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twigg96 · 8 days ago

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all for you, all for me

this fic, lovingly titled "writing to get the gears back in place pls lord help me" was a Small Thing that turned into a Big Thing, and now it's ready to be unleased into the vast void of tumblr's charthur truthers. i'll post on ao3 with a proper summery and tags next, but for now, take this and give me head pats bc i think i deserve it.

nsfw charthur fic under the cut:

Charles brains himself on the coach's roof real good, and Arthur has the gall to tell him to shut up.

“You’re a heartless bastard, do you know that?” He asks, growling into Arthur’s hair as he rolls his hips forward, humps into the sticky warmth of Arthur’s abdomen and smears wet across the lower part of his belly.

Arthur chuckles underneath him, nipping at the meat of Charles’ chest to make a point. He has Charles crying out into the humidity of the night air, mouth occupied with suckling a dark nipple into his mouth but still seeming to say, ‘And what? You’re the fool for stayin’ with me.’

And as Charles spreads his knees wider over Arthur’s thick thighs, sinking into the pair of fingers stretching him open like a two-dollar whore, he thinks, ‘I really am a fool.’ He’s a fool for pawing at Arthur’s face and dragging him upwards, kissing him like a man deprived and moaning a hungry, desperate cry of a sound. He’s a fool for carding shaky fingers through Arthur’s greasy hair that he hasn’t washed in days all the while Arthur licks into the hot branding of Charles’ mouth, whispers sweet words between violent swipes of his tongue that Charles can’t hear over the loud roar of blood pumping hot in his ears. And he’s a fool for loving such a heartless, mean, bastard of a man.

Arthur’s free hand wraps hot and slick around Charles’ cock, pumps him through the vehement shake of his body when the two clever fingers inside his twitching hole turn into three. “I missed you, darlin’. Thought about you every day I was gone.”

“Yeah,” Charles bites back, maybe with a little more heat than he intended. “Gone for almost a whole month, Arthur. No goodbye. No letter. You just got up and left me.”

“I didn’t leave you,” Arthur defends. Charles feels the hard lines of Arthur’s frown deepen across his lips, the way they pull down and wrinkle. “Dutch sent me out on a job. I didn’t know it’d take a month.”

Charles huffs, and kisses along Arthur’s scruff until the burn of his facial hair itches along the curve of Charles’ mouth, a secondary sting to the truth Charles was too stubborn to acknowledge. It’s embarrassing, even though Charles doesn’t and will likely never admit it out loud, that Arthur’s words—a mantra in his own mind, the ‘I didn’t leave you,’ it says, in reply to every, ‘He left,’ like a correction—soothes over the piping hot lava pit of doubt that engulfed Charles the very first morning he realized Arthur was gone. The day after they had their first real argument that left both of them rattled, the harsh words still floating around in the shallow banks of Charles’ mind that were easily fished up by even the smallest of reminders.

Arthur said he hates how Charles bottles up his emotions and refuses to talk, pushing everyone and everything and Arthur away until Charles is alone and angry because that’s how he gets when he can’t man up. When he can’t think of anyone but himself. Charles, taking Arthur’s insults to heart because it’s difficult to break out of self-isolation when you’ve been by yourself for longer than you’ve been alive, said he can’t stand how Arthur comes back to camp beaten and bloody, bruised all over from a small ‘errand’ Dutch told him to do—that Arthur’s loyalty would get him killed one day if he’s not careful, and that Charles will not be there to bury another loved one if he can help it. Arthur, with eyes darker than the deepest oceans, asked if it would be better if he never came back at all and Charles was quick to answer yes.

Their little shouting match ended with Charles stomping down to the river below Horseshoe Overlook and Arthur taking Rouge out for a long ride. Neither saw the other before nightfall and by the time Charles awoke the next day and brewed some shitty coffee as a peace offering, Arthur was gone. No one in camp knew where he went, Dutch’s lips sealed tighter than a national bank’s safe, and Charles spent the worse half of their month-long separation wondering when Arthur would come back. And when he did, would he come back to Charles? After all he said?

