description: after a long day of work at the dso, you were streaming during your downtime when a subscriber admits they embarrassed themselves in front of a crush. to make them feel better, you tell them about the time you embarrassed yourself in front of an older agent, who you just so happened to have a fat crush on.
fluff ✿ 2.3k words -> leon kennedy masterlist
You had been working at the DSO for about two years. It was pretty mundane until you were moved to the location where some of the best field agents and dispatchers clocked in for work.
Among them, 30 year veteran Agent Leon Kennedy.
You heard so many stories about the guy growing up. You couldn’t believe he was the one to save the president's daughter by himself, let alone survive Raccoon city in ‘98.
Needless to say, it was sort of surreal seeing him stalk around the office your first day at work.
He was insanely good looking, but the years weren’t kind to him. You could tell from the way his shoulders were slightly hunched over from carrying the weight of the world for so long, the silver strands paving their way into his otherwise dark hair, and the faint lines etching their way across his face.
But, man, was he delectable.
You couldn’t help it! It wasn’t just the way he looked, but the way he acted.
He was kind to everyone around him. His dry jokes were awful in the best way. He was smart and you could tell he went out of his way to make everyone comfortable, including you.
You actually felt a little out of place on your first day, but he made sure to introduce himself to you first and mention you to his other colleagues to save you the awkward introductions.
Sometimes when he’d stumble into headquarters fresh from a mission, you’d steal a few glances, partly in concern and partly because a hot older guy was groaning and panting around headquarters with blood all over him.
Leon always looked a little rough when he returned. His hair would be slightly disheveled, jacket gone for whatever reason, clothes creased and worn from travel.
Sometimes there were faint bruises under his eye or temple or dried blood that wasn’t even his, splattered across his collar and arms.
Despite looking like a hot mess, he still carried himself with that conviction that made everyone move out of his way without even thinking about it.
Almost every single damn time you snuck a glance, he’d catch you red handed. Those sharp blue eyes would flick your way and he’d nod, or if he still had the energy, come over and talk to you.
You always looked away in record time, suddenly finding the report in front of you wildly interesting.
You internally screamed whenever he’d walk over to your desk, lean against it, and ask you how your day was like he didn’t just come back from hell.
It took everything in you not to act like a horny teenager and stare at the veins in his forearms, the little hairs and the speckles of blood decorating them.
And you could never weather that beautiful stare of his.
Why’d he have to look at people so intently when they spoke?
Damn blue eyed stare.
You needed to convince him to get brown contacts or something.
As exciting as the job was sometimes, you just wanted to go home, hop on your computer, and forget the world existed by playing whatever games you found interesting.
You started streaming about a year ago and had recently reached a following of about two hundred thousand.
It was insane, but you were glad you weren’t popular enough to be blasted all over TikTok or Instagram.
You were mid stream when someone donated fifty gifted subs.The message attached admitted they’d embarrassed themselves in front of their crush.
You thanked them of course, but chuckled at their admission.
You sighed, the memory of the other day resurfacing.
“I know how you feel, girl, trust me,” you said, giving the camera a knowing look.
Your chat instantly exploded with people egging you on.
And Leon surely wasn’t on Twitch so…
you spilled.
“If it makes you feel any better, I embarrassed myself real bad in front of my crush at work the other day too.”
You bit the skin on your hand as the memory plagued you.
Then you shook your head with a nervous chuckle. “Oh man, I don’t even know if I should say this…”
Another gifted sub popped up.
girl spill the tea I won’t tell anyone I promise
“Alright but if you clip this you’re all banned. Well actually I’m like ninety nine percent sure this guy isn’t even on social media okay he’s…he’s older so I don’t have to worry about him finding out.”
You rolled your eyes as new chats came in.
OLDER??
like how much older?
You scratched the back of your neck, “he's like....50?”
FIVE ZERO?
beekeeping age
an older man you say???
Dilffff
Oh so he’s a dilf
You gave the webcam a flat look.
“…Okay yeah he’s kind of a dilf, “ You faltered, “but he doesn’t have children okay, not that I know of.”
You shifted in your seat.
“This guy is very well known within our company. And I don’t know—he’s just great. He’s nice to everyone, he’s funny, and he cares about people.”
You huffed at the incoming words of encouragement, or words of delusion.
girl get him
SEDUCE HIM
Ooo a little age gap momentt
WHAT DOES HE LOOK LIKE
whats his name
“I don’t know if I should describe him cause I wanna respect his privacy,” you said with a small laugh. “But let’s just call him ‘the dilf from work’. He’s so out of my league it’s ridiculous.”
You leaned closer to the mic.
“So the other day I was in the break room grabbing a snack before my shift. I was half asleep, okay? Like barely functioning and he walks in.”
You buried your face in your hands for a second before continuing.
“And I panic because I didn’t expect him to be there so early. So I try to move out of the way really fast so he can get to the coffee machine. He sort of leans down to grab a coffee pod, while I grab my steel water bottle…and it sort of swings down—”
You pause, biting your tongue.
Your chat instantly filled with NOOOOOOOOs and you're assuming people know what comes next.
“…He stands up and slams his head into the water bottle as it’s swinging toward him—”
You clutched your forehead, “So now I’m panicking and apologizing cause I bonked him in the head and he’s just crouching there looking confused while I'm holding a hand over the area to prevent it from bleeding more.”
Oh honey…
Yea i would clear out the whole room
loll no he probably thought it was cute trust….
real
“I felt like a fucking idiot!” you cried with a little laugh, rubbing your face in anguish.
You covered your eyes with your palms and peeked through your fingers to read chat, "At least he was nice about it, he didn’t even complain.”
You sigh, “but that was still embarrassing.”
“I would never wish harm on anyone,” you continued quietly, “but I hope he got a concussion and forgets that even happened…or just forgets I exist in general.”
Comments rolled in again.
imagine he sees this
help
yall better not clip ts
“No, don't worry,” you reassured. “He’s not gonna see this. No one at my work is on Twitch or social media or anything like that.”
You let your arms fall back to the armrests and rocked the chair once, eyes flicking over the flood of messages.
Most of them were variations of there’s no way that’s true.
You just smiled to yourself.
And despite yourself, you suppressed a stupid little smile.
Because there was still a part of that embarrassing story you hadn’t told them because thinking about it still made your heart do something extremely annoying.
It happened right after the water bottle incident.
You’d found the little first aid kit in one of the cupboards and patched the cut on his forehead as best as you could while apologizing about twenty times. Leon had been sitting on the edge of the counter, head tilted forward a little so you could reach him, one hand braced against the surface beside him.
You were trying very hard not to think about how close he was. Or how embarrassing it was that you had nailed a federal agent in the head with a metal water bottle.
“There,” you muttered once the bandage was finally in place.
Your fingers were still a little shaky as you stepped back. “Sorry,” you added again.
Leon waved you off with a soft grin, “Ah, don’t worry about it.”
You turned toward the sink to throw the wrapper from the bandage away when you noticed there was dried blood on your fingers.
His blood. You froze for a second, staring at it.
“Oh,” you murmured quietly to yourself.
You reached for the sink to wash it off before it could smear on anything else, but you barely had time to turn the faucet when Leon spoke.
“Here, " he slid off the counter, "Let me.”
You glanced back.
Your pulse jumped the second his fingers wrapped around your wrist, they were huge and a little dry and calloused.
“Sorry about that,” he said, before he gently rinsed your hand under the faucet for longer than necessary and squeezed it a bit to ring it dry, like all this was his fault.
Back in the present, your chair rocked softly as chat continued flying up the screen.
“But anyways…I’m sure I’ll get over it someday.”
The next day at work you were running on maybe four hours of sleep.
You barely noticed Leon approaching until his shadow fell across your desk.
When you looked up, there he was with two cups of coffee in his hands.
He slid one toward you, and you straightened in surprise, “Oh—thank you!”
“Figured you’d need it, you’ve been here all day,” His voice was low and warm, a little rough around the edges like he was tired too.
Leon leaned forward, resting both elbows on your desk like he always did. The sleeves of his dark shirt were pushed up just slightly, revealing those familiar muscles you tried very hard not to stare at.
His hair was a little messy today, strands falling loosely across his forehead. There were faint shadows beneath his eyes that hinted he hadn’t slept much either, maybe he was working late, but somehow it only made him look better.
Your eyes were so dry they almost made the SpongeBob blinking sound, so you rubbed them.
“Tired?” He asked, gaze flitting around your face.
“Yeah…I was up all night finishing some reports after streaming.” You grin sheepishly.
He nods, “Streaming huh?”
You blinked.
“Yeah—you know…like on Twitch. Playing games and talking to chat and stuff.”
Leon’s mouth twitched faintly as he raised his cup to take a sip,
“I know what streaming is,” he clarified, eyes nearly piercing at you over the rim of his cup, like he was staring right into your soul.
You shifted in your seat, “Oh.”
“I’m not that old,” he added, voice softer this time.
You laughed, “Sorry, I just figured it wasn’t your kind of thing.”
He shifted his weight slightly against your desk, one shoulder dipping as he leaned more comfortably into the conversation.
“You’d be surprised,” he continued. “I’ve actually seen a few of yours.”
You froze completely.
“…Huh?” You said stupidly.
“Yeah.” Leon gave a small shrug like it was nothing, though the corner of his mouth and the glint in his eyes hinted he was enjoying your turmoil.
“I’m not really online myself, but Sherry said you had a big following…figured I’d take a look and see what you got up to after work.”
Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.
Damn Sherry.
Whenever he talked with the two of you, she was always looking at you with that little smirk. Or worse, nudged you on the shoulder whenever he approached you guys and made up some lame excuse to leave you alone with him…you knew she could sense your fat crush on him from day one.
“Oh.” Your brain was replaying every second of last night. “Okay.” You cleared your throat, trying to behave normally.
Then you noticed him rub the side of his head absently, fingers brushing along his temple.
“I’m so sorry again about hitting your head the other day,” you blurted out.
