like they were being shredded, and all it took was Charles. His soft lips and tongue pressed too-light, too-gentle at his cock, practically giving it open-mouthed kisses. His cheek was flush to the wiry hair carpeting Arthur’s stomach.  All the while, that one strong hand forced Arthur in place and the other worked beyond his line of sight. He couldn’t see anything but the shadowed movement of Charles’ arm, but he could hear the muffled wet sound of Charles working himself open. He could tell when Charles’ thrusts became faster, because the movement was mirrored in the more rapid exhales that Charles pressed into Arthur’s sensitive skin like a benediction.

God, he was perfect. How had Arthur ever lived without this? Things had always been easy between them, from their very first meeting, when they had been merely tentative strangers, all the way up to this moment with Charles on his knees for him. And Arthur was amazed to discover that this was easy too. Sex had always been something he fumbled his way through before Charles. He'd never felt truly comfortable with other men. There had always been the worry of consequences or the threat of violence to keep him on edge. And with women he always felt too big and dirty and out of place. Women, even working girls, always seemed like such delicate things. Fine, beautiful creatures that he’d only ruin with his touch.

But Charles—Charles was beautiful, too, and had lived a life similar enough to his own that touching him didn’t feel like a sin. It felt more like communion, like offering something precious of himself, having it received with care, and having something equally precious given in return. 

He had always been hesitant when it came to touching women, but he had no such reservations now. He had one hand clenched tight in the fabric of Charles’ vest. With the other, he brushed back Charles’ lovely dark hair so that it fell behind his shoulder. He knew his hair was important to him, knew how much care went into keeping it free of tangles and imbued with that glossy sheen that made it look like liquid night.

So, Arthur put his hand against the back of Charles’ head, letting all that dark hair drape over his arm and away from the sloppy mess he was making of Arthur’s cock. Arthur didn’t mind his own hair being pulled—quite the opposite, but he wasn’t about to make any assumptions and his brain wasn’t working well enough to try and ask. So, he simply held Charles’ hair out of the way for him as he tried and failed to keep himself still. Despite the iron grip Charles had at his waist, Arthur still couldn’t help but twitch towards the warm, wet heat of Charles’ mouth.

There was so much of Charles that only Arthur had been allowed to see. That was starting to change a bit now, as Charles found his place within the gang, and maybe Arthur should’ve felt more possessive of Charles’ smiles, of the way Charles was making other folks laugh now, too. Instead, it made him feel a proud sort of triumph that the others at last got to see some glimpse of what he saw every time he looked at the other man. Finally his cobbled together little family could recognize how wonderful Charles was. Finally Charles was comfortable enough to show them.

And there weren’t no reason to feel possessive, because this—this was all his. The bared skin, the shared pleasure, and all those sweet little sounds Charles made. The way Charles spoke, much of this was new to him, too, and yet he shared it with Arthur so readily—so damn eagerly.

Distracted as Arthur was, and tense against the tree, he toppled easily when Charles suddenly grabbed him by the open folds of his shirt and pulled him down. He yelped in surprise, but Charles handled Arthur’s weight as easily as if he were hauling a hay bale or a sack of feed across camp. He pulled him off the tree and away, lurching sideways so that they fell together in a heap, with Arthur a dumb weight atop Charles. He barely had time to process the change in position before Charles pushed Arthur up and rolled him onto his back. He pressed him down by the shoulders, knees straddling Arthur’s hips. He was cursing at his jeans, still shackling him around the ankles and now pinning Arthur’s legs to the ground, too.

"Probably be easier if you let me—" Arthur began. He sat up and tried to gently guide Charles onto his hands and knees, or maybe on his back, but the younger man wasn't having it.

He stiff-armed Arthur, one hand to his shoulder to keep him at bay, and muttered, "Not what I want."

"What do you want? Let me help, darlin'."

The endearment earned him a brief softening of Charles' expression. The desperation eased a bit, replaced with half a smile that grew wider as Charles replied, "Ain't it obvious? Wanna ride you, cowboy."

Oh, good christ, the fact that he got to hear such words from Charles Smith's beautiful mouth—it was more than Arthur could ever hope to deserve. Yet, here it was, being offered freely with a gorgeous smirk and a coyly arched eyebrow.

“Fuck,” Arthur moaned, completely unable to find anything else to say. His hips jerked up of their own accord, chasing friction that wasn’t there, because Charles was still settled over his thighs. “Fuck, Charles.”

“That suit you?” Charles asked, raising his second eyebrow to join the first.

Goddamn, Arthur loved his eyebrows. Loved his eyes and his mouth and maybe—maybe was comin' to love him, too. So, it was only proper he helped the man get what he was after.

“I may be a fool, but I ain’t dumb enough to turn down somethin’ like that. Here—“

He braced Charles’ shoulder with one hand, steadying his weight, and helped him tug off one of his boots. They ended up with Charles straddling Arthur, as he so clearly wished. His vest was hanging open, pants only half-off. His right leg was free, but the left was still trapped in a rough heap of fabric around the boot he was still wearing. He didn’t seem to mind though, already settling into position and using a slick hand to stroke Arthur.

Arthur gasped, “If—if you’re doin’ the ridin’, reckon you oughta wear this—“

He tilted his head back and groped for his hat. It had fallen into the grass when Charles had first shoved him against the tree. He snagged it, took a moment to glance at it and make sure it was oriented the right way, then placed it on Charles’ head. The other man’s returning smile was sly and bordering on dangerous. It made Arthur twitch in his grasp.

Still straddling Arthur, still with one hand holding his dick, Charles leaned forward to press a kiss to his mouth. “This okay?” he asked, and Arthur was shocked that he could possibly have any doubts, that he could possibly expect Arthur to form a damn response with Charles’ hand wrapped about his dick

“What?” he gasped, and Charles sat back on his thighs and laughed.

“Are you alright? I haven’t given you much chance to protest.”

“The hell I got to protest about?” Arthur managed. Charles looked—well, a bit disheveled to be quite honest. Pants and underwear still caught around one leg, his shirt still on, vest draped open. But he also seemed so—so damn desperate for him. No one had ever wanted Arthur like this. He’d been paid to get other folks off and still no one had ever sought him out this eagerly for their own pleasure. No one else had made him feel like his body was worth so much more than the utilitarian ways it had been used in the past—to threaten, to inflict pain, or to fulfill a transaction.