His thoughts were proven to be false, it turns out, because while Charles was out on night watch, Arthur, eager and a little wild-eyed, rode up on an equally unruly horse and dragged Charles to their newest stagecoach, freshly robbed from a rich prick by Sean, Javier, and John. That’s how they ended up here, with Charles’ button-up ripped open and hanging by the crease of his elbows, his pants haphazardly discarded somewhere in the cab, his braid loose and falling out from the way Arthur manhandled him into his lap. Arthur’s cock is free from the confinements of his fly and leaking a steady stream of pre over his dirty jeans, his fingers knuckle deep in his lover, both of them kissing apologies into each other’s flushed skins because neither have the coherence to say it out loud.

A cool, pearly bead of sweat rolls down Charles’ spine, melting somewhere down the line of his shirt.

“Arthur,” he calls out in that tone of voice, the one he uses when he wants Arthur to know that he’s ready, when Arthur’s fingers aren’t enough and Charles needs him inside now.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I gotcha.” Arthur kisses his jaw as he pulls out his fingers and blindly searches for his jar of salve, his other hand keeping Charles steady with a bruising grip on his side.

Charles is impatient as Arthur readies himself, rolling his hips across the tight muscles of Arthur’s thighs, lifts up and down on his knees because he’s waiting and Arthur is nothing but an infuriating man because he’s taking his sweet time.

“Arthur, c’mon.”

“Easy. I’m here, Charles. I’m right here.” Arthur pats Charles’ hip, guides the wet crown of his cock to Charles’ puckered hole, and the feeling of Arthur’s head breaching that first ring of resistance has both of them gasping, hands clawing at sweat-slippery skin.

Charles sinks down down down, legs shaking with the strain of holding himself back from saying fuck it and slamming himself on Arthur’s cock. Taking it easy be damned. He went a full month with nothing but his hands to satisfy him, his own fingers holding no torch to the way Arthur’s cock stretches him wide, how Charles takes him in so deeply he can feel his cock in his throat.

When he’s fully seated, the heat of Arthur warming Charles from the inside out, Charles throws his head back, rocks into the feel of him, and grins into the stifling, shuttered air of their cab. He slides up and grinds back down in that way he knows will rub the fat head of Arthur’s cock perfectly against his bundle of nerves, his own cock dribbling a thick pearl of come over Arthur’s stomach. He doesn’t bother to muffle his moan when Arthur bucks into him, his hands pulling Charles down hard on the downstroke.

They’re alone, anyway. Far off from the camp in their little bubble. Just the way they like it.

“You’re gorgeous, darlin’,” Arthur groans. “So pretty, ridin’ me like this. I missed it—missed you.”

Charles chokes on a moan, the end clipping off into a dry sob when Arthur hits him spot on. “Missed you too, Arthur. Fuck—I missed you so much, you bastard.”

Charles arches his back and hisses when Arthur’s blunt nails dig into the meat of his hips, leaving crescent-shaped marks on his skin. Arthur bites at his shoulder, digs his teeth into flesh hard enough for Charles to cry out, and buries his fingers at the downy soft hair of his neck, holds him there as he humps and rides, as he grinds down hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. Arthur gives and bites and scratches until Charles feels tender like a bruise, thrusting up into him with enough force to shake the cab off its wheels and make Charles clutch at the bulging strain of his shoulders, holding on like a lifeline.

He’s being rough tonight, has been since he twisted a fist into Charles’ button-up and hauled him into the coach, threw him down on the velvet seats and stripped his bottom half bare, grabbed his cock in a vice-like grip and stroked him to his first orgasm. It’s like Arthur can’t stop himself from feeling the intensity of it all, savoring the closeness, the intimacy of Charles’ body, and the way they fit together perfectly, somehow, despite every difference. Like how they always do.

Arthur is a bastard of a man for leaving without telling Charles, and Charles should still be angry with him, still wants to strike his knuckles against Arthur’s jaw the same way his words cracked something deep in Charles’ chest, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t because he’s a fool in love and he’s missed this bastard—his bastard.

So Charles will let Arthur do what he wants and Charles will return Arthur’s affection in plenty. It’s how they work, it seems. Arthur loves loud, biting at flesh and clawing at taunt muscles, poking at wounds until he can patch them up with the same hands that made them. Charles’ affinity is more that of rolling rain clouds, plump and full with a storm ready to unleash across a lone prairie, washing up dried rivers and wetlands until a flood erupts and sweeps everything away.

