#i say minific but it ended up being like 2.5k :p

[husbandits]

Merry Christmas!

This is my secret santa gift for @unlikelynick, I hope you like it! this year I went with a minific abt charles and arthur’s relationship. it’s a little smuttier than my usual fare in the first half

  @rdr-secret-santa

It’s a sweltering day in late July, and the air is so humid that Arthur’s shirt feels glued to his shoulders. He feels practically worn out by midday but does his best to manage with the weather, a shorter than usual list of chores to keep him busy, the promise of a little attention when the sun goes down, and only the barest amount of layers necessary to look presentable. Right now he has a big bag of feed for the horses thrown over his shoulder, and not much but simple manual labor in mind. There’s a twinge of complaint to the bulky weight somewhere in between his shoulder blades, though it’s not yet enough to actually hurt, so he ignores it. Pushes the ache aside for later, when he’s not as busy, and focuses on the heat settling on his cheeks, from the exertion as much as the persistent thought of the reward waiting for him later. On getting this chore done, and then finding the supplies Miss Grimshaw’d asked him for earlier that morning. 

He does his best to shake off the carnal haze, hauling the heavy canvas bag across camp without much trouble. Offers Charles a wave of a greeting as he carefully clambers into the loosely gated off pen where the horses are being kept, though he doesn’t realize that, focused on repairing some worn bit of equipment as he is, Charles doesn’t see the gesture, and instead Arthur allows himself an eyeful of the man’s behind, the vague form filling out his grass-stained trousers, doing his mounting ardor no favors. He gives a masked groan, as he lets the feedbag drop to the ground, less discreetly than he’d like.

“Alright there?” Charles jolts at the sound, and glances up, briefly from his worktable, brows knit in worry. The hot sun casts a golden highlight across the line of his jaw, and Arthur takes a moment to just take in the sight.

He catches himself after a moment, and gives the man a shrug. “Yeah, yeah, s’fine. Just a little beat I guess.”

Charles nods at that, responds with a dull “I see”. Arthur lingers a moment, wanting to say something, clarify himself, but ends up with nothing. Just hangs there, lost in the moment. The heat sitting low in his gut, the way Charles’ presence makes the chaos constantly buzzing in his head grow still, and the want that’s been driving him half-mad all day.

Against his better judgement, against (or perhaps because of) the threat of [kissing] in the light of day, Arthur scans the sparse campsite briefly, and then his tenacity comes back in the form of a question, voice low in his chest. “Y’gotta minute t’spare? I, uh, I think this heat’s gettin’ t’me a bit...”

The offer is soft, hushed and almost hidden when he ducks his head, as if embarrassed, but it draws a warm chuckle from Charles all the same. It’s been nearly three months now, and Arthur is still finding himself taken by surprise by how earnestly affectionate Charles is, brazen almost, despite the risk. The man responds by reaching out, moving to ghost one hand around Arthur’s side in a feigned attempt to reach past him, for the leather-working tool hanging behind, palm warm against the thinned fabric of his worn-out work shirt. He gives just a moment of pause, eyeing the other side of the camp as well, before he moves closer. Murmurs, soft lips tantalizingly close to Arthur’s cheek. “I suppose I can spare a few minutes, if you need my help...”

The decommissioned wagon makes for good enough cover, as the pair duck behind it, shielded by the dense canvas, the wooden frame resting on the ground. Arthur gives to the heat building in his gut almost immediately, pushing closer still, following Charles down to the ground as they meet, arching into the hand that comes to rest at the back of his neck, absently. The kiss is soft, tender, and Arthur pulls away quickly, only for Charles to pull him right back. Chuckles again, holding the man’s sharp jaw with one firm, gentle hand. Guides Arthur down, sinking to his knees as Charles bows back, drawing him to follow.

They part again after a long moment, Arthur straddling Charles’ broad lap, large hands shaky with restless energy. In the back of his head, there’s the vague notion that this is getting to be too much, too open, but it's overridden by the languid, hungry way Charles leans into his touch. The rough feeling of the hands brushing against the sensitive buds of his nipples, the weight of the man’s brawny chest under his fingers. His shirt is being slid out of his waistband, buttons gently tugged out of their holes one by one before he can protest, and Arthur just sucks in a soft breath in response, catching Charles' lips once more. Delights himself in mapping the layout of his mouth, sucking the man’s lip between his teeth and toying with it.