He settled his hands on Charles’s hips and was surprised that he could string a whole second sentence together, “You—you might not be too happy if we make a mess of your shirt, though.”

“It’ll wash,” Charles replied, and then flashed that same dangerous grin. “Might be you oughta hold it up for me, though.”

“Hold—?” Arthur managed.

Charles took his hands in both of his own. He guided them inside his shirt and up under the folds of the vest until Arthur was cupping his pecs. The fabric bunched readily around Arthur’s arms, pulled effectively up off his stomach to reveal the proud jut of his cock. It had the same edge of filthy pleasure as sticking his hands up a woman’s skirt, only it was so much better because it was Charles. Perfect, ever-composed Charles, letting Arthur make a mess of him. Letting Arthur make a mess inside him.

Charles lifted up on his knees and reached back to guide Arthur with his right hand and—he was on his knees. His knee —

“Ch—Charles, your knee—“ Arthur managed, still obediently keeping his hands where they’d been placed. He even gave the soft skin beneath his fingers an indulgent squeeze as Charles leaned forward to press firmer into his touch.

“It’s fine, Arthur. Might be a bit sore tomorrow, but I’ll live.”

“Charles, darlin’—“ Arthur tried, but all thoughts of protest or negotiation flew from his mind as Charles shifted back again and he felt himself slide home. He let his head fall back into the grass and groaned as Charles slowly lowered himself. So goddamn slowly. It was for the best, Arthur knew, and he didn’t want to rush it. No need for Charles to end up with a sore knee and an aching ass. But damn did he want to grab those hips and fuck up into that impossible heat and friction.  

Charles eased his way down, shifting his knees apart a bit more to get even lower, until his ass was flush with Arthur’s thighs. Forcing his hips to remain still, Arthur had no other outlet for the anticipation but to reflexively squeeze the skin cupped in his hands. His nails bit into the soft flesh beneath and Charles moaned.

He was scarcely more than a warm, heavy silhouette above Arthur. The noises he made were precious things, somehow drawn forth by Arthur’s pale, hairy body, spotted with its moles and freckles and old scars. It was damn near a miracle he could be a part of creating such sweet sounds. He just wished he could see the expressions that accompanied them.

Charles hadn’t raised himself up again. He was just sitting against Arthur and slowly rocking his hips forward in little jerks. His breath came in long, ragged sighs and Arthur unconsciously found himself mimicking them. The tension he’d been feeling since climbing aboard that wagon hadn’t yet eased and this—this was only ratcheting it higher. He stroked his hands over Charles’ skin, trying to reassure him, trying to reassure himself, and was rewarded by Charles letting out a long sigh and easing back up onto his knees.

“Fuck—“ Arthur huffed, helpless in the face of the slow drag of pressure and heat.

Charles made him feel like he was on fire—like he had gone up in one great inferno set off by the combustion of oil. He trembled and, as Charles began to move in a long, steady rhythm, one hand jumped to the bulk of Charles’s waist. Immediately, Charles grabbed his wrist and put his hand back on his breast. He pressed Arthur’s palm flat to the swell of muscle and fat and covered it with his own.

“Know you like ‘em, cowboy,” he breathed, squeezing Arthur’s hand under his, “so keep your hands up here.”

“’Course I like ‘em,” Arthur gasped. They were flush once more, hips-to-ass, and Charles gave his hips an indulgent roll before rising up once more. Arthur’s hand twitched, aching to grasp his waist, aching to push upwards and help guide Charles’ body over his own. Charles’ hand squeezed over his, a reminder. Arthur didn’t move. “Finest pair of tits I ever seen.”

“Ain’t—ain’t never had anyone handle them before, the way you do.”

“Is everyone else you been with blind?” Arthur asked, incredulous.

Charles laughed. It was a breathless, sweet little thing.

It was also incredible how Arthur could feel it around his cock. This, too, was new to him. Before he would’ve considered the thought of laughing during sex mortifying. He never would’ve considered that it could strengthen the bond their bodies were creating, rather than something borne of shame. He’d never much been one to talk during sex, too worried of embarrassing himself or too busy enduring the cringe-inducing dirty talk of strangers—whether that he had paid for, or that had paid for him. Talk like that had always felt like it was just the same words being parroted at him that were used on everyone else. It never felt…well, special, he supposed. It never felt like something just meant for him.

“Always been in a hurry before or—or it was someone I didn’t much like being touched by,” Charles said and Arthur huffed at how closely the sentiment brushed up against his own thoughts.

“Well, that’s a damn shame.” He gave Charles another squeeze and, evidently content that Arthur would keep his hands where he wanted them, Charles let his drop away. Arthur rewarded the display of trust by adjusting his grip until he could rub his thumbs over his nipples. Just firm, slow pressure for now as Charles continued the slow rhythm. “But you like it, when it’s me?”

He’d never much protested when Arthur left marks across his neck and chest. And he certainly seemed to be enjoying it now—he had arched his back in a pretty curve that bared his neck and pressed his tits firmer into Arthur’s grasp.

“Yeah, I never thought it was somethin’ that’d feel good until—until you.”

Pride filled Arthur’s chest, making him damn near glow in the darkness. He grinned to himself—Charles’s head was still tilted back—and pinched a nipple between thumb and forefinger, still gentle, rolling the little bud between his fingertips.

"Fuck, Arthur—" Charles sighed, hips twitching. 

"You're so pretty," Arthur breathed. Moonlight splashed across Charles’ bared neck, glinting off the beads of his necklace. His hair seemed impossibly dark, darker than the night falling around them. What little light there was to be had glinted off the strands like stars. It made Arthur’s fingers itch for a pencil, itch to run his hands through the lovely length of it, but he kept his hands where they were and added, "Everythin' about you is pretty."

"I—I like that too,” Charles breathed. He had rolled his head back down to try to meet Arthur’s gaze. There was something almost shy in his voice, despite the fact that Arthur was buried inside of him. “Ain't been called pretty before."

"You sure your other partners weren't blind?" Arthur asked again. Charles laughed, more a breathless huff than anything that resonated real deep in his chest. It still made him falter distractedly around Arthur's length. He had to concentrate in order to joke, "Well, you're the prettiest girl I've ever had. No contest."

