𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬.
• pairing: arthur morgan x fem!reader • tags: modern au, cis reader, reader pov, nsfw, 18+, smut, porn with plot, meet cute, slow burn, age gap (late-20s to mid-30s), gendered language, friends to lovers, alcohol mention, erotic oil change, ironic use of “daddy” in conversation, banter, sexual tension, defilement, cunnlingus, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, rough sex, sweet ending • word count: ~3k • synopsis: Arthur fixes your car and revs your engine. • author's note: thank you for the request, anon! I hope you like it! p.s. do NOTTT come for me for any vehicular maintenance inaccuracies hahaha I'm just a girl I did my best! lmfaoo xoxo enjoy! masterlist | requests: OPEN | img source: 1,2,3,4 | pretty divider ©: @uzmacchiato
“All’a that money for that fancy piece of paper and you still don’t know the first thing 'bout changin' your own oil, do ya?”
Thickly calloused and perennially dusted with a working man's grime, Arthur's hands have never once touched you. But when he got your call about a funny knocking sound in your car and a flickering engine light, he was outside your place in less than twenty, ready to put 'em both to good use.
“That’s why I got you.” Is your coquettish retort.
"Sure." He smiles slow and ducks his head under your hood. "That’s why you got me.”
You met at a bar.
It was on your friend’s behalf that you approached Arthur to begin with; an act of charity for a wallflower in need, who nodded wistfully towards the leather-clad, lonesome cowboy, with his haunted eyes and five o'clock shadow and said, "I wanna talk to that one."
Way out of her league, in your professional opinion. Looked like he'd eat any one of your brood alive and spit 'em out on the sticky barroom floor — but such was the appeal of men like him. Older. Rougher. An empathetic young woman's idea of a 6'1" DIY project in Stetsons.
Spurred on by your cohort's encouragement, with the suede fringe of your skirt swishing at your calves, you slotted yourself between him and some other stranger and ordered yourself a drink.
The introduction you had in mind was perfectly friendly — but then he had to go and say something stupid like, "What's a little girl like you doin' orderin' whiskey neat?" And, well — then you had to fight him.
Debating Jack over Johnnie, Jameson over Jim — it was the most fun either of you had out in a long time. He ordered you both shots on his tab and soon the offense was forgotten — along with your wallflower friend.
You asked him about work and he shrugged and muttered something vague like "construction." You explained that your cap and gown were collecting dust in the back of your closet. That the “gap year” you meant to take between walking the stage with your diploma and grad school became plural for a number of reasons, not the least of which was the bottom line on your loans.
Arthur didn’t relate, but he listened.
“Tough break.” He winced against his whiskey. Ever sensitive, he said, “Well — if you’re dumb enough to care for all that schoolin’, s’pose a few extra thousand at the end of it won’t make much difference. I say if you wanna go, go.”
You found it oddly comforting, his brusque compassion.
The night wore on, your friends dispersed as if spurned, and Arthur never touched you. Never even tried. Just saw you safely to your cab with a bid that you, "Get home safe, miss." Then he rapped his knuckles on the roof and sauntered off into the shadows of memory, where such strangers were meant to remain.
"This here's called the dipstick."
You tut in mock disapproval. "Don't talk about yourself like that."
Arthur snorts and shakes his head. “Shut it, smartass. Just listen n’ learn.”
Sullied handkerchief in hand, he swipes the stick dry before tucking the cloth in his back pocket. His work tee, once white, stretches snug over thick bands of muscles, the hem tucked in his belted Levi’s.
“Now what’chu wanna do is…get it so you can see them lines on the indicator…and then,” he says, sliding the stick in the engine bay, “we’ll see what we get.”
Rattling it around in the chamber's depths, he ignores the lewd smirk on your face as he slowly withdraws the rod to examine its end.
"Shit, girl."
"What?"
"You seein' this?" He sucks his teeth with annoyance at your clueless expression, waving the dipstick around haphazardly. "Hardly a drop on this thing — reckon your engine's damn near bone dry."
You grimace. "Whoops?"
"Whoops ain’t the half of it." He scolds, looking you up and down. "That's a one-way ticket to trouble. Don't let this happen again. Unless you're fixin' to torch the damn thing with you in it."
You frown at him as he turns toward his truck. “Alright, well, no need to yell at me…”
“Yell?” He scoffs. “Be yellin’ at yourself when you’re broke down on the side of the road with an engine that up and quit 'cause you ain't changed your goddamn oil. You're lucky I keep some extra...”