Eventually he pulls away again, long enough to allow the both of them to catch their breath, and Arthur manages to find the presence of mind to mumble, “Need yer t-touch here,” before succumbing to the pull of his boyfriend’s allure again. Hums, sliding his hands up Charles’ coarse linen work shirt, while the man’s attention drifts lower, sliding his hands down the frayed waistband of his jeans, and practically squeezing his admittedly thick-set hips.

One of the horses, Old Belle, gives a curious snort as he shudders in response, but Arthur pays the interloper no mind, shooing off the mare with an absent toss of his hand. Feels as much as he hears Charles’ coarse laugh, lips pressed to his collarbone as his collar is pulled away entirely. Turns back to his boyfriend, meeting the man’s amusement with a reverent kiss to his temple. Falls back into his lips before he can give more than a moment of sentimentality.

This time they’re quicker, hungrier. Languor gives way to greed, and Arthur’s hand finds its way up to cup the sharp side of Charles’ jaw. Feels the attention drifting down to his [ass], and hisses against clenched teeth. Despite the cloying heat, the constant threat of being caught, he spreads his legs a little further. Lets Charles fumble with his belt, half-convinced that they’ll stop themselves before it gets too far.

The two of them have only done things proper a few times before, hidden away in one of the dilapidated cabins in the mountains, where no one could hope to stumble onto them, but right now, worked up as he is, all of the sense he’s managed to cling to over the course of his life is lost.

Once his pants are undone, belt hanging open depravedly to allow his throbbing length room, pressing against Charles’ still-constrained member ever so slightly. He sucks in an uneasy breath, shifting his hips to allow the hand toying at his behind better access, though the restrained man doesn’t move beyond squeezing him in loose handfuls. Mercifully, Charles at least seems to keep his head, and doesn’t go any further. Just allows himself a low sigh of want, and gently guides him back down, dick pushed where it can grind at his own rising member, moving one hand to pull open his trousers.

He gives Arthur a second or so of warning before he moves again, smoothing his slightly clammy palm over the head of his member. Arthur shudders in response, biting back a low groan behind clenched teeth, breath catching in his chest. He can feel the heat showing in his chest, the rosy blush Charles has told him, some months back, looks endearing on the tips of his ears; but he can’t do a thing about it. It’s been nearly a fortnight since he’s found the time to take care of himself, and now he’s all but lost to the satisfaction of it. Feels too good to care about modesty.

He knows he looks obscene, leaning back on his ankles, grinding himself forward helplessly against Charles. Feels worlds better, when he feels the man push back in return, chasing the pressure of Arthur’s member on his. Another beat, and Arthur throws out one hand, fingers splayed on the grain of the wood, grounding himself. Bites back another moan, less successfully this time.

Just as he gives in and puts one trembling hand on the pair of them, just as he feels himself start to bottom out, Arthur is hit with a throat being cleared, and the distinct sound of boots hitting one of the head-sized stones lying around the campground, exaggeratedly loud. Feels his heart nearly stop, and his blood freeze. Dares to look up, around the false protective cover of the canvas, after fumbling his pants back together with shaky hands, feeling Charles tug his own pants back together, presence warm at his side. Emerges, to find not only Dutch standing in the shade of the nearby elm tree, looking outright disappointed, arms folded over themselves, but Hosea standing beside him, expression pulled tight.

His thoughts grow still, breath almost coming to a stop. Every near-miss from his adolescence flashes in his head, the hushed reprimands about keeping himself hidden. The time they’d found him, kissing some boy in some town when he’d been somewhere in his early twenties, only to throw a fit and pack everything up in the middle of the night, skipping town. The-

“Arthur.” Dutch’s voice is sharp. Pulls him back to reality with it’s rigidity. “What, exactly, are the two of you getting up to back there?”

He gulps, feeling his hands tremble. Moves out from behind the wagon, unable to drag his eyes from the dirt floor, throat clenching up.