Neither of them knows how to love like those happy couples they see in towns, with gentle hands clasped together and soft-spoken words shared between sweet kisses. And Charles thinks that’s okay for neither of them holds that gentleness that makes up a ‘happy couple.’ They’re two hardened men crafted by the sins of a youth stolen too early, melded by the life of a gang, and fused together from the shared highs and lows of trying to survive a blood-soaked world that doesn’t have any room for men like them. They’re not good, nor bad, but merely suspended somewhere above the middle ground, dangling over the idea of normalcy, of the arguments that lead to silence. The longing that leads to loving.

They’re not normal or always happy, but they’re together. And, when Charles thinks about it, when he’s reminded that Arthur will always come back because he’s stubborn like that, always aiming to beat away the apprehensive thoughts of Charles’ frustration with rough kisses and bruising grips, he likes it better this way. Their way.

Charles skates hot hands over the dipping valleys of Arthur’s chest, and tweaks a rosy nipple before tracing the lines of his abdomen, softened by the layer of pudge over hard muscle. His nails drag through the forest of hair leading down to his navel, to the bush of his base where Charles swallows him whole with ease, the slick of their lovemaking matting down his wiry curls. Arthur moans a loud, untamed sound when Charles clenches around him, when he slides up a slow, long drag just to slam back down.

“Do you know how hard it was to be away?” Arthur asks suddenly, his face full of flush and hands heavy with the fat of Charles’ bottom. He squeezes a cheek in each palm just to spread them apart, fucking harder into the wet heat of him. “How I spent almost every night fuckin’ my fist, pretendin’ it was you? I was in agony, Charles. It took everythin’ I had in me not to turn around and come home to you.”

Charles whines, and leans forward into Arthur’s space so he can bounce backward. The draw of Arthur’s cock is a glorious slide of friction, Charles can feel every vein throb against his walls, can count every twitch and jump with every grind. His thighs burn with the type of ache he’ll embrace in the morning when Arthur fucks the exhaustion out of him before the bustle of camp awakes with the sun.

“I think this way is better,” he manages around a moan. “You know what they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

Arthur chuckles into Charles’ neck and places a kiss on the underside of his jaw, right where his pulse sings against his lips. “My heart hurts when I’m not with you, darlin’. Feels worse than a bullet. But at least a bullet hole closes up over time. My heart bled until I rode up this road and saw you standin’ under that tree.”

Charles’ breath hitches, his eyes prickle. He wraps his arms around Arthur’s neck, hides his face into the side of his scruff as he wriggles and rides, tries to take as much of Arthur as he can because he’s longed for this for weeks, to finally feel his man in a way only lovers do with greedy hands and welcoming lips.

“Mine too,” Charles sobs. He kisses Arthur fiercely and loses himself in the red-hot acceptance of his mouth. “You bastard, you left and took my heart with you. What kind of man does that?”

“Not one deservin’ of someone like you,” is Arthur’s breathless reply. Then, “You could’ve done the same thing. You could’ve told me to kick me to rocks and I would’ve. If you ever want me to leave you for good—”

“I don’t,” Charles growls, annoyed that Arthur would even suggest something as ludicrous as that. “You’re with me, Arthur Morgan. Wherever you go, I expect you to come back to me.”

Arthur’s arms come up and tighten around Charles’ waist, pulling him firmly to his chest like how he did when he jumped off his horse and drew Charles against him with the desperation of a man starved.

“I will,” he whispers against Charles’ lips. “Always back to you.”

And Charles believes him, knows his words are true because Arthur is a lot of things but a liar isn’t one of them. It’s maddening to be wanted like this, to love fiercely and be loved in return. It makes Charles dizzy to have his adoration reflected back at him with such beloved intensity. It makes him weak, all the way up his spine and down his calves, makes him cry into Arthur’s neck with the ferocity of it all.