"Shit—" Charles gasped. He came down on him hard, leaving them both gasping.

"F—fuck, you like that, too? Like being my girl?"

He'd only been kidding, but he liked saying it and Charles—Charles didn't even reply with any words. He began to move quicker now and Arthur took it as permission to thrust up into him. He lifted his knees, knocking against Charles’ backside, planting his own boots—good God, how was he still wearing so much damn clothing? 

His legs were sweaty and shaking in his jeans. His shirt was fanned out over the ground and the union suit had only been undone far enough to fish out his dick. The rest of it clung like a second skin to his chest, back, and legs. Fuck—he was on fire. On fire and drowning in sweat, all at once.

“My girl—“ Arthur repeated, only half-aware of what was even coming out of his mouth. How could a mind, especially one fucked plain stupid as his was, think in all this heat? This pressure? “My Charles.” 

He pinched the nipples beneath his fingers, giving them a tug, and was rewarded by Charles arching his back beautifully. His hand flew up to keep Arthur’s hat steady on his head and the angle must’ve been better, because he began making quick, aborted little noises in time with Arthur’s thrusts.

“Wearin’ my hat,” Arthur breathed, “ridin’ me so good and lookin’ so pretty doin’ it. Only—only right I play with your tits, if that’s what you want—”

“Arthur—“

He loved the way his name sounded in Charles’ mouth, in that broken, half-scandalized tone. It was the sort of voice that was equal parts incredulous at his words and also beggin’ for him to say more. And who was he to refuse? How could he ever refuse someone like Charles? His Charles.

“This what you like?” Arthur asked, pinching again, then rolling the sensitive buds between his fingers. Charles cried out, real pretty for him.

Goddamn, it made him feel drunk—made him feel better than any amount of drink ever had in his life. He released Charles’ nipples, flicking over them with his thumbs, eliciting a soft gasp. He got himself two full handfuls of muscle and fat and hefted it under his palms. Charles, in turn, trembled under his hands and reached back to brace himself on Arthur’s knee.

Arthur hardly realized he was speaking until the sentence was halfway out of his mouth, “Christ, the rack on you, Charles. Just as good as any lady’s, just as soft and—fuck—“ he huffed as Charles clenched purposefully around him and shoved against him with a long grind. “—just as firm. Better, even, ‘cause you can take your shirt off ‘round camp and drive me half insane watch—watchin’ you chop wood and haul water.” 

With Arthur’s knees up and Charles’ back arched, the slow, firm grind of Charles’ ass against his thighs was brutal and exquisite. He couldn’t get any deeper, but it seemed like Charles was trying, like Charles would fold Arthur right up inside himself if he could. And damn if Arthur wouldn’t let him, wouldn’t break himself to pieces to make it easier to be consumed. 

“Wish I could get my mouth on you from here,” Arthur gasped. “Suck on those tits of yours—“ 

Charles practically fell over him. Arthur’s arms were momentarily pinned between them, but then Charles’ mouth found his, whimpering as the change in position forced him to slow, forced Arthur to slip out a bit. Ignoring his earlier instruction, Arthur worked a hand free to cup the back of Charles’ neck. It was slick with sweat, and Arthur used the other arm to prop himself up, straining to lick over the frantic beating of Charles’ pulse. 

Charles’ hand gripped the open folds of Arthur’s shirt. He pulled Arthur up as he leaned back, a very clear invitation to move his mouth towards his chest instead.

“Easy, darlin’,” Arthur murmured. He closed his hand over Charles’, trying gently to unclench his fist from the fabric. “I’m real fond of this shirt, y’know. My lady sewed it up real nice for me—“ 

“God,” Charles groaned, more exasperated this time than turned on. He released Arthur’s shirt to tangle into his hair instead. He tugged, effectively wiping the teasing smirk clean off Arthur’s face, and guided Arthur’s mouth to his chest. “Shut up, Arthur.” 

Arthur obliged. The position was awkward. He was propped up on one elbow, his other arm around Charles, his hand pressing on his back to force Charles’ chest into his face. Already it was straining his back and shoulders but he ignored it, helpless to do anything but fulfill his lover’s needs. 

And something about the effort it took was pushing Arthur closer towards his own release. That, or the fact that Charles was overwhelming his senses. He could hardly breathe against the press of the other man’s chest to his nose and the skin he was working dutifully in his mouth. His tongue swirled and lapped, moving however he could given the close confines and Charles’ tight grip on his hair. More often he bit and sucked, the imprecision easier in the limited space Charles allowed. When he could draw breath, his head filled with the scent of dirt and crushed grass, sweat and sex and Charles—the unique musk of the man, the floral notes of that oil he used on his hair, that little hint of animal smell from Taima, and the scent of campfire smoke still clinging to his clothes.

And, fuck, the sounds—the sounds Charles made were always perfect. Arthur loved the deep timbre of his voice when he spoke, that low rumble that resonated in Arthur’s heart and warmed him from the inside out. But Arthur loved those sweet, higher pitched little cries of his just as much, if not more. They were helpless little things, punched out of Charles by the force of his own pleasure. 

His own body sang with pain—with the pinching ache of his back and shoulder, and the sharp demanding tug of his hair in Charles’ grip. It all washed right over into pleasure and joined the dizzying flood of sensation drowning out the rest of the world. 

He didn’t even realize he’d started whimpering into Charles’ skin until the other man ran a hand through his hair, pausing to cradle his neck, and asked, “Close?”

Arthur nodded pathetically against him and gasped, “Yeah—yes, Charles—“

The other man sat fully up again. The change in angle, in position, momentarily inched Arthur back from the edge, but just for mere seconds. He let his legs fall in front of him, let Charles take over completely.

As it turned out, trusting Charles to see him to his end was a bad idea. Just as it began to crest, Charles leaned back. He placed both hands firm on Arthur’s thighs, just above his knees. He held him in place and let his full weight rest against Arthur’s hips. He didn’t move. He didn't even roll his hips, just sat there with Arthur buried to the hilt inside of him.

Arthur's hands scrabbled to Charles’ chest, remembering their previous instruction even as all other thought flew from his mind. His nails bit into the skin and Charles gasped but stayed still, waiting, as the muscles in Arthur's thighs twitched and he whimpered with need. He'd been so damn close, what—?