“What do you mean?” he blinked.
You stared, “When I hit your head with the water bottle?”
An amused huff left him, “I actually don’t remember much, I think I got a concussion. Been forgetting everything lately.”
You straightened immediately.
Wait, he actually got a concussion?…From a water bottle? So much for America's toughest agent.
You shook your head, what were you thinking?
So insensitive.
“I’m so sorry,” you frown, a wave of guilt washing over you, “Is it like a short term memory loss kind of thing?”
Leon watched you for a moment, then a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You could call it that.”
You nodded slowly, completely serious.
His eyes softened slightly as he looked down at you. Then he pushed off the desk, standing up straight again, “Ah, forgot I’ve got a meeting to head to.”
“Good luck,” You say a little dejectedly, expecting him to walk away, but he leaned closer.
You blinked, swallowing at his proximity.
“You might have to remind me what happened later over dinner,” he crooned.
What.
“Over dinner?...”
“Over dinner,” He concluded, leaning away to slip his jacket on, “You know, since you ‘bonked’ my head so hard.”
Your soul left your body.
“But—“
“I’ll pick you up at seven.” Leon winked and walked away, leaving you sitting there, face burning, realizing two horrifying things at once.
One.
He definitely watched your stream.
And two.
You were absolutely going to dinner with the dilf from work.
A few months later, things were different, but in a good way.
You had somehow survived the embarrassment of that stream and maiming Leon, the panic of realizing he heard about the stream, and the nerves that came along with that first dinner.
And now here you are, still streaming.
Except now there was a six foot government agent occasionally wandering through your apartment like it was the most normal thing in the world.
You were mid stream when your front door clicked open.
Your chat was already moving fast, colorful messages flying past your screen as you tried to focus. Behind you, you heard the quiet thud of footsteps and the rustle of a jacket being set down. You didn’t turn around right away since you were in the middle of a fight in your game, but you could hear him moving around the apartment, unhurried and quiet in that way he always was.
Your chat, unfortunately, noticed.
who just came in?
DOOR?
Is that a mannn???
You tried to ignore them, but a second later Leon stepped up beside your desk.
You caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of your eye. His hair was a little messy like usual, the collar of his jacket slightly rumpled, and he looked tired the way he often did after work.
He was holding a small paper bag. Without interrupting you, he quietly set a couple snacks down beside your keyboard. You looked up, giving him a soft grin as he crouched to give you a quick kiss.
Your chat exploded again.
HELLO?????
wait guys whose that
SNACK DELIVERY???
IS THAT HIM
tHe WORK DILF…
You snorted softly under your breath.
Leon leaned a hip against the side of your desk, folding his arms loosely as he watched your screen for a second.
His expression was calm, faintly amused for someone being examined by thousands.
When the chapter of the game ended with a cut scene, you leaned back in your chair with a relieved exhale.
“Okay guys, relax,” you said, grabbing one of the snacks Leon brought.
You glanced sideways at him.
He raised an eyebrow slightly, “Don’t be rude, Hon, aren’t you gonna introduce me?”
You rolled your eyes.
“Chat this is the work dilf I told you guys about a few months ago.”
Leon let out a quiet chuckle at that, ““The work what?”
He braced one hand on the back of your chair and leaned down further until his head appeared on the edge of the camera frame. He squinted slightly at the screen, trying to read the messages flying past.
HELLO SIR
Yo is that Leon Kennedy??
HI LEON
easy white chocolate
Your work dilf saved the presidents daughter?
Easy there white chocolate
BE cool chat
guys she said she works for the dso it makes sense
His brow furrowed with genuine confusion. “Why are they calling me white chocolate?”
You shook your head as the chat spammed even more at the sound of his voice.
ooo he’s real
HIS VOICE
flash us
BEEKEEPING AGE
Leon leaned a little closer to the monitor.
“…What’s beekeeping age?”
You dropped your head into your hands.
Leon glanced down at you, a small crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Should I be concerned?” he asked quietly.
You shook your head in defeat, “I don’t even know.”
While your chat was having the time of their lives, Leon leaned one arm on the desk, settling in like he had officially joined the stream.
He scanned the chat slowly.
“Alright,” he murmured, “I’ll read some more.”
You winced,
“Maybe don’t—“
Too late.
HOW OLD ARE YOU
Leon huffed, “Old.”
Wait so what do you guys do for work?
Leon paused, “…We work for the government.”
ARE YOU ACTUALLY THE WORK CRUSH
Leon glanced sideways at you, eyes softening just a little, “I hope so.”
How did you fall for her??
“Well, I knew she was the one for me when she clocked me in the head with a bottle.”
You smacked his chest, “It wasn't on purpose!”
Your heart flipped a little when he grabbed your hand and placed a soft kiss on your palm.
He straightened up after a moment, grabbing a snack from the bag. “Well, this has been…enlightening.”
“Sure was,” you muttered under your breath.
He glanced down at you, “You’ done embarrassing yourself online for the night?”
You huffed, “…No.”
Leon chuckled quietly, then ruffled your hair as he walked away.
You looked at the webcam like your chat was in timeout. “I hate all of you.”
Leon’s voice drifted from the kitchen.
“Be nice.”
Your viewers immediately sided with him of course.
shiii i mean, if leon worked with me, the world would neverrr hear the end of it
When I catch you, Mystra Ch. 1 (Gale of Waterdeep x fem!reader)
Rating: Explicit 18+
Word Count: 5k
Summary: The Weave connects you. The moment feels intimate. But what if you pushed inside Gale's mind instead of opening yours?
Warnings: Smut, a little bit of sex pollen but not really
A/N: New dork on my brain. First time writing bg3 or Gale so please excuse any world-building inaccuracies.
Masterlist | Series masterlist
A dark amber liquid burns inside the familiarly shaped bottle. The label reads Potion of Healing - recognisable, trustworthy… or so it would seem. Yet the warmth of the liquid heats your palms in a way that feels decidedly unusual.
Curiosity pricks at you. You tug the stopper free with a satisfying pop and lift the bottle toward your lips.
The sound is enough to draw the attention of the only travelling companion who lingered behind to help you rummage through a long-abandoned cart at the roadside for supplies. Gale of Waterdeep straightens, brushing dust from the front of his amethyst robes and discarding the burlap sack he was inspecting.
“I sincerely hope you’re not about to drink that,” Gale says at once. There’s a sharpness to his voice beneath his usual joviality. “Respect is hard-won, you know, and I would forfeit a great deal of mine if you insisted on treating an unidentified potion as an evening cordial.”
“Coming from the man who eats magical boots to stop himself exploding?”
It’s a careless joke - the kind you make when you start to become familiar with someone.
You think back to a few nights ago, when he told you the truth about the orb. How he’d knelt before you by the fire and guided your hand to his chest. You’d felt the faint, rhythmic glow of the Netherese orb beneath his skin - warm, fragile, alive. You’d forgotten to breathe.
The only other time you’d felt that breathless was when you’d plunged your hand into a mysterious void and pulled out a very handsome - but slightly blustering - wizard.
Sincerity has never been your strong suit. You write songs about it, sing it for others - but face to face, it slips sideways into humour.
Jokes are safer.
They say I like you without the terrifying part where you admit it out loud.
Still, you’re not entirely sure how a man who’s spent years in a tower talking to a cat might handle your particular brand of affection.
“Well, quite.”
Gale’s eyes crease at the corners, his mouth tugging into a wry smile. Relief hits you like sunlight.
“And if anyone knows the consequences of such decision-making, it’s me,” he continues, dry as parchment. “Now, hand it over, before you join my dubious ranks.”
You hold the bottle out to Gale, pointing at the label with mock offence. “You wound me. It’s clearly identified here - on the label.”
“Then I may lose even more respect for you than I thought possible,” he replies, smoothly plucking the bottle from your hands. He holds it up to the setting sun, the liquid glowing ominously. “If you can’t tell that some scoundrel has decanted gods-know-what into an empty healing phial, then your faith in labels is… well, charming, if a little naive…”
His words begin flowing with quickening energy. He’s in his element, detailing the hazards of repurposed potion bottles - grisly mishaps that could befall the unsuspecting amateur potioneer.
You wonder if he realises how handsome he looks when he’s like this - how his words tumble faster when he’s animated, how the low evening sun catches in his hair, how utterly alive he seems when explaining something he thinks you ought to know.
“Tav?” he asks suddenly. He’s watching you now with a furrowed brow, concern softening his voice. “My company can’t be that unbearable, can it? Do me the courtesy, at least, of not drinking mystery potions as some elaborate excuse to be rid of me.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks. Gods, he thinks you’re bored. That your silence is irritation rather than… this. A lovesick ache sinking low in your stomach.
“No, I’m listening!” you reply hastily. “What is it, then? The potion?”
Gale swirls the liquid inside the bottle as though it were a fine wine, examining the way it clings to the glass. He closes his eyes and lifts it delicately to his nose.
Gods, he has a nice nose.
You briefly think about what it’d be like to sit on it.
But you’re distracted from your own little distraction the moment he inhales. His eyes fly open, a flush creeps up his neck, betraying him before he can school his features.
“Where’s the stopper?” he asks, a little too quickly.
“Why? Is it dangerous?” you counter, though you can’t help noticing the way colour has bloomed from his neck right across his cheeks.
He reaches for the cork in your hands, fingers brushing yours in his haste. “Dangerous? That depends on one’s definition. Let us just say it is… an hindrance.”
Your brows lift as you pull your hand back - keeping the stopper out of his reach. “Well? What is it then?”
His lips press into a thin line. He seems to search for a dignified phrasing, settling on, “A Draught of Reckless Ardour. Alchemical mischief of the lowest order.”
“Reckless Ardour?” you repeat. “Like, enthusiasm? So we could use it in battle?”
“Er, no.” He clears his throat, his eyes flick to the rest of your group who are off in the distance, setting up camp by the river. “Not that sort of ardour. Let’s just say it’s not the sort of thing we should consume in mixed company.” His eyes land on you and he blurts, “Er - any company - I mean. And we definitely shouldn’t - shouldn’t consume it.”