“Charles. Sweetheart,” Arthur murmurs, using the hold he has on Charles to keep him still, cradling him into the embrace of a hug long awaited. Rough hands slide down the smooth of Charles’ back, over the dips and curves of his shoulders and arms, lips brushing along the submission of his mouth. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

It doesn’t take long for Arthur to fuck up into him, slouching into the seats and dragging Charles down with him, feeling Charles’ eyes overspill and his heart tremble with a love only found in storybooks before taking control with all the self-assurance in the world.

There are no other words for the overwhelming feeling that shoots up Charles’ spine and settles behind his teeth when Arthur fucks into him with intent, as Arthur offers himself on a silver platter because he may be loyal to Dutch and the gang, but he’ll always, always leave his faithfulness in Charles’ open palms, providing him with nothing less than everything he has. His cock sinks into the sucking heat of him with effortless fervor, the loud slap of skin echoing in the cab and accompanying the rickety protests of squeaky wheels as Arthur ruts up and grinds, makes Charles drool with the indescribable way it’s all so good.

Arthur guides Charles’ hips downward at the same time he thrusts up, whimpering into Charles’ neck and fucking into his warmth with an exigency only achievable by the mush-mouth praise falling from Charles’ mouth. Charles doesn’t even know if his words are coherent let alone in English, the way Arthur hammers at his insides has him losing all sense of awareness, makes him cock-dumb and malleable.

“That’s it, baby—fuck me like this—oh, Arthur—” Charles babbles, lost in the intense ferocity of Arthur’s touch. His cock bobs helplessly between them, drooling and hot, before Arthur draws Charles into his palm like there are magnets embedded under his skin, squeezes him on the upstroke and makes Charles moan a sound so whorish he feels shameful heat gather in his cheeks. “Fuck! So good, cowboy—don’t stop, just like that. All for me—give it to me, Arthur—please.”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” Arthur purs, stroking him with a wildness Charles has only ever seen him wear during a shootout, when he’s cornered and there’s no way out but forward. “You gonna come for me, big man? C’mon, I know you can do it, baby. You’re so good for me, my Charles. My big, beautiful, Charles.”

“Arthur,” Charles whines, lips skimming over the flushed skin of Arthur’s cheek. Large tears stream down his face at the sweet words, the ache in his lower back and ass, the pleasure that washes over him like a wave and pulls him under its blinding depths.

He comes like a bolt from the blue, spurting over Arthur’s fist in long, white strands, over Arthur’s belly and his black button-up. Stars shoot across his vision as his orgasm rocks through him like a supernova, making Charles cry out into the dark only to be muffled by Arthur’s lips finding his, kissing him like it’s the only thing he ever wants to do.

“That’s it, darlin’,” Arthur says against Charles’ spit-slick mouth, grinning into the mewl he draws out with his tongue. “Oh, you’re gorgeous like this. My Charles. All for me.”

“You too,” Charles gasps, barely registering how Arthur tears his shirt from his arms and arms to claw down sweat-damp skin, digging nails into muscle as he chases his own release, fucks him harder because that’s what Charles wants. “Inside, Arthur. Need you to fill me up—need to feel you.”

“Oh, Charles,” he chokes, eyes going wide and feverish. He kisses at the tears streaming down Charles’ face in fat, far-apart drops, licks at the salt on his jaw. “Anythin’, baby. Fuck, Charles, take it all. It’s all for you.”

And Arthur, with the benevolence of a man whose loyalty led him to this type of thing, loving Charles hard and making love to him soft, gives it his all. All for Charles to take and take and take. He comes with Charles’ name falling from his lips, his hips bucking like a pissed-off bull in a pasture. And Charles holds him through it, murmurs his thanks as he feels Arthur paint his insides, spilling hot and full where Charles will be able to feel him for ages.

When they’re done, when Charles milks the last spurt of come into his greedy hole and Arthur slumps into the coach's ruined seats, exhaustion finally seeping into their weary bones, they indulge. Arthur hooks his hands under the fleshy crooks of Charles’ knees and draws him up to fit tight against his chest before gliding his hands over the bare curve of his waist, pulling him closer as if he wants to mend them together. Charles drags his fingers through Arthur’s sweat-soaked hair, kisses at his scruff as he leans into the sticky mess of their coupling. His cock is rubbed raw against Arthur’s stomach, thighs shaking with the hurt spider crawling up his lower back, settling somewhere above his ass where he’ll complain about it later.