"Charles?" He asked. His voice had a broken, pathetic quality to it that should've been embarrassing, but he could still feel the tension in his back, his hips, his fucking balls.

Charles took one of Arthur's hands in his own and raised it to his lips. He placed a kiss gently to his palm—and at least Arthur could tell he was breathing hard, too—and said, "Ain't done with you yet, Arthur."

"But—"

"Hm, reckon this is your reprimand." Charles murmured. He bit gently at the calloused flesh just beneath Arthur's fingers. It didn't hurt. It didn't feel like hardly anything at all in contrast with the torturous stilled heat of Charles consuming him. "You were reckless. Didn't think that little stunt through too well. I'm just giving you some extra time to think now.” 

"Ain't doin' much thinkin'," Arthur's stupid, traitorous mouth said. But it was true. How could he think of anything but his own body trembling with the shock of its stolen release?

"That's okay," Charles breathed. He was shaking, too. Arthur could feel the tremors against his own thighs, and in the way Charles held his hand. He could hear it in the other man's voice. He hadn't just waylaid Arthur's pleasure. He'd pushed back his own, too. "I can wait. I'm a real patient man, Arthur. You know that."

Fuck, the thought of lying here for hours, maybe all night, while Charles forced him to be still and held him captive by his own cock...would Charles let him go soft and then bring him back? Or would he keep him hard and aching and right on the edge?

Arthur moaned and felt himself twitch. Charles must've felt it too. He dropped Arthur's hand to lean back again. The way he stroked Arthur's thighs made it seem like a soothing gesture, but it was also a way of making sure he remained still until his orgasm retreated enough for them to continue. As if Arthur would dare disobey—

—and it was a bit of a surprise, how deeply engrossed Arthur was by what Charles was doing to him. He’d been pushed around in the bedroom before. It came with the territory of putting one’s body up for hire. But he’d never been pushed like this by someone he cared about. He would’ve imagined it to be confusing, maybe a little hurtful, instead those feelings had never once crossed Arthur’s mind. He trusted Charles completely, trusted him to see Arthur to his end once he’d earned it—trusted that Charles didn’t actually need him to earn anything, that this was just a game they were playing. And, Christ, what a fun game it was.

"Easy there, boy," Charles said, smiling. He let a bit of a drawl creep into his tone in a clear imitation of the way Arthur spoke to Galahad. "Not yet. I gotta make sure you understand what you could be losin' when you risk your life like that."

He'd never step foot on any wagon ever again if it meant having more of this. The gang would just have to find themselves another driver. He nodded.

"You understand?" 

There was a gentle edge now to Charles’ tone, the teasing lilt fading into something more warm. Arthur understood instantly that this was also Charles’ way of asking if this was alright, without ruining the little game they were playing.

And he did understand—he understood perfectly well that Charles was putting some trust in him, too. He was trusting Arthur to let him know if he’d had enough, if he wanted this to stop.

He didn’t.

"I—yes.” Arthur swallowed around his still-pounding heart. He tried to focus past the sound of the blood rushing in his ears, the feel of it throbbing in his cock, still buried to the hilt in Charles’ ass. He exhaled shakily and managed to nod, “I understand."

Charles gently squeezed his legs. "How you feelin'?"

Truthfully, Arthur admitted, "Horny as a three-balled tomcat."

Charles snorted. "So, you need a minute?" At Arthur's nod, Charles shifted slowly to lie over his chest. It had both of them gasping again, even that little bit of movement and friction setting their bodies alight. Then Charles’ chest was against Arthur’s sweat-damp union suit. He ran a hand through Arthur’s hair, stroking gently in a sharp contrast to the tugging he’d just been doing minutes before. He placed a kiss to Arthur’s cheek and murmured, "Good. That's good of you, Arthur. Bein' honest with me."

Arthur shivered at the praise and turned his head, seeking Charles’ lips. He felt Charles smile as their mouths met but it melted away as they kissed. It started soft and shaky, both of them still trembling a little, and gradually deepened. Hands tangled in hair, tongues searching, and they kissed until their need receded like the tide. It swept away, allowing a brief moment of peace, only to slip back towards them again like a warm wave creeping over sand.

“Again?” Charles asked, pulling away just far enough to meet Arthur’s gaze.

“Please."

“So polite,” Charles teased.

He placed a hand to Arthur’s chest to push himself up, but Arthur caught him by the arm and said, “Wait—“

Now that they’d both had the chance to calm down a bit, Charles allowed Arthur to push his vest off his shoulders and down his arms. Charles’ spotted tunic followed, both articles tossed into the grass at their side. There was still the matter of the single boot and the bunched trousers, but every bit of Charles now settled in Arthur’s lap was bare. His sweaty skin shone in the moonlight, his hair falling loose and gorgeous over his shoulders and his fantastic tits.

Arthur lurched upright to kiss him, only to be stopped by Charles’ hand on his chest. Arthur made a noise a bit like a whine and furrowed his brows. Charles shushed him. His hands loosened a couple of the union suit buttons at the collar, then rubbed over Arthur’s chest. His right index finger found where Arthur’s nipple was peaked beneath the clinging fabric. It traced teasingly, tantalizingly, around it as Charles hummed, “You remember what you said about letting me rip this ol’ thing off of you?”

“Yes,” Arthur gasped. Charles didn’t even need to ask for further permission. Before he was able to, Arthur added, “Charles, yes.”

Charles drew his lower lip between his teeth. His eyes focused on the sliver of bared skin at Arthur’s collar. He took the edges of parted, unbuttoned fabric in each of his hands. Together, Arthur and Charles both inhaled then, with a rip of protesting thread and the repeating thwip! of yielding buttons, Arthur’s chest was exposed to the night air. Then Charles was pressing against him again. His left hand braced himself by Arthur’s head. The right pushed over Arthur’s pec, parting the tangle of rough hair with splayed fingers.

“Charles, you ain’t—“ He gasped as Charles’ mouth lapped over the hair on the opposite side, as Charles’ tongue swirled over his skin, sticking the hair flush. He took Arthur’s nipple into his mouth, then between his teeth, and Arthur moaned. His hands jumped to Charles’ hair, hips twitching helplessly up into the other man. “I—I’m a lot hairier than you—you ain’t gotta—I d—don’t mind if you don’t want—“

Charles had begun moving his hips, rolling them forward to drag his cock through the sweat-slick mat of hair over Arthur’s belly. He bit down and Arthur yelped.