He moves for the stopper again, but you’re quicker. Your swift hands take the potion from him and you hold it out of his reach..
“I want to make sure I know what it smells like,” you tease, “so I can identify it again in future.”
You hold the open bottle under your nose as he did.
“No, wait, Tav! Even the fumes can -”
The words dissolve as you inhale.
Time fractures. Your heart slams against your ribs. Your pupils flare as your eyes lock with Gale’s, the bottle caught between you.
The scent is not bright fire and spice as you’d expected from the physical heat. It’s dark. Heady. Musky. And achingly familiar. It reminds you of the way Gale smells in close quarters after battle, sweat and arcane crackle still clinging to his skin.
Your lips part. For one reckless, impossible moment you crave nothing but more.
The potion beckons you. Just a taste.
A single drop rolls from the rim down the neck of the bottle.
Slowly, defiantly, you drag your tongue along the neck of the bottle. Your lips rest on the rim.
Gale stares. His breath catches - audibly. His eyes widen with astonishment, the flush on his cheeks deepening. For one stolen heartbeat, he is utterly, devastatingly undone.
Then, he pulls himself together..
He wrenches the bottle and cork from your hands, jams the stopper into the neck, and shoves it into his bag with near-violent finality. Time snaps back to its ordinary rhythm. You blink, reeling, still tasting the musk of him on your tongue.
“You licked it,” he manages after a few moments of stunned silence. “That is something that happened.” His voice is stern but low, thick. His shoulders are rigid, his eyes everywhere but on you. “I need some air.”
Before you can point out that you’re already outside, he spins on his heel, striding down the slope toward the camp with long, purposeful steps. His hand clasps the satchel where he buried the bottle, as if keeping it caged will also contain the furious heat still written across his face.
You watch him go, the campfire’s smoke curling into the evening sky ahead of him. Only then does the flush creep into your own cheeks, mortification flooding in where boldness had burned only moments ago.
You hadn’t meant to… Gods, why had you licked it? His expression - shock melting into something else - flares unbidden in your mind.
You force out a breath, shake your head, and follow after him towards camp, heart still thrumming too fast as your lute jostles against your back with each step.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The campfire crackles, throwing sparks into the black sky, and the others are already working their way through bowls of stew.
You’re nowhere to be seen and you haven’t eaten supper. As the camp’s designated cook, this worries Gale far more than he cares to admit. He jokes to himself that he isn’t sure which cuts deeper: the prospect that you had taken a disliking to him, or to his cooking.
But he dreads one of those possibilities significantly more than the other.
He had been harsh with you earlier. Too harsh, perhaps. But what in the Nine Hells were you thinking, putting an obviously mislabelled potion to your lips when he specifically told you not to? Do you not know he always has your best interests at heart?
Well… almost always.
If he were honest with himself, there were selfish reasons to stop you drinking that potion too.
If you started begging for him, professing your love, and all of it only alchemy, it would have been a cruelty he could not bear. To hear those words, to taste that desire, and know it was false… he couldn’t risk putting himself through that.
And then, as if to torment him, you - well - you did that thing with your tongue. A jape, of course. You are laughter and sunlight and music all at once, and he’s ruined by it - undone in ways no spell or goddess ever managed. Did you see it in his eyes? How much it undid him?
Of course you did. You see everything. That’s what makes you such a fine songwriter - the way you notice the tremor in a voice, the glance that lingers too long. You write love as if you’ve studied it all your life, and yet you’ve never sung a verse that sounds like him.
No, with him it’s always laughter. Friendly warmth. The kind you give to a companion, not a lover. Which means, surely, you’ve seen the truth in him - and simply chosen not to return it.
So he stuffed the potion bottle into his bag, and tried to suppress it. And with it tried, foolishly, to suppress his feelings for you.
The bard.
Not the creator of cold, distant chords of the universe, but the composer of harmonies: warm and human and real.
Not a goddess demanding reverence, not a figure who loved him for his power.
Someone who talked to him like he was an ordinary man.
Gale thought he had given his heart once, to divinity itself, and that it had left him hollowed out. He thought he could never love again.
But now he is not so sure.
Because you are the melody he cannot silence.
And yet, he knows he is far less than what you deserve. You deserve someone whole - a man unburdened by catastrophe, not one carrying the end of times in his chest.
The wizard sealed himself away in his tower for nearly a year, because he knew a whole life was a luxury he could no longer afford. He has even trained himself to suppress his own desires, to deny every tremor of want because his surrender - the moment of his release - would detonate the Neterese orb within him, and with it, devastation.
You deserve love in its entirety: touch without fear, closeness without consequence.
And yet, almost every night since he met you, he dreams of yielding.
In his dreams it’s almost worth it.
He dreams of the sound of your sweet voice whispering his name. The press of your breath against his throat. The beat of your heart beneath his lips. The heat of your pulsing clit under his tongue. The squeeze of your cunt around his cock.
The decimation of you and everything in a ten mile radius when he succumbs to his pleasure.
No.
Even if you returned his feelings he would never allow it.
He could not.
“Strange. You usually ask us what we think of your cooking… distracted tonight, Gale?” Shadowheart’s tone is mild, but her eyes are knowing.
Gale looks up from his bowl, blinking as though startled out of a reverie.
Astarion doesn’t even bother to glance up from the tome he’s idly thumbing through. “So,” he drawls, “how is your sad, hopeless pining going?”
“I’m hardly pining,” Gale replies at once, a touch too sharply. “It has been a year or more since Mystra cast me aside.”
Astarion’s lips curl, laughter bright in his voice. “Oh, my dear wizard. I wasn’t talking about Mystra.”
For once, Gale is lost for words. The silence stretches, filled only by the fire’s crackle and the unmistakable exchange of knowing looks among his companions.
“If you’re looking for Tav,” Shadowheart adds gently, “she’s washing her things down by the river.”
“I wasn’t -” Gale begins, flustered.
“Just go, soldier. Tell her how you feel. With words,” beams Karlach, practically bouncing with encouragement.
“I wish it were that simple,” Gale sighs.
They exchange looks.
Gale knows they think him shy - or perhaps still entangled in thoughts of Mystra. But how does one explain the precariousness of his condition without inviting alarm? He could argue, could protest, but what would be the point? The only person who could ever understand is you.
With a quiet huff of resignation, he rises to his feet.
“Twenty gold says they fuck down there,” Astarion says, watching him leave.
“I’ll take that bet,” says Shadowheart.
Gale doesn’t need the Weave to divine the outcome. Shadowheart’s about to make some easy coin.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The cold river is exactly what you needed to wash away your lingering embarrassment. You’d only meant to rinse your armour and underclothes, but the clear, cool water against your skin was too tempting. Before long, you’d stripped bare, leaving your camp clothes folded on a nearby rock while you waded in.
Of course, bathing brings Gale to mind. It always does these days - and not for the reasons you’d hoped. Weeks ago, after a long and punishing march, he’d made some offhand sarcastic remark about how he liked your ‘musk’ and questioned the last time you had bathed. Since then, you’ve made a point of washing at every available opportunity with the soap you’d looted from the bathhouse at Waulkeen’s Rest, if only to deny him the chance to needle you again.
No matter what you do, you feel small beside him. Words are supposed to be your gift - your livelihood. Yet every time Gale opens his mouth, it’s as though he’s speaking from a library you’ve never been allowed to enter. Every phrase elegant, his vocabulary precise. His mind is a maze and you stumble, blindly feeling for the edges just trying to keep up.
You sink lower into the water, as if it could quiet the way you ache for him to look at you.
Mystra’s prodigy. An archmage. A man chosen by the gods themselves.
And you - what are you? A performer. A distraction. Someone who can put on a persuasive act to escape from the occasional tight spot.
How could you, a travelling lute player miles beyond their depth, compete with his ex, the goddess Mystra?
And yet, she left him with the orb in his chest. Left him to lock himself away, afraid of what he could do. Surely a goddess as powerful as Mystra could have simply stabilised the orb? If she ever truly loved him she would not have wanted to see him suffer.
You frown.
“When I catch you, Mystra…” you mutter venomously. The name feels sour on your tongue.
Then it hits you - sudden, furious inspiration.
You surge to your feet, water slapping against your thighs as you wade toward the rock where your clothes lie. Your lute rests on top, and you snatch it up with wet hands, droplets spattering across the wood.
Fingers find the strings before your mind catches up. You strum a few tentative notes, the sound soft and low against the rush of the river. A mournful tune with a heartbeat to it, the kind of song that sounds half prayer, half curse. And under your breath, you begin to sing:
“When I catch you, Mystra, I’ll ask what threads you spun,
To bind a boy within the Weave before his life begun.
You filled his head with lilac fire,
You fed his soul to your desire -
And left him cold, and left him thin,
With nothing but your name within…”
“Oh! Sorry,” says a surprised voice.
Gale’s voice.
You pull your lute instinctively closer to your naked body, and look up - startled to see Gale on the bank. His head whips to turn away, eyes clamped shut as though the very sight of you might strike him dead on the spot.
“Shadowheart said you were washing your clothes, not… er, well…” he blurts, voice higher pitched than usual, still stubbornly looking anywhere but at you.
“Playing the lute naked?” you laugh. “I’m not sure Shadowheart could have predicted that.”
“I’m terribly sorry. I’ll go.”
“You don’t have to -”
“No, my mother raised a gentleman,” he insists, hands raised like a man warding off a spell as he shuffles backwards, eyes squeezed shut.
A gentleman.
You try and stamp down the small voice that’s disappointed he isn’t interested in seeing you naked.
“Gale?”
He stops his blindly walking backwards. “Yes?”
“You didn’t… you didn’t hear any of that, did you?”