Before he can get more than a choked syllable out, Charles is responding. Has pulled his pants back together as if nothing had been happening, shirt falling back down into place, moving to his side with a light touch. “I don’t think that is any of your business, really.”

A pause at that, Dutch’s expression going from dismayed to incredulous. “It’s none of my business, what sort of, of perversion goes on in my camp?”

 He seethes, growing in volume and indignation, but Charles doesn’t seem fazed. brick-walls the man with his usual nonchalance, as if there’s nothing really of interest to him at all. “I don’t really see the fuss, honestly. You don’t get this upset whenever you catch John and Abigail, do you?”

Arthur jolts at that, and Dutch seems to bristle. Fumes, voice turning to a cracked pitch. “You don’t see the, the fuss with what, I assume, the two of you were getting up to? With defying the very word of god, in my, in this camp?”

He flinches at that. Charles moves a little closer, one hand moving to Arthur’s. Though the memory of that incident, the threat of being tossed out, though a little irrational at this point, is still sharp in his mind, Arthur finds himself calming, though his throat still feels like it’s full of sand.

“Not really.” Charles eventually counters, voice dull. “I mean, it’s not like we follow the ‘word of god’ much anyway.” He deadpans, seemingly unaffected by the fury that seems to radiate off of Dutch at that. “I’d always thought the bible condemned theft. Not to mention murder, but we don’t seem to have much of a problem about all that.”

Dutch gives a guff, wrinking his nose in disbelief. “No, I suppose we don’t, but this is-”

“This,” Charles interrupts, low voice growing just the slightest bit sharp, just a hint of intimidation to Dutch’s heaping browbeating. “Despite what it looks like, isn’t some quick fling. What we’re, what we’re building is a real relationship. It’s earnest, and it’s certainly not dangerous, not from anything but the law, which’ll hang any of us either way, and you.” Charles’ voice is a tense growl, and “And, for all your talk about ‘family’, I can’t imagine you’d really turn on Arthur, not for something as harmless as this.”

Arthur feels his jaw loosen at the words, at putting their relationship out in the open, and laying everything out so plainly. He opens his mouth to speak, but still, still can’t manage a sound, and reaches out again to catch Charles’ hand again, give it a squeeze. “And I don’t know what exactly you think constitutes a healthy relationship, but I know I, for one, am willing to put in the time and the effort to make this work; and we’re not hollering at each other and dragging other people into our problems, so I don’t see why it should be so upsetting for you.”

When Arthur looks up, Dutch’s face is bright red, and his shoulders are slack. He gapes, but before he can splutter more than a syllable or two, Hosea pipes up, drifting back into focus. Is thoughtful and calm in contrast to Dutch’s indignation, and has an almost remorseful expression. Puts a steadying hand on Dutch’s shoulder, as if to pacify him.

“Well, I… I can’t say thought it would be quite this, ah, explosive, but it’s good to see the two of you finally stop dancing around all this,” He muses, brushing past Dutch to clap a warm hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Although in any case I’d think the both of you might like to be a little less exposed than out here with the horses. Maybe save the, er, houghmagandy for somewhere private?”

Charles grunts at that. Gives a long, cautious look, and then seems to ease up. Softens his posture, the aggression he’d shown smoothing over like it hadn’t happened in the first place. Turns to Arthur, pulling his hand away with a last squeeze. “Alright then. I’ll see you later?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, pressing a quick kiss to Arthur’s cheek before he pulls away. Strides off, heading back to the horses, after shooting Dutch another quick look. 

“Uhh,” Arthur finally, finally manages to find his voice. The wall of unease feels lessened, now that everything’s been tossed out in the open. Now that Hosea, at least, has acknowledged them, and seems to have given his blessing, even. “Yeah, alright.” He tugs at the open edges of his shirt, eyeing Dutch’s receding form for a scant moment. Jerks into motion, one hand coming to rub at the back of his head. “I gotta move some a’the supplies fer Miss Grimshaw, now that I think about it...”

He gets a grunt at that, but Dutch doesn’t speak again. Just huffs, heading off without comment. He doesn’t get more than a moment to ponder that however, Hosea throwing an arm around his shoulder and leading him in the other direction. “Oh, you got talked into doing all that? Here, I think I know where the supplies she was looking for are, let me give you a hand, son...."