“Too much?” Charles gasped, still moving deliciously on Arthur’s dick.

“N—no—“

“Then shut up, Arthur.” He placed a gentle kiss to the skin still tingling from the bite. “I love how hairy you are.”

“...you do?” Charles only hummed, once again working his tongue—working his pretty lips—over Arthur’s chest. “I look like a goddamn bearskin rug.”

“I know,” Charles groaned, and he certainly seemed to be enjoying it. His hips drove down, his cock chasing friction, and the thought of Charles’ cum stuck in the ugly tangle of hair over Arthur’s body made Arthur whimper, high and pathetic.

“Oh, fuck, Charles—“ Arthur gasped.

He couldn't convey how badly he wanted to see that image come to fruition, but he knew what he needed to do to make it happen. His hands flew to Charles’ hips, pushing Charles back onto his length as he once again planted his boots and thrust up. Charles moaned prettily against his heart. Arthur tried to shift his own legs a bit wider, tried to find a better angle.

Charles was so substantial in his hands. The soft, hefty bulk of his hip bones cushioned by fat was divine. Arthur had been a damn fool to risk his life like that. If he lived to be a hundred, he’d still never be able to get enough of Charles under his hands. He needed decades longer to feel Charles’ body against his own, to map it in his own mind. He needed to know what every inch of Charles looked like, tasted like, felt like beneath his hands and his mouth and the perfect slide of his own cock.

Charles sat up again and Arthur’s expression must’ve shown a flicker of panic, but Charles only huffed something akin to a laugh and sat back on him, resuming that same deeper angle from before. Now that his touch wasn’t limited to Charles’ chest, Arthur finally wrapped a hand around Charles’ gorgeous, thick length. He used a swipe of his thumb to spread precum down. Charles clenched around him and whimpered prettily, then, bafflingly, grabbed Arthur by the wrist and stilled his hand.

Arthur whined, somewhere between incredulous and pained—that Charles didn’t want his touch, didn’t want his help—

Charles guided Arthur’s hand away and up to his lips, once again kissing his palm. He followed the movement with a single kiss to each of his fingers, turning Arthur by the wrist to kiss his thumb last. His breath trembled over Arthur’s skin.“Not yet.”

The almost-panic surged again but Charles hadn’t stopped moving. If anything, he’d picked up his pace, driving his hips back and down with such force that he didn’t immediately hear it when Arthur asked, “What do you mean?”

“Don’t worry, cowboy,” Charles managed. It was only now, hearing him say that word, that Arthur realized his hat had fallen off at some point, but that was alright. It let more moonlight catch in Charles’ hair. “You can come, but not me. Not yet.”

“Why?” Arthur gasped. He wanted to see Charles to his end, too. He liked when they tipped over the edge together, liked hearing Charles’ pretty cries mingled with his own whimpers and gasps. He liked knowing that the pleasure between them was shared.

Charles repeated those same words from earlier with a gentle shake of his head, “Not what I want.”

Arthur was almost afraid to ask, but he did anyway, “What do you want?”

“Right now I want you to come inside me. Need you to fill me up.” Arthur groaned and Charles asked, “Can you do that?”

“Reckon I can manage,” Arthur murmured, finding that he actually did feel a little better with a task to accomplish. It morphed the helpless desperation he felt into determination. It made him feel a little less like he was making Charles do all the work.

He put both hands back on Charles’ hips and held tight. He forced him down as he began thrusting up in rapid shallow bursts. Charles’ head fell back, exposing the gorgeous long line of this throat to the night sky. He began to moan in time with Arthur’s thrusts, quick aborted little vowel sounds that he panted towards the stars. His hands were clenched tight over his own thighs and Arthur couldn’t fathom why the fool man wouldn’t just touch himself, or let Arthur touch him, but he wasn’t about to question the motives of Charles Smith, of all people. He trusted Charles to know what he wanted, and he trusted himself to give it to him.

“Fuck, Charles, you feel so good—“ He was already getting close again, which was maybe for the best. Surely whatever Charles had in mind meant seeing to his own pleasure once Arthur had found his. “Arch your back for me again, darlin’. Show me them pretty tits of yours.”

Charles obliged in less than a heartbeat. His shoulders went back and Arthur watched the firm mounds of fat and muscle jiggle. He grabbed Charles by the meat of his ass, pulling his cheeks apart, kneading the flesh beneath his fingers. Charles cursed and his hand flew between his own legs, gripping tight to his balls as a pearly bead of precum pushed itself onto his belly.

“Christ, Charles, you’re like somethin’ out of a dream.” Arthur breathed. The solid, steady clap of his thighs meeting Charles’ ass echoed in the darkness. Holding him spread open forced his entrance to be even tighter. “Got everything a feller could want. Those tits and this thick ass—“ he squeezed the flesh held tight in his hands. Charles made a sound that was a bit like a sob and christ, he was crying. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, but tears had made shiny tracks over the jut of his cheekbones. Fuck, he was so pretty. So damned pretty, and all his. How had he managed to get someone like Charles, all to himself? How could someone like this want him just as much as he wanted him? 

Arthur whimpered. “And you’ve got such a gorgeous cock and such a tight, wet pussy—“

“Fuck, Arthur, please—“ Charles begged. His brows were tugged down in an expression that could’ve been ecstasy or agony. He still had his own balls in a vice-grip like an absolute lunatic. He made a beautiful, broken noise as he clenched tight around Arthur’s dick. “In me—“ he gasped, “—in me, Arthur. Come on. Can’t—you’re gonna make me come.”

“Then let me,” Arthur pleaded, trying impossibly to thrust harder, deeper. His grip on Charles’ ass was no doubt going to leave bruises.

“No,” Charles managed through clenched teeth. He reached back and trailed his hand up Arthur’s thigh. In what must have been one last, desperate attempt to push Arthur over the edge before himself, he pressed his first and middle fingers hard into Arthur’s perineum.

Arthur came with a shout. He shoved up into Charles so hard that he dimly registered Charles’ hand smacking down on his chest to steady himself and keep from being bucked off. Arthur’s eyes screwed shut, but he still saw the stars anyway. They danced behind his eyelids as he made a broken and helpless sound of his own.