“No!” says Gale, a little too quickly, now covering his eyes with his hands. “I was completely lost in my own thoughts. I had actually come to check if you were well. That draught…” He clears his throat. “The after-effects can linger. Once the feelings of passion have worn off, the ingester can experience a heaviness of spirit. Particularly for those without… a certain constitution.”
Your chest tightens. Of course he’d be untouched by the potion. And you - already undone by a single breath of the stuff.
You force a laugh, but it’s brittle. “I’ll survive.”
You put down your lute and pick up your clothes. He shifts, beside the treeline of the clearing, eyes covered, jaw tight. He looks almost comical - facing the wrong direction of your voice.
“Yes, I imagine you will. Still, I thought it best to be certain. And I wanted to apologise for speaking so harshly earlier. It was only out of… well, clumsy concern.”
He came because he cared. And yet somehow, you feel smaller for it.
He clears his throat once more, still refusing to look. “That potion can make one do things that are out of character. I would hate for you to say things you might later wish unsaid.”
Ah. So that’s it. He doesn’t want to hear it.
He knows it would’ve been cruel for him to let you humiliate yourself by spilling your true feelings out for him at the behest of a potion.
You dress in silence, slowly, your fingers fumbling with the fabric. When you steal a glance at him, your mouth twists into a smile - it’s bordering on absurd, the way he’s standing with his back stiff and his eyes covered tightly as though you might blast him to ash if he dared peek.
You don’t hate that it makes you want him more. But you do hate that wanting him more is even possible. That there’s room in your brain to pine for him further.
“I just… always seem to embarrass myself in front of you. I act foolishly. Impulsively,” you say.
“I like it,” Gale replies, smiling warmly in entirely the wrong direction. “Your spontaneity, I mean. It’s - ah - good for the soul.”
You reach out, hesitating for a heartbeat before placing your hands over his and peeling them away from his face - to let him know you’re finally decent.
He opens his eyes. And when they find you, they’re so warm, so sincerely glad just to see you, that your carefully built walls begin to crumble. Your hands feel cold and small in his.
“I feel so stupid sometimes,” you blurt, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “Next to you, I mean. I don’t even really understand what the Weave is. You’ve explained it, but -”
But what? That you didn’t listen to his explanation because every word out of his mouth sounded like a melody? That you were staring at his strong hands, his full lips, his brown eyes, while composing a love song in your head? You clench your jaw shut. You can’t admit that.
“The Weave?” Gale repeats, his eyes lighting up, slipping into that tone he reserves for lecturing. “It isn’t so easily grasped. There is nothing quite like it. It’s music -”
“Music?” you interrupt, unable to stop your immediate excitement spilling over.
He never mentioned it was like music.
He smiles. “Oh, yes. Music, poetry, physical beauty - all rolled into one and given expression through the senses.” He hesitates, then: “It would be easier if I simply showed you. Would you like me to?”
Your heart skips. He swallows hard, throat working.
You smile, emboldened. “Yes,” you whisper.
“Then follow my lead.”
It’s only when he looks down that you realise your hands are still in his.
You both freeze. His thumb twitches; you pull back like you’ve touched fire.
“Oh,” you blurt.
“Yes, well -” his gaze darts anywhere but you. “The Weave requires… both hands.”
“Right. Obviously.”
He recovers first, lifting his hands in a graceful flourish. You give yourself a little shake and mimic him, summoning every scrap of bardic performance in your bones.
A purple haze hums between you.
“Now - picture, in your mind, the purest harmony you can.”
Harmony comes easily to you. You allow it to wash over your mind. A shimmering current threads through your senses, weaving not just the song but your breath, your heartbeat, your very thoughts into his.
The Weave connects you.
The moment feels intimate.
You realise the Weave is making you one.
You have but imagine your desire, and Gale will know it.
You pause, trembling.
But when you take a steadying breath and focus on the Weave, you feel something more - the sense of a doorway. A threshold that could be crossed in either direction. You can feel him stepping towards it, that he’s expecting you to invite him into your thoughts.
You can’t let him do that. Gods know what he’d see. The extent of your pining. Your most explicit, toe curling fantasies that you regularly visit before you go to sleep.
But what if you were bold enough to step through the other way and glimpse his mind?
Spontaneity is good for the soul after all.
You push through.
The world tilts. For a heartbeat you feel yourself step through a doorway, across the charged air between you, and into him.
Gale’s mind is fire and silk and static all at once. And there, blinding and undeniable, is the image of him - oh.
As if you’re looking down on the scene from above, you’re inside Gale’s tent. There’s a woman in his bedroll, lying on her back and his face is buried between her legs.
At first, you expect it to be Mystra.
But the woman is not made of starlight and river. She is flesh and blood.
She’s… you.
He’s eating you out. Not cautiously nor with trepidation. His hands grip around your thighs, pulling you flush against his face as though he’s starved for the taste of you.
Everything tingles like you’re somehow connected to the vision version of yourself. Your core tightens, heat pulses below your waist.
The you that’s on your back looks down at Gale with a hazy, heavy expression. “I don’t -” she pants and the words echo in your mind, “I don’t know if I can take it.”
Gale pulls back to kiss her thigh, before looking up with a sincere smile.
“Just one more, darling,” he says. “Please.”
He repositions himself and sinks two thick fingers through her folds.
Her back arches.
Your heart lurches.
But then the Weave ripples, shimmering with tension as Gale blocks you out. You feel like you’re being unceremonially tossed out the back door of a tavern by a burly barkeep.
But instead of landing in the back alley behind a pub, you’re suddenly back on the cold riverbank
Gale stumbles backwards into a tree.
You realise you’re breathing hard, chest rising and falling just like the version of you in his mind. You swallow.
“Gale…” you begin.
“I’m sorry -” he stammers, raking a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t expecting… I thought it would be your mind we were entering… I wasn’t - wasn’t prepared.”
You offer him a lifeline. “Perhaps the potion affected you more than you realised.”
His head whips toward you, eyes blazing and you immediately kick yourself for the suggestion.
“Affected me?” His voice rings, all pride and offence. “Do you truly think I could be undone by some home brewed draught? That it could conjure such… vivid imaginings of you?” His words come sharp, indignant. “No. That was me. Entirely me. My own desire laid bare for you… to see...”
The fire drains from his voice the instant the truth of his admission catches up with him. His mouth snaps shut, as if by doing so he could retract the words, but the damage is done. His eyes widen in dawning horror.
“Gods,” he mutters, almost to himself. “I… I should have just blamed the potion.”
“I’m sorry. It was my fault for pushing into your thoughts - ”
“Please, the blame lies with me. I’m supposed to be a skilled wielder of the Weave. I didn’t mean to subject you to such lewd - to such -”
“I had to push into your mind,” you cut in, the words rushing out, “because I was trying to hide my own thoughts. You think what you showed me was indecent? You should have seen mine.”
He makes an effort to close his mouth, hanging agape. He looks like he’s about to say something. Of course he is. He always has something to say.
“That was truly your own desire and not the effects of the potion?” You ask.
He nods, looking - somehow - pained as he does. Before you allow him to get another word in edgeways, you throw your arms around Gale’s neck and your mouth meets his. For a heartbeat he remains frozen, startled - the kiss is fierce, desperate, everything you’ve been holding back. He makes a muffled sound against your lips, half-surprise, half-longing, before the dam breaks.
His hands seize your waist, pulling you hard against him, and suddenly he’s kissing you back with equal ferocity. All the careful restraint, the scholar’s poise - shattered in an instant. He kisses like a man who hasn’t known touch for too long. His lips parting hungrily against yours, breath hot and ragged.
You clutch at him, the world narrows to the heat of his mouth, the press of his body, the hard bulge digging into your hipbone - something greater than the Weave humming between you.
Your hand trails down his chest and pauses over the orb, its gentle thrum echoing against your fingertips. For a moment, it feels as though the world itself has fallen away. You find the waistband of his tunic with your fingertips -
- and something changes.
The pressure of his hands on your waist falters. He pulls back from the kiss and presses his forehead to yours, eyes screwed shut as though in pain.
When he finally speaks, his voice is rough and low.
“I’m sorry.”
The words twist like a knife - so unexpected after his confession, after seeing directly inside his mind. A lump rises in your throat. You move to pull back too, as if distance might dull the sting, but his hands close around your upper arms, holding you there.
“Please,” he says quickly, voice frayed. “Don’t misunderstand me, Tav. It isn’t that I don’t want to. But you know how… precarious my condition is.”
You throw caution to the wind. It’s time to be sincere. For once.
“We’re both living on borrowed time, aren’t we? I’d rather spend what’s left of mine with you,” you say.
He stares at you - silent, eyes shining with something unreadable. Then finally he screws up his face, as if pushing a great heaviness away.
“The risk is too great.”
Your throat tightens, the air catching there like a held note. You blink hard, but it doesn’t stop the sting behind your eyes. You nod - too quickly, too many times - because it’s that or let the silence swallow you whole.
“Well,” you say with forced bravado - and slightly higher pitched than usual, “I should’ve listened to my mother - never pour your heart out to a guy who might set off prematurely. Though I'm not sure she was talking about a Netherese Orb - ha!”
“Tav…” Gale says softly, looking more concerned now than ever.
“And I just realised I haven’t eaten dinner!” You clap your hands together like that settles it and turn on your heel.
“Wait, please let me -”
But you’re already striding back up the muddy path towards camp. You pass your companions without meeting their eyes, heat burning up your neck. By the time you reach your tent, your chest aches from holding everything in place.
You duck inside, let the flap fall closed, and the sound that leaves you isn’t quite a sob - more a gasp cracking under pressure. You sink down, pull your knees to your chest, press your palms against your eyes as if that might stop the tears.