Arms folded, you watch him hop up on his truck bed and rifle through the utility chest in the back, suppressing a pout.
“Ain’t your daddy ever teach you better?”
“He’s a biology professor.”
“Right.” Arthur laughs darkly, returning with a funnel, a fresh quart, and a few other tools you have no hope of surmising their purpose. “So he ain't taught'chu nothin’ that matters.”
Jutting your chin loftily, you taunt, “Guess you’re my daddy today." And you quickly learn that Arthur Morgan can blush.
“Just — turn the damn car on.”
The second time you met Arthur, you were not at your best.
"Well, if it ain't Miss Smarty." Came that telltale drawl, warm and familiar like the echo of a honeyed dream. Scowling at your phone you bristled, prepared to tell this stranger where to shove it, until—
"Oh." You blinked at him with dawning recognition, his hair ochreous under the bright cinema lights. The air was thick with petrichor, fresh puddles splashing under the tires of passing cars, streetlamps rippling in the damp. He stood at a respectable distance, his hands buried in the pockets of that same leather jacket.
"It's you."
"Arthur." He reminded you with an incline of his head.
"Right. Sorry, I..." You shook your head, gesturing vaguely with your phone as you tried to muzzle the gnashing irritation in your gut. "Y'caught me at a bad time. I was supposed to be meetin' somebody, but he just...up and canceled on me last minute..."
"That's too bad." He said gently, genuine.
"Thanks...I just — I mean — y'know, not for nothin' but what is wrong with you men nowadays?" You snarl, quickly amending with a half-hearted wave of your hand. "No offense."
"None taken." He smiled crookedly. "Reckon that's what'chu get, makin' plans with boys you meet on that damn phone."
You reclined on your heel, eyes narrowing. "And who said I was meetin' anybody off an app?"
"Well, were you?"
"...Not the point."
He laughed quietly and scuffed the sidewalk with the heel of his boot. And despite yourself, you smiled.
"Don't know what I'm supposed to do now." You mumbled, shoving your phone out of sight, defeated. "I bought the stupid tickets and everything..."
An opinion seemed to flicker in Arthur's eyes about that fact, which remained unspoken.
"...You seein' a movie, too?" You asked lamely.
His mouth worked thoughtfully beneath his stubbled mustache as he tilted his head back to read the blinking marquee. "I ain't sure yet."
You shifted your weight. "Well...I got an extra ticket, if..."
His eyes flickered to you with reserved interest.
"Unless—" You stammered, your confidence already wounded badly enough for one night. "Unless you're waitin' on— "
"I ain't waitin' on nobody."
Silence, charged with the current of possibility.
Your lips curved. "You always go to the movies by yourself?"
"Sometimes." He replied. "S'pose there's no gettin' stood up if you always go it alone."
You laughed, though you weren't certain he was joking. From your pocket you pulled the ticket stubs for two, holding them up for him to see. "Well, if you want...it's now or never..."
He looked at you. Then at the tickets. Then down the street, a conflict brewing under the surface of his stoicism that you didn't fully understand.
Finally, he took one and jutted his chin towards the main entrance. "So...you like butter on your popcorn, or what?"
“Alright. Pull up on that curb a bit so I can get under you.”
The arc of your brow lifts suggestively towards your hairline as you tilt your head out the driver's side window. He swears under his breath, ears tinged pink.
“I mean under your car, Miss Smarty.”
You snicker and shift into drive, coax the front left wheel up on the curb, and cut the engine. The lift gives him just enough clearance to crawl beneath the car with a torque wrench and a drain pan.
“Careful not to throw your back out down there, old man.” You tease, hip-checking the door closed behind you.
Arthur scoffs, voice muffled from the underbelly. “Reckon I’m in better shape’n you, princess.”
“Is that so?” Your eyes linger where the hem of his tee has betrayed the firm planes of his torso and the appealing tussock of hair trailing south below his belt. You swallow.
“Sure. Nobody got strong from book learnin’.”
"Maybe it's your brain that could use the exercise."
He chuckles. "True enough."
After a few minutes of grunting and swearing Arthur re-emerges, dragging the pan of odorous engine tar (or what was left of it) out with him, smatterings of fresh grime staining his front. "And now—" He rises to his full height, clearly trying to conceal the protest in his joints. "You get to do the final honors."