When his head stopped spinning and he could once again open his eyes, he found Charles hunched over his chest. One of his hands was splayed over Arthur's heart and his head was bowed, his hair tickling at Arthur's skin. Arthur lifted a heavy, trembling hand to brush some of the hair away and cup Charles' cheek. Charles hummed and tilted into his touch. 

"You gonna let me take care of you now?" Arthur slurred. He stroked his thumb along the jagged line of Charles’ scar and watched his eyes flutter closed. 

He let out a deep sigh and murmured, "Mhm, once you get it up again." 

"Once I—Sorry?" Arthur replied. He was sure he’d heard Charles correctly, but he couldn’t possibly expect—not after all that. “Charles, I don’t know if I can.” 

“’Course you can. You ain’t that old, cowboy,” Charles said easily. He pushed himself up again, sitting back with Arthur’s soft, leaking cock still inside him. Arthur gasped, his hands clenching in the grass by his sides.

“You do realize I got nearly ten years on you,” he managed once Charles was settled again and the pain-pleasure of overstimulation eased.

“But don’t you wanna take care of your girl?” He lifted one of Arthur’s hands to his face, kissing the palm and peeking coyly over Arthur’s fingertips. “Haven’t made me come yet. That ain’t too gentlemanly of you.” 

“I tried—“ Arthur protested, but his words died in his throat as Charles shifted the hand he was holding down between his legs. He guided it to his entrance as he eased up just a bit on his knees, just enough for some of Arthur’s own spend to leak out of him. Arthur whimpered, both at the added friction on his sensitive dick, and the plain and obvious evidence of what he’d done—what Charles had begged him to do.

Charles dropped his hand but Arthur kept it where he’d put it. He followed the wet trail up to the slick, tight pucker of Charles’ entrance. They both shivered as Arthur gently traced a finger around the greedy hole, still holding Arthur tight, still asking for more. 

So enthralled was Arthur by the moment, that he nearly didn’t hear Charles’ next words, “You got me nice and wet for you now. Don’t you wanna keep going?” 

It seemed Charles could throw him around just as effectively with his words as with his own strength. It was easily the filthiest thing Charles had ever said to him. The simple sentiment, paired with the soft give of his hole against Arthur’s fingers, had him moaning and completely unable to think of a response. Instead, he toyed with Charles’ rim, gently pushing his fingertip in alongside his cock. It made Charles squirm, which in turn had Arthur gasping and trying, in vain, to twitch his hips away from Charles and further into the ground.

Because he was a fool, and a glutton for punishment, he slid his finger deeper, cursing as Charles clenched and shocks of sensation spread from Arthur’s sensitive cock and up his aching spine. Still, he kept at it with almost morbid curiosity until the gentle rhythm of his finger, too much for Arthur, became too little for Charles. Consciously or not, he tried to thrust back into the touch, and also onto Arthur’s softened dick. Arthur’s hips jerked and his free hand jumped to Charles’ hip to still him.

He hadn’t even realized he’d started trembling until Charles ran a hand soothingly down his chest to rest over his ribs, feeling the frantic breaths beneath. “You okay?”

Arthur nodded, but it took a few moments longer before he could ease his finger out and mutter, “Christ, Charles. What the hell’s gotten into you?” He watched Charles’ eyebrow arch, one side of his mouth quirking into a smile. Arthur groaned, seeing the punchline coming, and shook his head, “Don’t answer that.”

“You asked,” Charles protested, but he allowed Arthur to carefully guide him back down for a kiss. 

Like before, it started out a leisurely thing, all smiles and teasing nips of teeth. Only this time, Arthur kept his hands on Charles’ ass. His left remained clapped firm over one cheek, separating it from its partner so that his right hand could toy idly at Charles’ hole. He traced the tight, sensitive skin with one finger, and then two. He trapped his own dick between the vee, gently rubbing himself with the sides of his middle and index fingers as his fingertips stroked Charles.

It was gentler than what he’d been doing before. Still, the soft-yet-filthy touch had both of them whimpering. That, combined with the way Charles clenched and shivered around him, had Arthur hard again faster than he would’ve thought possible. He still felt oversensitive, a fact made all the clearer as Charles gave a small, tentative jerk of his hips and Arthur gasped.

“Knew you could do it,” Charles hummed, smug, and placed a kiss over Arthur’s sternum.

Arthur huffed, somewhere between amused and incredulous. “Can I make a request?”

“Of course,” Charles replied. One of his hands had tangled into Arthur’s hair while they kissed and it was still there, fingers playing with the sweaty ends curling against his neck. They were so close that it was hard to look at Charles without going a little cross-eyed.

“Can you stay here, like this?” Arthur asked, shifting forward the few millimeters required to brush noses.

Charles smiled. “You wanna keep kissing me, Mr. Morgan?”

“Want you to come on me, Mr. Smith,” Arthur replied without missing a beat. “Harder for you to do if you’re sittin’ up.” He grinned and kissed Charles’ shock-slack lips. “The kissin’s a nice bonus though. Can you still find the slick?”

Charles had to push himself up to look for it. He’d turned them sideways when he’d levered Arthur off the tree and onto the ground. The little tin of vaseline had been left somewhere near Arthur’s shin. Arthur was not expecting Charles to lean back for it. It forced Arthur once again completely inside of him and he cursed, hands jumping to Charles’ thighs. Charles huffed out a breath of his own and managed to bump the tin close enough to grab. He settled back in position, half-lying over Arthur’s chest, and passed it to him.

“You, uh,” he hesitated, becoming suddenly very focused on opening the tin and scooping some of the slick out on two fingers. “You mean what you said? About bein’ wet for me?”

“I meant it,” Charles agreed, with one long roll of his hips, just to be sure.

He certainly felt wet enough. He was still tight around Arthur, but he moved over him in an easy glide. 

“Don’t need this then,” Arthur managed and set the tin aside. Instead of bringing his fingers to Charles’ ass, he trailed them along the other man’s cock to slick it, then finally wrapped his hand around him.

This time, Charles didn’t stop him or protest. Instead, he nuzzled into Arthur’s neck with a long, satisfied sigh, and Arthur let his left arm drape around Charles’ waist.

“This alright?” Arthur asked as he began to move.