It was new territory for both of you: this game of stolen glances and shy smiles across Camp, finding excuse after excuse just to feel the thrill of your fingertips dancing over his arms and chest. And then there were those moments where he'd seize any opportunity to pin you up against the side of Pearson's wagon, pressed close against your body just to make you feel the heat and solidity of his frame against yours, no matter how dangerous or reckless it might be. Despite how much he cares for you and how much he enjoys your time together, it's an impossible task to keep his mind from spiraling down every possibility in which he'd be damning you to the same fate, to make the same mistakes he had with Eliza and with Mary, leaving you a shell of the woman you once were. Even if he's riddled with doubt and fear, he won't let you slip through his fingers like a fading dream. It's been quite some time since he's felt so drawn to someone that he can't rationalize why he can't- why he won't stay away. He doesn't quite understand it himself, but for the first time in his life, he ain't fighting it, not with you.
It is no accident that he found himself in this current predicament; setting up a makeshift camp with you outside of Rhodes just to spend some alone time with you. He had made sure of it, insisting on not heading back to Clemen's Point after seeing how pretty you looked all cleaned up and excited to join him on his run to town even if it was just for a pack of cigarettes at the general store. Determined to have some peace away from the commotion of camp, he veered his horse off to the side of the road, leading you through the thicket of trees stretched out alongside the expansive fields of Lemoyne, heading to a clearing just before the edge of Flat Iron Lake. God, was it a good choice. Instead of hearing another riveting story from Mr. Pearson's days in the navy or having you get whisked away for any late-night tasks for Ms. Grimshaw, he's kneeling fireside, watching you fold out his emergency bedroll for the both of you, imaging all the possibilities that the night holds; particularly all those that end with you spread out beneath him.
“C’mere, baby.” His voice is laden with desire as he outstretches his hand for you to take.
"Hmm?" You ask, stopping to glance over your shoulder, only to see his rugged features awash in the orange glow of firelight. Crystalline eyes pierce your heart, crumbling down the walls that protected you and shielded you from the pain of never knowing what love could be. No, there was no idea, no concept of love until he came crashing into your life all those months ago. Love with Arthur is like opening a fresh wound: ripping into your heart and seeding himself so deeply inside of that aching muscle that you fear one day he’ll just bleed you dry and leave you with the dull ache of his memory. However, his presence alone is like a soothing balm to your weary and wounded soul, healing you like the hands of god himself and reassuring you that he’d never leave; he’d crawl through the pits of hell and back just to be spared a passing glance. You trusted him with your life then and against all the nagging self-doubt screaming in your mind, you trust him now.
He can hardly tear his gaze from you as you come closer, his eyes hungrily taking in every inch of your curvy form from the supple sway of your hips to the way the corners of your plush lips curl into an affectionate smile. You place your hand in his as you lower yourself onto his lap, the grass and weeds beneath you tickling your legs just as your knees meet the ground on either side of his hips. Even if you were to pay him no mind, he'd still relish the chance to be this close to you, to see the delicate little imperfections scattered across your skin, to feel the warmth of your love radiating off of your body like a roaring furnace, and admire how your eyes flicker with a sense of hope he'd long forgotten. In the mess of smoothing out your skirts to hide your thighs from his wandering gaze, a lock of hair breaks free from the bun on your head, flopping down on your face in a single ringlet. He reaches up to tuck it behind your ear, his fingertips skimming softly over the supple flesh of your cheek, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. A wave of affection washes over him as he gazes at your face illuminated by the flickering light of the fire, and he can barely contain himself. He longs to shower you with compliments and affection, to give you the love and attention that you so rightfully deserve, but he can't. He has no words; believes there are no words to describe exactly how a single brush of your skin against his makes his heart stop and his mind cloud in a thick fog with nothing to picture but you. You make him feel like a damn fool, a fool so caught up in love that he can't distinguish his left from his right. Words are meaningless here- showing you is the only way.
You never thought you’d find yourself in this predicament: a handsome man like Arthur guiding you toward him, stealing a kiss from your lips like a man starved for the slightest bit of affection. Nor did he think he'd be holding such a beautiful woman in his arms, a woman deserving of so much more than he could ever give. Good things like this don’t happen to you, nor do they happen to men like him, but against all odds, you’re both here wrapped in each others’ embrace without a care in the damn world.
Your plump, pliable lips press against his with a tenderness rarely afforded in the quick, passionate encounters you’ve found yourselves in these days. Tonight, there will be no rush of hands lifting your skirts, no hard press of his cock entering you without warning; tonight, he’ll take his time, drawing out each orgasm after agonizing orgasm from that pretty pussy like you deserve. Arthur breaks away from your lips abruptly and latches onto your pulse point, drawing out that little whimper that sends his head spinning. Your breath is but a whisper as his name drips off your tongue like a fine brandy: silky smooth, "Arthur.." Just as you expect him to reach your collar, unbutton your blouse, and ravage your flesh, he pulls away. Your eyes shoot open only to see him taking off that old gambler's hat while leaning back.
Through a half-laughed whisper, you say, "What're you-" Before you can finish protesting, he rests his back on the plush grass beneath you both, his hat clutched in hand. He sets it aside on a nearby log before turning his attention back to you with a wolfish grin.
“Gonna love you like ya deserve. C’mere,” he murmurs, eyes roaming over your flushed face and heaving chest.
With that, his hands were back on the swell of your hips, thumbs gently pressing into the soft cotton of your skirts, coaxing you with a gentle yet firm pull that guided you away from the comfort of his lap and over his stomach until you're kneeling just above his chest. His eyes lock onto yours, silently pleading for you to rest your fullness on him; he needs to feel every ounce of you as if his life depended on it. You hesitate, looking down at him from above with your pretty skirts pooling over his chest; his face peeking out below a sea of sage green ending just below his chin. Silently urging you to finally give in and settle yourself onto his chest, he reaches upward and gently grabs hold of your waist.
You can’t.
Y’all are already in a compromising position out here in the open. It’d take just a single person to glance in the direction of your camp by the lake to see Arthur delving under your skirts by firelight. His boldness takes you by surprise, a sweet gasp filling your lungs as he leans up, pressing a gentle kiss to your aching cunt through your dampened drawers. That's all it takes for you to give into his touch and rest your hips upon his chest. Your sweet musk alone sends a shiver of pleasure down his spine, pooling straight into his stiffening cock. A low growl of satisfaction leaves his lips in appreciation for your willingness to let him please you. Your eyes are trained on his head ruffling beneath your skirts before looking up at the night sky, noting how the faint white glow of moonlight breaks through the canopy of leaves and limbs, casting shadowed shapes upon the forest floor. His gentle kisses shift from the apex of your desires, the scruff from his beard pleasantly scratching against your skin. While he traces the little blue lace detail on the hem of your drawers, the low timbre of his voice buzzes against your thigh, “Can I take these off of ya?”
There's no denying the desire that runs through you at the thought of being bared to him in such a risque position; to undress yourself and have him beneath you, feasting upon your quivering cunt as if he were savoring you like the very last meal he'd ever taste. Oh, how you remember the first time you felt the wet warmth of his tongue darting out of his lips, pressing against you to show you all the ways in which a real man loves his woman. In truth, Arthur had been the first to awaken those romantic emotions within you, to ignite the spark of desire and affection that had been suppressed for so long. Society had labeled you a spinster, a woman unworthy of love and affection, but he had shown you that you were worthy of so much more than some horseshit label. He had taken your first kiss, been your first intimate touch, and with every moment you spent together, he showed you that you were beautiful and deserving of the kind of love written in those books MaryBeth lets you borrow. The thrill of feeling him once more makes your blood run hot, leaving you with no other choice than to hum softly in agreement. If this is what he desires, then who are you to deny him?
Slowly, you rise off his chest, lifting yourself up to your knees. Your fingers nimbly work to undo the ties that hold cover to the last remnants of decency you have left. You can feel his eyes on you as you undress, watching your every move with an intensity that sends shivers running down your spine. As your skirts fall away, leaving you exposed and vulnerable, you gaze down at his face, the flush of desire dusting his features in a faint reddish hue. His eyes remain locked on yours, unmasked desire blazing in their depths. You begin to work on your blouse and chemise, eager to bare yourself to him, but Arthur's impatience gets the better of him as he struggles with the buttons and ties fastening your clothing. His fingers move quickly and feverishly, desperate to get you stripped down and exposed to his hungry gaze. Through his struggle, he moves his hands back down to your drawers, pressing his thumb against the seam of your body to watch the light fabric catch between your folds. Between your soft gasp and his feigned murmur of forgiveness, he takes hold of the thin fabric and rips it right down the seam of your best set of undergarments. "Arthur! Them's my last good pair," you scold, but it does no good: he's too far gone.
His lust-blown pupils take in the sight of the dark thatch of hair separating him from your aching desire. Oh, for heaven's sake, you internally chastise yourself. Someone could stumble upon your little camp and see you naked as the day you were born, mounting his face like your first ride on a new saddle. But the instant his plush lips meet your seam, all doubt, and all fear subsides, giving way to burning passion. Your back arches, instinctively pressing your hips upon his wanting, salivating mouth, and burying his nose into your plump mound. God how he's missed this, missed taking you so fully and unapologetically. Your sticky sweet nectar coats his lips like the finest honey, driving him wild for a taste of your supple sweetness. His tongue flicks out of his mouth, pressing flat against your slick heat, parting your folds in search of that little bud of nerves screaming his name. You are all that he can taste, all he can breathe, all he can feel.
Darkness clouds his vision as his eyes flutter closed, though flashing behind his eyes is anything but: the image of your face twisting and contorting in agonizing pleasure erases all thought and memory from his mind, leaving only you in its wake. Soft crackling embers, gentle knickers from his steed, the lewd squelches of his tongue lapping at your core, and the sweet flighty sounds escaping your lips create an orgasmic orchestral hymn he's longed to hear these past few weeks. His cock swells, pressing uncomfortably against the rough jean fabric of his usual working pants. Rutting his hips upward, he finds that the tight seam rubs him in the most delicious way: pressing against his cock as if you were leaning back to palm him while he eats you out.