You look worried. "Me?"
"Oh, yes you. C'mere." He clicks his tongue by way of beckoning you to the hood, and to your chagrined amusement, you obey.
He fastens a small funnel to an opening on the engine. "Unscrew that quart."
You do, sniffing the open bottle out of morbid curiosity, surprised to find it mostly odorless.
"Now pour that in here. And don't spill too much."
"How do I know when to stop?"
"I'll tell ya." He says patiently. "Now pour."
You tip the quart, slowly emptying its contents in the basin below. And as you do, Arthur's never felt closer — so close you can feel the heat radiating off his frame, smell the old oil mingling with sweat and leather and cigarette smoke...
"It's thirsty." You mutter nervously.
"Sure." He murmurs.
You don’t stop until the quart is empty and he leans in to secure the cap back on the engine. He pulls away, clapping those work-worn hands and fixing you with a boyish smirk of satisfaction.
"Well, that's all there is to it, princess. I reckon she'll run a lot happier now."
“Thank you, Arthur.” You say earnestly, pulling from your pocket a wad of cash. “Here. Least I can do.” Sensing his hesitation, you push the payment toward him insistently. "Take it — for supplies, at least."
He looks at it for a long, conflicted moment before shaking his head and closing the hood with a thud. “Nah. I don’t want your money.”
You give him a look. “Arthur—“
“I don’t wanna hear it,” he says, pushing your hand away with surprising gentleness — and you’re startled to realize that it’s the first time he’s ever touched you. “Save it for school.”
You soften and gesture towards your front door. “Well, c’mon in for a bit, then. You can wash up and I can make you somethin’ to eat, or…”
He looks at you — really looks at you, and his cerulean stare roots you irrevocably where you stand. “I ain’t sure that’s a good idea, sweetheart.”
Your pulse pounds. "What, you nervous or somethin'?"
Jesus, he is. You can see it; the awkward shift in his weight, the unsure flexing of his hands at his sides — and that same look he had at the movies, glancing down the street as if he was debating whether or not to bolt.
"Arthur, what's wrong?" You press.
He wets his lips, eyes fluttering closed as if pained. "C'mon. Don't make me say it."
"Say what—?!"
"God damn it, I—" He rubs his face, heedless of the dirt he leaves behind, jaw working furiously. “I don’t — I don’t trust myself. Alone wit’chu.”
“...Arthur, you never so much as—“
“You think I don’t want to?” He interrupts, his voice as low and dangerous as you’ve ever heard him. “Think I don’t know what’chu been doin’, with your little jokes? Lookin’ good enough for me to eat? Like I ain’t over here, damn near givin’ myself a heart attack from tryin’ not to—to just take you in my arms and—“
You’ve never opened a door backwards before, but you suppose there’s a first time for everything.
You and Arthur all but destroy your entryway, a manic scramble of lips and limbs. Graduation photos knocked askew from the walls — a bowl of keys and spare change sent clattering off the bureau. Your legs lock around his waist like iron vines as he stumbles forward — or is it backward? You can’t tell — and you tug his hair in what you hope is the direction of the den.
“To the left — the left!”
He groans against your mouth, his tongue sloppily seeking yours in a claiming kiss. And the next bit of solid ground you know is your back on the couch, with him towering over you, eyes dark with the unbridled lust of a beast.
His weight pins yours to the cushions, the hot plushness of his lips in stark contrast to the pleasurable rasp of his stubble as it scrapes ever downwards. Filthy hands ruin your pastel camisole as he yanks the scalloped lace neckline below your bust. He suckles one aching breast and then the other, nibbling the pebbling peaks just to soothe them with flat swipes of his tongue.
Down, down.
Your body is a canvas for the smear of his fingerprints. He curls his hands in the waist of your shorts and pulls, with scarcely the patience to see them past your ankles before he's kneeling before you like a sacrament and spreading you wide. With a deep-bellied groan he burrows his face in the heady slope where your thigh sockets your hip, breathing you, biting you.
You yelp and squirm and those hands hold you fast — flattening your thighs as far as they can open just to stare into the core of you as though transfixed. You tremble with a vulnerability that's nigh on unbearable.
And then he tastes you.
"Jesus..." He marvels under his breath, blue-green eyes all but rolling as he flutters his tongue against your center, savoring you like a glass of top shelf rye. He works you with the whole of his mouth. Spit and slick flows freely down the seam of you and he laps you up like a desiccated dog under high noon.