He did his best to stay deep, rolling his hips in a way that he hoped was keeping steady pressure against Charles’ prostate. It wasn’t doing quite so much for Arthur’s own pleasure, but it certainly didn’t feel bad, and the sweet little sounds Charles was whimpering near his ear made it more than worth it.

“S’good,” Charles murmured.

His nose was flush to the skin just under Arthur’s jaw. One hand was tucked alongside Arthur’s ribs, holding himself up just enough that Arthur had room to move his hand. The other had once again gone to cup the back of Arthur’s head. It was about as close to a hug as they could get while still managing all the moving parts.

It was also a stark difference from the demanding way Charles had handled them before. He had consumed Arthur like a wildfire, all rushed heat, all the unrelenting demand of taking Arthur apart. Now he clung to him like the waters of a lakeshore—water and land disparate parts made whole, eroding one another with a gentle push-and-pull.

“Sweet thing,” Arthur hummed, deliriously happy. 

He kept the pace steady but unhurried. He once again planted his feet to push himself deeper, to create a sharper angle, and Charles responded with a moan against his neck.

Arthur's shoulders hurt and there’d been a tree root pressing into his back for ages. He was drenched in sweat and bordering on exhaustion...and he was certain he could stay right here, fucking slowly into Charles, forever. The warm solid weight of the man lying over him and the sweet little sounds he made were the most important thing in the world. It was the only thing that mattered and—damn. Goddamn, Arthur loved him.

Maybe it was the sex talkin’—because it certainly was the best sex Arthur’d had in his whole thirty-six years—or maybe it was the aftermath of adrenaline, but he didn’t think so. He wanted to be right here, using his body to make Charles Smith moan and whimper and sigh in pleasure, until the day he dropped dead.

He couldn’t say it, not so soon, maybe not ever, but definitely not now, not when Charles might just mistake it for a sex-drunk embellishing of Arthur’s feelings. So, he did his best to hold it in, letting the feeling well up inside of him. He tried to get some of it out by turning his face and pressing a kiss to Charles’ head. Tucked as he was in Arthur’s neck, all Arthur could reach was the cute little shell of his ear.

“So pretty, Charles,” he sighed, keeping his voice as low as he could manage without whispering. “Hope it feels good, darlin’. Just want you to feel good—“

“I do,” Charles whimpered in reply, and all Arthur’s thoughts of loving the man gave the words an extra thrill. “It does,” Charles added, “it feels real good. Can you—?”

He broke off and Arthur hummed in question. “Anythin’, just say the word.”

Charles shivered, “Just—just keep talkin’ to me. Like it when you talk to me.”

He wasn’t sure how it was possible to flush, not as sweaty and worked up as he already was, but his face got impossibly warmer. “You like my awful dirty talk?”

“Ain’t awful,” Charles protested. He kissed the underside of Arthur’s jaw. “And it ain’t gotta be dirty. Like it when you’re sweet, too.”

“Well, you make that part real easy,” Arthur hummed. He shifted his arm so that he could tuck his hand snugly over Charles’ ribs, hugging the man tight. “And it ain’t like you aren’t awful sweet to me too, darlin’.” Charles hummed, soft and encouraging, and Arthur found that it wasn't actually so easy to find sweet things to say. He did have to focus and think through what he was saying, for fear of letting those three simple little words slip by mistake. “Never had anyone treat me the way you do. Especially not after seein’ me the way you do—”

He drew himself up short, not wanting to sour the sweet moment with talks of robbery or murder or any of the other awful shit their lives demanded of the both of them. But if Charles was anything like Arthur—and he certainly seemed to be, given how quickly he’d drug him off the road tonight—then he could find Arthur just as attractive in those moments than in their softer ones.

“Get to see you like this, too,” Charles mumbled.

“And thank god for that,” Arthur returned, “I don’t rightly know what I’d do without you. Never had nothin’ like this before.”

“Me neither.”

Charles’ voice was practically a whisper, pressing the words feather-light into Arthur’s neck. He was pressed so close and had uttered the words so softly, that it was hard to tell if Charles had actually meant to kiss Arthur’s skin, or if it was just a byproduct of their proximity. Arthur’s heart felt like it was going to beat right out of his damn chest.

Was it possible Charles felt even a fraction of what he did? If so, was it possible for them to keep it? 

“Arthur, can you—faster? With your hand?” Arthur obliged immediately, earning a lovely little whimper and a shuddering jolt of Charles’ hips. “M’ready,” Charles mumbled.

“Alright, darlin’,” Arthur murmured. His throat felt tight with emotion, fondness laid so thick over his words that he was sure Charles could have heard the truth in them if he hadn’t been so distracted. Arthur promised, “I’ll get you there.”

He pressed another kiss to Charles’ ear and set a firmer, faster rhythm with his hand. With his hips, he stayed deep and continued the slow, steady grind.

“Arthur—“ Charles whined. His breath was hot and damp against the furrow between Arthur’s neck and shoulder. He’d begun desperately rutting his hips into Arthur’s grip. 

“Mhm? Come on, Charles. Let me have you. Paint me up real pretty, why dontchya?”

“Fuck—!” 

Charles clenched around him, spilling over Arthur’s hand and up his chest. Arthur delighted in it and tried to keep fucking Charles through it. He hadn’t thought he’d been especially close himself and hadn’t expected to come again, hadn’t really minded if he didn’t, but Charles’ orgasm just kept going. He shook in Arthur’s arms, writhing in his grip until his forehead was against Arthur’s shoulder and his whimpering gave way to desperate sobs.

Maybe Arthur had just been closer than he thought and too distracted by Charles to notice. Either way, he found himself tipping over again right alongside him. His rhythm stuttered, his hand falling away from Charles’ cock for fear of squeezing him too tight. Charles didn’t seem bothered. He continued to rut against the mess he was making of Arthur’s stomach as Arthur cursed and came a second time.

It was less all-consuming than his first orgasm, but somehow more euphoric, with the welling up of all that emotion having joined the crashing wave of physical relief. Arthur found himself pressing his face firmly into Charles’ hair. Both arms were around Charles now, holding him tight.

They came down together slowly. Arthur’s grip eased but he didn’t let go until Charles sighed into his shoulder and pushed himself up on shaking arms. He let out a ragged gasp as Arthur slipped free, then offered the night air a few more panting breaths as he levered himself forward and hesitated on his hands and knees over Arthur.