Just as his hips grind upward to find some torturous relief, your hips involuntarily rock against his tongue, guiding him exactly where you need him to be. The strong, wet, muscle glides over your clit, swirling so slowly that your thighs tremble with each expert pass along that tiny bud screaming his name. Embers from the campfire crackles and burns far too close to your bodies not feel the sweltering heat baring down on your skin. Yet, it pales in comparison to the feverish flush that gathered in your face; it spread across the apples of your cheeks to the tips of your ears, leaving them burning almost intolerably. You found yourself struggling to catch your breath as desire worked its way down your throat, squeezing out all the air in your lungs like the first drag off a cigarette before its buzz envelops you completely. His tongue only leaves you for a moment, using it to murmur, "That feel good, baby?"
His voice rumbles through your cunt, causing you to clench around nothing. He needs no answer. He already knows how much you're enjoying this, how much you've been needing to feel his mouth on you by the soft little gasps in between a string of expletives following his name; his favorites being, 'O-Oh Arthur,' 'Oh fuck,' and 'God, pl-please, Arthur.' Pride swells in his chest knowing that he's the only man that's able to ravage you like this. You belong to each other, heart, body, mind, and soul.
Lubrication leaks from you like a damn fountain, coating your pretty little slit like it just begs for him to enter your aching core. And that's exactly what he finds himself searching for. With a small forward thrust of your hips, his tongue parts you, pushes your cunt open, and penetrates you with its wriggling mass of muscle. It wasn’t like his cock filling you, hitting your womb with every thrust, rubbing you so impossibly deep that you could see stars, but it was enough to shatter your pride and make you forego all composure and decency, whatever sense of the word it may be. The very tip finds that soft spongy spot inside, licking and writhing with each dip in and out, all while his nose presses against your clit. “A-Arthur,” you groan. “I’m so close.”
Oh, he knows you're close. Your cunt quivers around his tongue, pulsating in time with the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. Your creamy slick coats his beard, nose, and hell, even his cheeks as you properly use him to reach your end. Everything around you is spinning. Nothing exists beyond this moment shared between two lovers shrouded by nightfall. No, nothing else matters except Arthur's mouth devouring you, drinking you like cold water on a hot summer's day. You're his solace, his sustenance, something worth truly dying for. And if he smothers to death beneath your soaked cunt, then he'd thank God for such a heavenly way to go.
His hips rise and fall, undulating as if he were fucking into your tight, gummy channel; it's all he can imagine, all he wants to feel is fucking you and you being fucked. Flicking his tongue inside of you, hitting that sweet spot, pulls you closer to the edge. Your hands are frantic, never taking purchase on any one place until they find the mess of chestnut hair atop his head. It takes everything in you not to rip his hair out as both of your hands take fistfuls into your palms. He growls into you, panting heavily for what little air he's able to take in. Finally, his tongue retreats, moving back up to your clit to give you one hard suck that sends you spiraling over the edge.
From the top of your head to the tips of your toes are awash in electricity, burning, shaking through you like a thunderous wave as your climax takes hold. You scream his name, but he doesn't stop attacking your clit with the gentle flick of his tongue through hard suction. No, he doesn't stop, making sure to rip another mind-shattering orgasm out of you until he allows himself to come. You fall forward in an attempt to move from him, but he holds you down with such strength that you're forced to stay seated. You block off his airway, smothering his nose with your mound as he continues his ministrations on your clit. You feel like you're dying, shaking and sweating like a fever has taken your body over, until another orgasm rounds its peak. With one more jerk of his hips, he spends himself in his jeans; cum leaking out of him like a stream, soaking into his union suit while your cream drenches his beard in a frothy white delicacy.
Once you gain your composure, you glance down at him to realize that he can't breathe. "O-Oh God, Arthur. You alright?"
You pull away from his mouth, giving him a moment to catch his breath as he looks up at you with fiery, hungry eyes. The flame of the campfire casts shadows over his face, the light illuminating him in a warm, golden glow. His beard glistens with your essence, and he gazes up at you with an expression of reverence, silently worshiping what power your body has over him. As you attempt to lift yourself off of him to give him some much needed breathing room, he clamps down on your thighs, preventing you from moving. That familiar smirk draws up the corner of his mouth and a spark of desire flickers in the ocean of blue surrounding his lust-blown pupils, "Where you think 'yer goin'? Ain't done with you yet."
----------------------------------------------------------------------
A/N: Hi! I really hope y'all like this little drabble. My great friend @photo1030 inspired me to post a little something, so I have her to thank for igniting my creativity again. It's my first time posting anything like this, so feedback of any kind would be greatly appreciated! So again, thank you, C, for being my first supporter <3
Other creators I enjoy/drew inspo from: @rivetingrosie4 @coltermorning @subpopizzy @amorgansgal @immajustvibehere @twola
Summary: You stargaze with Arthur.
Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female!reader
Word count: 1,353
Tags: fluff, shy, high honor Arthur
Warnings: no warnings, enjoy the fluff.
a/n: Just a little something I thought of when I found this camp. Plus, I really wanted to draw a constellation. Fun fact, the game has accurate constellations, and Orion is one of them! I had a lot of fun reading about Orion mythology for this one. And TYSM to my tumblr bestie @littlemistey for helping me get the journal entry just right!
stelliferous: filled with stars or bearing stars, often used to describe a visibly starry night.
As everyone went about their business for the night, you headed to a deserted clearing just beyond camp and sat on the ground. You loved sitting alone, getting lost in the stars and the tales that went with them. Just as you were settling down, the snap of a twig alerted you to someone else's presence. The stars had aligned perfectly for you that night, putting you and Arthur in the same place at the same time.
You rose and looked around, spotting the cowboy leaning against a tree. If it were anybody else, you'd be annoyed, but seeing him there made your heart flutter in all the good ways. You loved looking at him just as much as you loved looking up at the stars. But the stars didn't make you weak in the knees at the sight of them or make you laugh until your stomach hurt. But just like the stars, Arthur always felt so out of reach.
"Things're really goin' downhill back there if a lady would rather sleep in the grass than in her tint," he said. His face was neutral, but you could see a playful glint in his eyes. You hugged your knees to your chest and tried to hide your shyness.
"Oh, hey Arthur, I was just––"
He held out a halting hand and tipped his head.
"I was just jokin, miss. I know what it's like to want some peace and quiet." He pushed himself off the tree and gave a two-finger wave. "Anyway, I won't disturb you."
You spoke out before he could leave. "It's no trouble, Arthur." You turned away from him and cranked your neck to the sky. "Y'ever wonder if it's just us out here?" It wasn't a question you expected him to answer. You were just thinking aloud. He didn't respond for a long moment but sauntered towards you, his boots appearing in your peripheral.
"I don't do much thinkin'."
You turned to glance at him again, shaking your head.
"Oh, hush, Arthur Morgan. We all know you do more thinkin' than any other fool around here."
You could tell he was fighting hard to keep the frown on his face from curving upward.
"That ain't saying much."
He chuckled on his exhale, then, with a grunt, sat down beside you.
"This whatchu' always doing out here? Just—" he gestured to the sky, "—looking up?"
"Don't knock it til you try it, Arthur." A soft smile formed on your face, and you waited expectantly. He quirked an eyebrow, then put his hands behind his head and laid back. A satisfied grin crossed your face, and you dropped down, too.
You spent the rest of the night pointing out stars and constellations to Arthur, sharing all the stories you knew about them. An hour crept by before a yawn escaped you. Arthur didn't show it, but your departure was the last thing he wanted. With one arm still behind his head and the other slung across his stomach, he kept his eyes trained on the sky above.
He was hooked—not on the stars, but on you. Then and there, he realized he could spend eternity on the ground, captivated by the rise of pitch in your voice when you got excited and how your eyes crinkled at the corners when your smile stretched from ear to ear.
From that night, Arthur used stargazing as his excuse to be near you, sometimes sitting so close to you that your shoulders rubbed when you pointed upward. Once, you turned to ask him a question and noticed him staring at you instead of the sky.
"It's impolite to stare, Mr. Morgan." His expression faltered, and he opened his mouth in a stuttering attempt to damage control.
He didn't need to be ashamed, though; you'd felt his eyes on you many times before. He admired you like you admired the stars, and knowing that sent waves of adoration through you.
Arthur caught up with you another evening just as you were finishing dinner. Golden sunlight reflected on his face as he glanced down at his feet, clutching his hat between his fingers. He reached nervously towards your hand, thought too hard, and placed it back on his hat. He started to speak, his words low and careful.
"Got somethin' to show you—somethin' I found— if you'll ride with me?"
You suppressed a building laugh, trying to save him further embarrassment. It tickled you that someone as audacious as him could be made so flustered by the likes of you. Your amusement was well hidden, and you reached for his hand, giving it a squeeze.
"It's about time you asked me on a ride, Mr. Morgan." He nodded and placed his hat back on his head, the brim shielding the building smile on his face. He walked you to his horse. He got on first and held a strong arm down to pull you up.
The two of you road down the Heartlands, across the Dakota River, and through Bard's Crossing. He slowed when you approached a hill outside Lone Mule Stead. Arthur helped you off the horse with one hand, keeping hold until you stood in front of a campsite that overlooked the Upper Montana River and beyond. The site was breathtaking; you could make out the lights of Blackwater, boats on the water, and the expansive night sky in all its glory. Just to the side of the spot stood a small brass telescope. When you finally saw it, your eyes widened, and you met Arthur's, your mouth agape.
"Found this out here the other day," he gestured towards it, beckoning you.
"Oh, Arthur," you ran your fingers across the smooth brass cylinder. You shook your head in slow incredulity. "I've never seen one in person, only seen 'em in books."
Arthur removed the cap on the end, letting it swing on its chain. He nodded toward the viewing device again, and you walked around to the lens, bending to look through it.
"I hope it's everything you read about, miss." His voice was comforting, like the soft rumble of distant thunder. Breathless, you pressed your eye to the lens, and a speckled blanket of black engulfed your vision. Truthfully, the stars were the same as always, but knowing Arthur had curated this moment, just for you, made the night sky more beautiful than ever. When you were done taking it in, you stood to see Arthur watching you from a few feet away. You approached the crate he was sitting on, your hands outstretched and reaching for his.