For now, noses are buried into necks, lips skim over bitten skin, and no words are exchanged save for the whispered ‘You okay?’ that Charles acknowledges with a heavy grunt, a flimsy fist thumped heavily across Arthur’s back. Arthur takes that as an ‘I’m alive’ and settles into the warmth of Charles’ body.

Neither of them knows how long they sit there, nor do either of them want to move, but Rouge rustles outside the stagecoach and pulls them out of their little bubble, makes them share a gentle brush of lips before parting. Charles relishes in the slow, careful drag of Arthur’s spent cock flopping out of his hole as he rolls to the side, the slick, squelchy feeling of come dripping between his cheeks and down his thighs and onto the stagecoaches seats.

It’s like a slow motion picture in Charles’ eyes, how Arthur watches stark white streak over his brown skin, his gaze blazing hotter than a bonfire, then, in that moment, Charles is unprepared for the unrelenting grip on his hips. Arthur maneuvers Charles with placate hands and gracious fingers until he’s spread over the velvet seat, thighs open wide for Arthur to kneel in between them like a man bending to pray. Charles can barely protest his oversensitivity before Arthur’s mouth is on him, licking at the tender inside of his thighs before he sucks at the wet give of his hole. Weak hands push at Arthur’s head, shoving him down until the entirety of his mouth encloses over Charles and he drinks him like a man sipping water from the finest gardens of Eden, tongue lapping at Charles’ puffy insides.

A second orgasm draws up tight through Charles’ belly in seconds and releases in meek, milk ropes. Arthur is quick to lick a rough swipe of his tongue over Charles’ balls and up his length, gathers it thick on his tongue, suckles Charles’ crown until his mouth is full and he’s climbing upwards, grabbing Charles’ jaw and tilting his head back. Something fierce strikes through Charles’ chest as he obeys the silent command to part his lips, rolling his tongue forward, and Arthur, moonstruck, spits their shared spunk into his mouth.

It’s wet and lewd, dirty like a fling in the grim of a back alley, but Charles welcomes it all the same and rakes his hand through Arhtur’s hair to drag him down into a filthy kiss.

“Didn’t have a rag in that bag of yours?” Charles asks when they break away, licking at the come shining in the corner of Arthur’s mouth. He doesn’t know who it belongs to, but it goes uncaring nonetheless.

Arthur grunts, straightens up with a playful pat to Charles’ spread thighs. “Where’s the fun in that, Charles? I don’t hear you complain.”

Because Charles won’t, not when it has Arthur on his knees and worshiping Charles like a deity.

Charles pokes dried streaks on Arthur’s front, the obvious stains that he’ll have to hide from Mrs. Grimshaw when she does the laundry. “Just an idea for next time.”

Arthur hums his acknowledgment as he hands Charles his pants and shirt, watching the strain in Charles’ legs and shoulders as he dresses himself. He doesn’t make it easy, though, always sneaking kisses over any strip of exposed skin, biting anywhere he can mark before the evidence of their reunion is concealed from the curious eyes of camp.

They clean up the best they can, Arthur using water from his canteen to wash away the crusty come on the seats and his abdomen, and Charles vowing to never tell a soul about what conspired within these four walls. If, for some crazed reason, someone enters the coach and notices the scratch marks on the roof, the rips in the backrest, and the uneven lay of the curtains, then Charles will feign innocence. Blame the damage on a family of raccoons searching for shelter in the night.

“I’ll walk you back,” Arthur says when they climb down the two-step stairs, clothes rumpled and stained with their hair in all kinds of arrays. Purple bruises petals on his neck when the moonlight catches him just right, and Charles feels something akin to pride bloom hot behind his ribs, has his teeth aching to sink into tender flesh all over again.

“I don’t need an escort,” Charles says, straightening his shirt that’s now missing three buttons. Hopefully, Karen won’t ask questions as to why Charles needs a repair done in the morning. “I can walk back by myself.”