“Charles?” He asked. He placed a hand gently to Charles’ arm, waiting for him to look up. Then Arthur felt his spend drip from the other man and onto his own stomach. “Fuck, Charles—“

It was all he managed to say before Charles flopped over, then shifted with a grunt to wedge himself against Arthur’s side. Arthur laughed and extended his arm for the other man to pillow his head on. He listened to Charles breathe. One hand stroked lazy fingertips over the warm round of Charles' shoulder. The other played idly with the mess they’d made on Arthur's stomach and chest. The hair, gone softer with the damp of his own sweat, was now also sticky with cum and excess vaseline. Arthur spread the mess with his fingers, stroking his own skin in lazy whirls. He supposed if Charles liked the look of his body enough to do this to it, then he could stand to offer it up to him more often.

At his side, Charles bent his right knee up, planting his foot on the ground, and began to probe at the joint with his fingers. He started above his knee and used his hands to apply firm, gradual pressure down, around the crest of his kneecap and then along either side. Catching Arthur’s gaze, Charles admitted, “I might’ve overdone it.”

“Can I help?” Arthur asked.

He gave his own thighs a pat to indicate for Charles to hitch his leg over him. Charles shifted so that his head was a bit lower, giving Arthur back the use of his left arm, then draped his leg over Arthur with a grunt. Arthur carelessly wiped his hands clean on his union suit. With much greater consideration, he probed his fingers along Charles’ knee and tried to copy the movements he’d observed.

“Bit more pressure,” Charles suggested. Arthur complied and got a huff and a nod in response. "That's good. Just—just don't put pressure on the kneecap." 

They lay like that for a few minutes, both breathing slow. Even as filthy and uncomfortable as Arthur currently was, he was half-convinced he could fall asleep like this. But then Charles added, “Make some little circles? In the same places you been rubbin’ it.”

“Sure,” Arthur drawled, and began using his index and middle fingers to make firm little circles around the border of Charles’ knee. “Like this?”

“Mm, that’s perfect, Arthur.” Charles sounded near sleep himself, voice warm and soft.

"And this will help?" 

Charles hummed again and, with a sigh, turned to rest his head against Arthur's side. "Won't swell quite as bad." 

Not for the first time, Arthur found himself imagining an alternative to the life they lived, one where he and Charles could have a proper bed and room to themselves. Charles didn't seem like the sort of man to laze in bed all day, but he deserved the option of wasting a morning someplace comfortable and private...and a bath. A bath would be real nice right about now.

He was so lost in imagining it, so content in the repetitive motion of his hands, that he didn’t hear the clop of hooves approaching them. Arthur’s eyes were heavy-lidded and half-closed, which was the excuse he was going to lean on if Charles said anything about the high-pitched yelp he let out as Galahad snorted right across his face.

Charles seemed just as alarmed. He jerked out from under Arthur’s touch so fast that his foot knocked against Arthur’s hip. He shoved himself across the grass, head turning to look up at Galahad, only to swing his face the opposite direction as Taima stamped the ground to Charles’ side.

“Damn horses,” Arthur muttered. He shoved Galahad’s head away, earning an offended huff from the silver brute. “Suppose I’m glad they ain’t wandered off on us.”

Now that the initial shock had passed, Charles was handling the interruption with a little more grace. Taima had leaned down to puzzle over his bizarre state of mostly-undress and he had reached up to stroke her neck. “What is it, girl? We need to get a move on so you can get your dinner?”

She pressed her nose into his hand, mouthing hopefully at his fingers. Galahad, in turn, began lipping at Arthur’s sweaty hair. “Alright,” he groaned, “alright, boy. Gimme some space so I can get up.”

He would’ve been more embarrassed of all the grunting, groaning, and creaking of joints that sounded as he got to his feet, but it seemed that Charles wasn’t doing much better. Taima graciously let him lean on her as he pulled his pants back up enough to remove his bandana from his pocket. He made an attempt at cleaning himself up, then pulled his pants up the rest of the way. After offering Taima a thankful pat, he sought out his discarded boot and the remainder of his clothes.

Arthur had to first remove his boots and jeans, so that he could rid himself of the sweat-damp, cum-stained, and mostly-buttonless union suit. He felt instantly better without the dirty fabric against his skin, and only better still after he’d used it to wipe himself off. Once he was dressed, without his underwear this time, he picked the union suit back up and frowned. Perhaps it would be better if he just tossed it into the trees and bought another.

“How d’you reckon we explain this?” Arthur asked, holding it up.

“Suppose you’re gonna have to do your own laundry this week,” Charles replied. He grunted as he stooped to collect his discarded vest. He didn’t bother putting it back on. Instead, he limped—and the sight made something in Arthur’s chest twist—to Taima, folded it, and stowed it in her saddlebags. He hummed. “You think Sean and John will remember I didn’t actually fall jumping off the train?”

“That might explain the limp, but, uh…I’m afraid I probably left some marks a bit high on your neck.”

He busied himself with shoving his union suit into his bag. When he turned back around, Charles was just behind him. He placed a hand to Arthur’s cheek, smile just visible in the moonlight. With his other hand, he put Arthur’s hat back on his head and then leaned in to kiss him.

“Well,” he sighed, “so much for trying to keep this to ourselves a bit longer.”

“M’sorry,” Arthur murmured, even though it certainly didn’t seem like Charles was upset.

“Don’t be. If Sean and Karen can go at it like rabbits in the middle of camp, I reckon we’re allowed a few bruises.” He made to return to Taima but Arthur caught his arm and stepped into stride with him, offering his weight for Charles to sag against. Charles smiled and gave his hand a gentle pat. He didn’t pull away, even as he brushed off whatever pain he must be feeling, “It’s not that bad. Mostly just stiff.”

“Still, I—”

“Don’t apologize,” Charles cut him off. “I knew what I was doin’.”

“I was gonna say,” Arthur protested, “that I still wanna help.”

He guided Charles to Taima’s side and ducked under Charles’ arm as he got his left foot in the stirrup, helping to keep some of the weight off his bad knee. When Charles made to pull himself up with the pommel, Arthur gave him a boost.

“Thank you,” he murmured once he was settled.

“‘Course,” Arthur replied.

He mounted up himself and, if the two of them both rode a bit stiff in the saddle on the way back to camp, they each had the good graces not to mention it.