"Thank you, really," you said. The gunslinger stood and accepted your hands, his lips pressed together tightly as if opening his mouth would betray him. His eyes were strictly focused on your clasped hands. Surely, if his mouth would betray him, his eyes would too.
"Arthur." His name coming off your lips so endearingly could kill him. He finally looked up, his mouth falling open to speak, but you didn't give him the chance. You rose on your toes, your lips crashing against his hurriedly. When he finally realized what was happening, his shoulders fell relaxed, and he wrapped two arms around your waist, pulling you into him. Your mouths moved in sync with each other's until you pulled away for air. Heat had built up in his face, and you saved him the trouble of hiding his blush by wrapping your arms around him tight.
As breathtaking as it was, you forwent the telescope for the rest of the night, opting to wrap yourself in Arthur's arms instead. You pointed up at a line of bright stars.
"See those three? That's Orion's Belt."
"Orion?" he asked, saying the name as if it were a foreign language.
"Orion. He was a hunter—a big and strong one. They say he was a bit of a drunk brute, too. He reminds me of someone." You didn't need to peel your eyes away from the warrior in the sky to feel the warmth of the one right next to you, a knowing, gentle smile on his lips.
Warnings: This fic has graphic descriptions of non-consensual sex, violence against women, the trauma thereafter, and somewhat unhealthy coping mechanisms. If any of that content makes you feel uncomfortable or triggers you, this may not be the fic for you.
Hi - I know it’s been over a year since I’ve updated this. Passerine is a love letter to trauma and the thereafter. It’s heavy. It’s hard to write. But thank you all for holding on to this. I promise it won’t be another year before I post chapters 4, 5, and 6 to finish it out.
Note: I play fast and loose with the passage of time as compared to the canon game.
➵ AO3 Link
➵ Fic Masterlist
➵ Previous | ➵ Next
Abigail pulls the canvas around the tent’s opening closed behind her. She sighs as she arranges the fabric to preserve the privacy that you so desperately need.
Wiping the back of her palm across her forehead, she squeezes her eyes shut as she tries to stave off a headache.
“Mama!”
She jolts, steadying herself as her five-year-old son barrels into her legs, whipping his arms around her skirts.
“Jack…-Jack,” Abigail reels slightly as she places her hand on his head as he snuggles into her thigh. She pushes gently and he unwinds his small arms from around her. He steps half a step back and she stoops down on one knee to look him in the eye.
She tucks some of his hair behind his ears, her hands cupping his small cheeks, losing the last bit of baby fat from them as the boy grows in fits.
“Can you be a good boy fer me and go find Uncle Hosea? I think he has a new book fer you.”
His eyes flash in excitement as he nods, and Abigail gives him a wry grin as he tries to wriggle away, not letting go of him until she places a kiss on his forehead. When she takes her hand from his shoulders, he darts away across the camp, calling after Hosea.
Bless him, he’s like a grandfather to Jack. Between him and Arthur, sometimes, sometimes, she can almost forget how terrible of a father John is.
Speaking of which, she finds him staring at her from across the camp, elbows at his knees as he sits in front of the fireplace. She glares back at him before turning away, huffing in a moment of agitation.
She pulls back the tent's canvas slightly, confirming to herself that yes, you are asleep.
Frowning, she lets the canvas go and walks over toward the lakeshore behind where Arthur had set his tent wagon up, crossing her arms over her chest as the red-painted sunset reflected off of the still waters of Flat Iron.
When she had asked you when was the last time you bled, she expected sputtering, anxious eyes and having to come up with a way to tell Arthur that he’d gotten a child upon you.
Instead, your flushed face turned almost white as you shot to your feet and immediately stumbled away from the wash bin and toward the treeline.
Abigail dropped laundry she had been working on back into the tub and hitched her skirt to run after you, catching up only as you doubled over, leaning against a tree as you choked up bile onto the ground.
You had burst into tears in between wet, gasping breaths, your stomach heaving dry when there was nothing left to expel. Abigail rubbed your upper back soothingly as she pulled your hair back from over your shoulder.
“C’mon now, it’s gonna be okay. Arthur’s- he’s the best of the men, he’ll take care of you.” She cooed softly, her hand working in slow circles between your shoulder blades.
You sob aloud, which unseats her. “It’s…it’s….”
You could barely get the words out.
Abigail’s circles slow, “Is… it not his?”
You collapsed to your knees as sobs racked your body, wet coughs echoing through the woods.
Abigail spent the rest of the afternoon trying to console you, able to pry details between your fits of dry heaving and sobs. She narrows her eyes against the red sun in the distance, her shoulders finally letting down from how tightly they’ve been wound all afternoon.
The truth was much worse than she had been expecting.
She had managed to coax you away from the trees and usher you quietly into Arthur’s tent, where she immediately pulled the canvas shut before turning back to you and pushing you down gently into the cot, taking your boots off one at a time and placing them on the ground next to the cot.
In hushed whimpers, you told her about what had happened those months ago when the gang was still at Horseshoe. Her brow furrowed in shock as she brushed your hair off of your forehead, taking a handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt and dabbing it across your damp brow.
The truth, as terrible as it was, was not unfamiliar to Abigail. A whore by fifteen, she had seen her share of women forced against their will. A customer gone too far, a rat of a man waiting to catch one of the girls alone, not wanting to pay for services.
She herself had experiences with it.
But you, as you regaled the terrible details in hiccuping breaths, you had never been part of that world, and when the O’Driscoll forced you down on that bed, the act of sex had never been weaponized against you until that moment.
She had finally calmed you down enough that you drifted off to sleep, not more than an hour ago.
Rubbing the back of her neck, Abigail glances back toward where the horses are hitched, Arthur’s mare still missing amongst them.
She lets out a long, mournful breath. As many times as she had tried to assure you that if you were with child it was likely Arthur’s… all you could dwell on was that man who bound and gagged you and had you on the old bed in that dingy cabin.
You had cried yourself to sleep, and Abigail now has to figure out what to do going forward. Obviously, she thinks as she brushes the loose hair at the nape of her neck that escaped her bun, she needs to figure this out with Arthur. No matter what the decision was. She needed to talk to him before she made a trip to Saint Denis to collect the needed items.
A pang of memory flashes in her mind - the horrified look on John’s face when she told him she was with child. How it was months before he had her in his bed again. Only once, when she was swollen with child, did he lay with her - now years ago.
The sound of hoofbeats draws her from the fugue of her thoughts. She turns partway around to see Arthur ride into the camp atop his mare, weighed down with a whitetail deer strapped across the horse’s rump. Wiping her hands on her skirt, Abigail sighs and moves towards where Arthur dismounts, following him silently as he shoulders the deer carcass and slings it over Pearson’s table.
He scoots over toward the tub of soapy water to wash the blood from his skin.
“Arthur.”
Arthur looks up, shaking his hands from the wash bin, “Miss Roberts,” he drawls with a smile on his face.
Abigail does not return his smile.
-
“She was raped?”
Arthur stares at Abigail from under the rim of his hat, clenching his jaw, “How-”
“She told me.” Abigail sighs, leaning against the tree a bit away from the camp that she had led him to.
“She alrigh’? What happened for her to tell you?” Arthur mumbles, glancing back at the camp looking for you, but you are nowhere to be found.
“Arthur. I think she’s with child.” Abigail states in a hushed tone, and Arthur’s eyes dart wildly back to her.
“Child?”
“Yes, Arthur,” Abigail retorts, her patience frayed and finally worn out.
Arthur’s jaw clenches before he opens his mouth again, “It’s mine.” He mumbles, almost too soft to hear, eyes shooting down to the ground.
Much like how you refused to listen to Abigail’s pleading and reassurance as she tried to convince you of the same, Abigail brushes aside Arthur’s comment.
“Did he… did he spend in her?” Abigail rubs her eyes with the back of her palm, exhausted as dusk was closing in on the camp.
“I have,” Arthur says quietly, continuing to look at the ground.
“I know you have, idiot. But th’ first thing she thought is that this baby belongs to some dead O’Driscoll that raped her.”
Arthur’s jaw sets, unable to hide the snarl from his tone. “Ain’t no way it's his. We’ve been sleepin’ together for a couple a’ months. And I don’t always-”
“Yes, Arthur, I get that.” Abigail interjects with exasperation, “The question is - does she?”
The outlaw’s gaze flicks upward, landing on Abigail for a moment, before he turns his head to the side, looking over the western horizon at Flat Iron Lake.
“Look - I don’t know what y’all want to do. I don’t know what she wants to do. But…” She trails off, her gaze also looking out to the lake, “I can give her things to make it end.”
Arthur doesn’t respond.
Abigail dusts off her skirt as she begins to step away, “But Arthur…”
He finally can make eye contact as she looks back at him.
“She’s gotta make up her mind - quick.”
-
The dinginess - the sour smell of off-food and dirty men permeated the air. The kind of stink that simple cleaning would never get rid of.
Your head is killing you as you blink away the pain, but you find yourself biting down on a foul piece of fabric tied around your mouth. You try to pull it down, but find that your wrists are bound behind your back.
The door opens and the feeling of dread in your chest explodes into a blazing fire of fear.
“There’s my little girl.”
His greasy, dark hair is slicked back away from his disheveled beard, and he smiles that toothy, nauseating grin at you.
The O’Driscoll pulls up your chemise from your thighs up and over your belly, baring your bottom half to him. You try to clench your thighs together, but as he leans over you, you do not find that he forces your legs apart.
But you cannot fight him as his rough and dirty hand spreads out over your belly.
“Pretty miss - gonna be all big and swollen with my child.”
Your eyes shoot open, your fingers closing tightly around the blanket that you’ve pulled around yourself. You have to bite your lip to stop from screaming aloud.