“Yeah, I know,” Arthur agrees simply. Because he does. “Can’t I just walk ya? Y’know, be a gentleman. The kind that's all chivalrous and shit for his lover. Like those big hot-shots in them fancy films.”

Charles laughs, endeared. He picks up Arthur’s hat that fell in their frantic tumble from the main road to the stagecoach and dusts off the sides before planting it haphazardly over Arthur’s eyes, grinning like a fool in love. Which he is.

He also steals a kiss, just because he can. “You, Arthur Morgan, are the farthest thing from a gentleman.”

Arthur loops an arm around Charles’ waist, pulls in him until they’re chest to chest and Charles has to look up just a scant to catch his eyes because Arthur is a bastard of a man with two inches on him, and that pisses Charles off because what do you mean he’s taller? It doesn’t help that Arthur’s also older than him by seven years, but to have height as well as age over Charles? No, unacceptable. Charles screws up his face real tight, whips his head away from Arthur’s twinkling laugh.

“Aw, don’t give me that look, Charles,” Arthur says, pressing his lips to the prickle of Charles’ jaw, over the lightning strikes of his scar. “If I ain’t no gentleman, then you’re a fool for keepin’ me around.”

Charles sighs and drapes his arms over Arthur’s shoulders. “Yeah, I really am.”

He kisses him, then, slotting their lips together in that way that sends Charles’ heart into a tizzy, whips up something ferocious in his blood that pops and sizzles with every pass of Arthur’s tongue against his teeth.

“C’mon, cowboy,” Charles says, shaping himself so completely into Arthur’s space that he doesn’t know where he begins and Arthur ends. “Take me home.”

Arthur nods, presses his lips to Charles’ forehead before he takes his hand and fits their fingers between each other, holds him steady, holds him fast. They trek back to camp with Charles’ shotgun slung over his shoulder and Rouge trotting beside them, all the while Arthur explains what he saw on his travels with boisterous hand movements and hearty laughter, tugging Charles this way and that, kissing him when he finds a chance.

To anyone else, maybe they do look like a normal couple, like the ones Charles sees in Valentine, all kiss-drunk and happy. With matching rings around their fingers to show for it. Maybe, if they’re brave enough, they can walk into a bustling town with the same comfort they have when they enter Horseshoe Overlook with each other’s hearts held tightly between their palms, with the moon acting as their only witness to Arthur setting Rouge’s reins free before leading Charles to his bunk.

They’re both too big to fit comfortably on the cot, but they make it work, somehow, draping a large blanket over both their shoulders and scooting back far enough to rest their backs against the wagon’s side, their boots kicked off and everything, from their elbows to their knees, touching. Arthur, as observant as ever, takes notice of his things on his bedside table, untouched and without a speck of dust. He asks if Charles took care of his tent while he was gone, and Charles pretends to not hear him, leaning his head on Arthur’s shoulder and tucking his legs real snug beside him.

Arthur kisses his hairline and draws him in with a hand on his waist and affection in his voice. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, Arthur,” Charles mumbles, “just don’t leave for so long next time.”

Arthur hums, tucks himself real close against Charles like he can’t think of a next time.

Before they succumb to the gentle hands of sleep, and before Charles registers Lenny cursing him out for switching half an hour early, still groggy and stumbling his way up the road, Charles thinks he doesn’t want to be normal.

Yes, he wants a house on the lakeside and a husband to welcome him home, he wants the thundering sound of small feet running up and down the halls, screaming at a dog chasing them out the house and into the yard where they laugh and tumble in the grass. The life of the star-spangled American dream. He wants to hold Arthur’s hand during dinner at a restaurant and kiss him under the blinking lights of Saint Denis, love him in public without a care in the world because it’s normal.

They’re not normal, however, and that’s fine with Charles. To be normal is to be accepted, and they’re not, the gang and them. They’re sunbaked and white-knuckled, hardened around their jagged edges and the sharp glints of their guns, the bullet-shaped holes and star-marked wounds of their skins. They argue and they fight, Arthur and him, they say harsh words to aggravate because that’s the only way they know how to live: to harm before you hurt.

They’re not normal, and they’re definitely not always happy, but they’re together, and that’s how they’ll stay. All the time, and all for each other.

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