Arthur laves you like he loves you, eyes soft and glassy. Observing every quiver of your hips, which strokes and caresses make you hum and sigh. His nose burrows against the soft mound above your clit. He moans like a man starved, the rumble of it like heaven against your swollen heat.
“Taste so good.”
He cups your ass, lifting you against his mouth and devouring you like a bowl of sweetest fruit. Slurping. Suckling. Chin dripping. Mellifluous praise spills from your parted lips and your thighs form a spastic frame for his face as you come, hard and fast, from his passionate feasting.
“One more.” He begs, bearing down on you with renewed hunger. “Gimme one more, baby—“
You count two — at least, while you still have wits enough to count — before he’s flipping you on your belly and parting you from behind.
"Ah—! Arthur, w-wait—" You whimper raggedly, clawing your way up the back of the couch in a boneless attempt to get your bearings. And then you feel him climbing behind you, caging you against the upholstery, his cock rock hard and heavy as he grinds the length of it between your cum-slickened cheeks. Barely has he kissed your slit with his head before he's fucking the dripping vice of your sweet cunt. Fast. Hard.
Your vision blurs. You can't breathe. He locks his forearm across your collarbone, veins undulating beneath his skin with the effort. His breath comes in animalistic grunts in your ear, shivers skittering down your spine. Your back bows, ass smacking noisily in erotic time with his piston thrusts.
“Feel so good, pretty girl. So good f’me.”
In the din of your frantic fucking, he doesn't last much longer — not that you could stand it otherwise. His grunts turn to soft-throated whimpers of their own, his pace stuttering and erratic, and you feel him spill hot, fast, and clumsy on the backs of your quaking thighs.
All is hush save for your shared breath and the chattering of your teeth as your body reels in the aftershock.
"H-hey..." He murmurs shakily against your skin. He holds you, firm yet gentle, his hand stroking the back of your head. "Y'alright?"
You nod, still at a loss for words, turning as best you can to loop your arms around his neck. He buries his face in the crook of yours where he stays for a long while, your bodies cradled in one another's in such a way where it's difficult to discern where one begins and the other ends.
"Shouldn't'a done that..."
You pant, chest heaving as you still chase breath. "Huh?"
"Shouldn't'a let me." He groans miserably.
"If this...is your idea of pillow talk..."
"I'm serious." He pulls back to meet your gaze and you've never seen him look so...tortured. "You're — you're young. Funny. Smart. You got — dreams, and things comin' your way that I — I'll ruin 'em, sweetheart. It's just about the only thing I know how to do."
Your eyes sting. "That ain't true."
"It is, honey girl." He presses the back of your hand to his lips with the reverence of a self-loathing sinner. "Want you so bad. Tried to resist you, best I could. I'm sorry. But I — I oughta go and...and I reckon I shouldn't see you no more."
Ice settles in your spine. "No."
He blinks dazedly. "...No?"
"No." You say, more firmly this time. "Idiot."
"Oh." He blinks some more, eyes shifting confusedly. "…Okay…”
You thwack him in the arm.
“Ow.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?!” You exclaim.
He rubs his bicep. “You want the shortlist or the whole damn bibliography?”
"We do all that and now's the time when you wanna drop some — some — self-loathin'-sorry bullshit on my lap?"
His mouth forms an exasperated line. "Ain't—"
"Y'know what, Arthur? When it comes to my car, you can boss me around all day — 'cuz I haven't a damn clue. What you're not gonna do—" You grab his face between your hands to force his shamed gaze, your own fiercely tender. "—Is make my decisions for me. Or — shoot our own damn happiness in the foot before we have half a chance to feel it. Okay?"
A storm of uncertainty clouds his expression, his eyes pools of sadness yet unspoken, hard-earned wisdoms he hasn't shared, grit that softens to reluctant vulnerability with your every word. Then the storm passes.
"Okay." He rasps.
"Okay." You echo, relieved. Your grip softens, thumbs stroking the arc of his cheekbones. He leans into your touch, eyelids fluttering closed.
"I like you, Arthur." You murmur sweetly.
"I like you, too, sugar." He replies. "I like you, too."
taglist: @anotheroutlaw; @babygirlarthur; @everlongingheart; @photo1030; @stupidgaynerd; @thedilfdiaries; @thorst; @vickylamborghini (thank you all so much for your interest and support! please lmk if you'd like to be added or removed for next time!)