Dusk’s shadows permeate through the canvas of Arthur’s tent, and you realize you’ve spent most of the afternoon sleeping. You push yourself up in the cot, breathing out heavily.
You pass your hand over your stomach. As soon as Abigail asked you the last time you bled, the cavern inside you opened up. You hadn’t bled since before the house in Cumberland. The nausea, the vomiting. God, you’ve been so tired too.
Shit, was it true? Could there be a child there, under the softness of your belly? Would you grow round and hard there beneath your fingertips?
Not only was there a pit in your stomach, but you felt like your chest had been cracked open - you’re drowning in yourself - why can’t you escape that O’Driscoll and what he did?
You curl up smaller in Arthur’s cot, pulling the blanket over you, trying to hide from the world.
-
Usually, it’s before a job that he reaches for a cigarette. Something to calm his nerves and hone his senses before roaring into a situation with guns blazing.
That’s not the situation he finds himself in now.
Arthur finds himself pacing in the wooded area outside of camp, smoking hurriedly as his palm clenches in agitation. He throws the half-smoked cigarette to the ground and smashes it under the heel of his boot, turning his face upward and exhaling a plume of smoke with a sound that could be described as a sigh.
The lantern lights of the camp start to glow in the distance. He hasn’t worked up the courage to rejoin the group since stalking out to the woods and smoking half a pack of damn cigarettes.
Flat Iron Lake is still in the distance, a few ships passing between Saint Denis and Blackwater illuminate the dark waters.
Arthur grabs his hat off his head with one head and wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of the other. He closes his eyes, letting another long breath out.
Arthur swears he can hear a child’s laughter. It ain’t Jack though. Another young boy - with tawny hair and freckles dusting his cheeks.
“Papa!”
A young boy who darts toward him as he slides off of his saddle.
The smile of a dark-haired girl leaning in the doorframe.
Fishing rods and toy horses and bedtime stories when he came around. A cup of coffee and pleasant conversation with a girl he shared a night with so long ago…
And two wooden crosses. Silence. Not even the birds sang that day he came upon the little house off the road.
Arthur continues to pace, cursing under his breath. He goes to reach for yet another cigarette when he stops, swallowing, and grits his teeth.
How goddamn selfish of him to wallow in his own miserable past when you need him. The pit in his stomach reopens as he remembers the sight of you in that cabin. Bound, gagged, and violated.
And now his dumb ass has gone and gotten you pregnant. Foisted this upon you when you were still so vulnerable and hurting and god damnit - he told you he wasn’t a good person. This absolutely proves it.
There’s no lantern light on in his tent, he can see through the woods, and he’s stayed out long enough. Lord only knows Abigail is going to come find him and smack him the way she’s hit John - but he wouldn’t be any less deserving.
With yet another long, burdened breath, he heads back toward his tent.
Arthur Morgan moves as quietly as he can through the canvas, pulling it shut behind him. Darkness has fallen upon the camp, and he’s thankful that he can reach the oil lantern on the table with just enough moonlight for him to light it low. A yellow-orange glow emits from it, illuminating the tent.
You’re sitting in his cot, in the darkness, and in the light, he can see the sheen of tears down your cheeks. Your hair is falling out of the bun it’s half tied into. Fuck, he’s the goddamn scum of the earth.
“Darlin’,” his voice cracks with uncertainty.
You shiver, the threadbare blanket pulled over your shoulders as you sit in the cot. Arthur holds the rim of his hat in his hands, fidgeting with it restlessly as he cannot meet your eyes.
“Abigail seems to think…”
“Abigail’s right.” You mumble, monotone while staring into space.
Arthur chews his lip, “This is my fault.”
“Ain’t your fault an O’Driscoll-”
“I got you pregnant,” Arthur interjects, moving to sit on the small stool across from the cot.
“You don’t know it’s yours.” You snap back with a vicious snarl in your voice and he nearly recoils as if shot. This he did not expect.
Neither it seems, did you. Your eyes widen when you finally meet his, and hold his gaze for but a moment before your brow crinkles and you shove your face into your knees as you draw them up to your chest.
You hiccup a sob, “What if this baby looks l-like ‘im? What if the baby has them cold dark eyes starin’ at me like when when he-”
“Shh,” Arthur hushes you, preventing you from speaking aloud your terrible truth. He wraps his arms around you, drawing you into his embrace, “That ain’t gonna happen.”
You wriggle uncomfortably in his arms, trying to pull away. Arthur lets go of you, but his hands move to cup your cheeks and force you to look at him.
“No matter what, I’m gonna be here for you, sweetheart.”
Your eyes are only able to hold his stare for but so long before you look downward. Arthur lets go of your face and you take the opportunity to scoot further away from him in the cot, unable to look him in the eyes.
You’ve pulled your knees to your chest and hidden your face in them, ashamed of the tears that spill down your cheeks again.
“I had a son.”
Arthur’s voice is not loud, not strong, not solid. You slowly raise your head, sniffling, to find him sitting with his elbows on his thighs and head hung low, staring at the dirt below his feet.
“…had?”
He nods, still not looking at you, “He ‘nd his mother were killed, long time ago. Robbery.”
You remain quiet, your gaze down to the ground also.
“I wasn’t there.”
You wrap your arms tighter around your legs.
“Wasn’t there for any of it. Wasn’t there when he was born, barely there as he grew up, wasn’t there when he ‘nd his mother needed my protection.”
Arthur rubs tiredly over his eyes, his thigh bouncing slightly with something you recognize as agitation, anxiety.
Fear.
It is several moments before he looks up at you again, swallowing before the low timbres of his voice fill the tent again.
“If you want this baby - I’ll be here. For all of it.”
-
You curl up on Arthur’s cot and try to sleep. At your obvious discomfort, he maintains a distance between you, pulling a chair in from outside and posting himself in it, pulling his hat over his head to try to get some sleep.
Just before dawn, the pit in your stomach threatens to open up, and you toss the blanket from your body and pad outside, hurrying toward the treeline for what has become your normal. You’re able to make it a few trees back before you have to stop and hunch over to empty your stomach.
You wetly cough between heaving breaths, and it is not but a few minutes later that you feel his fingers grab into your hair, pulling it up as you vomit into the leaves below.
You lean into the tree harder as you spit up the last of the bile in your belly. Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you stumble slightly when you try to stand up, and Arthur’s hands find your waist quickly to maintain your upright position.
“C’mon there, sweetheart, let’s lay you down again.”
You don’t answer him, instead allowing him to guide you back to his tent as the first vestiges of the dawn overtake the sky. You let him help you lay down, you let him pull the blanket over your body. Exhausted, you finally fall asleep.
You awaken several hours later, when a hand presses to your forehead, checking for a temperature. Your eyes flutter open to see Abigail leaning over you, and you scramble to get up as she moves to the end of the cot to sit opposite of you.
Abigail takes your hand in your lap after a few terse moments. “Y’ wanna get rid of it? I can make that happen, but we gotta do it sooner than later.”
You look up at her, unable to stop the sheen of tears from glazing over your eyes. Tears escape and trail down your cheeks as your gaze moves from Abigail, sitting on the cot with you, across the small tent to Arthur, sitting on an old chair with his elbows on his knees.
Behind those blue eyes of his is a maelstrom, one you know he’s trying to hide from you. Arthur’s whispered voice echoes in your mind as he tells you the sorry tale of his own fatherhood. His loss, the indescribable hole in his heart full of regret and sorrow. Arthur’s gaze moves from you down to the ground.
You close your eyes as another wave of tears slides down your face, sighing loudly as you try to gather what little composure you have left.
Finally, you look back to the woman gently rubbing your hand.
-
“Seen you hanging all over Arthur,” Grimshaw eyed your waist critically, “It’s his, ain’t it?”
There comes a time that you can’t hide it anymore - the swell of your belly just under your skirts. You’re sure the girls know - you’ve seen their eyes flit on your figure.
You continue to stare at the setting sun over the lake. Part of you wishes you had the wherewithal to respond, but you don’t have the strength to anymore.
Susan had clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “Idiots. The both of you.”
You avoid people. Get your chores done quickly. Don’t complain about not getting jobs. Arthur moved everything of yours into his tent, more permanently letting down the canvas sides.
From that very first day that you cowered in his cot away from his touch, Arthur had given you a wide berth since you pushed him away - hesitant, sleeping on either a chair or laying his bedroll on the ground.
You awaken many days before dawn, silently padding out to the wooded area south of the camp, far enough away that the rest of the folks couldn’t hear your retching. Several times in the beginning, Arthur follows you, and you angrily shoo him away before he stops tagging along behind you.
Over the weeks, your belly hardens, your breasts swell. You have to let out the waist of your skirt, and there is no hiding anything when the height of the summer finds Clemens - it’s so miserably hot that layers to hide your growing body must be shed or you’d sweat to death.
You’ve seen Dutch eye you. You’ve seen him argue with Arthur. You’ve seen Grimshaw join the fray. Hosea has been dropping ginger tea off to you in the morning with a gentle, knowing smile - it tasted terrible, but after the first few bracing sips, it did settle your stomach.
“Mind if I join y’ for a smoke?”
From the grassy spot you sit upon, you look up to find the widow Adler looking down at you. She’s shed her skirts and blouses in favor of work pants. Arthur had dragged her away from Pearson hollering some kind of awful and they returned with her much less agitated. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a braid, the scar above her eyebrow much more noticeable when she wasn’t wearing a hat.
You nod, looking back to the water, and the spurs of Sadie’s boots jingling as she pulls a matchbook from her trouser’s pocket.
“You know me, I ain’t gonna pussy foot about you. I know you ain’t gettin’ fat because of Pearson’s cookin’.” Sadie lights the cigarette between her teeth, continuing to talk through the process.
You remain silent, sitting there on the shoreline, arms looped around your knees, your skirts hiding your frame - your belly, swelling with child.
The match sizzles when she chucks it into the lake and takes a drag.
“Y’got a look about you that you ain't happy bout it.”
You frown, placing your forehead against your knees. “No,” you mumble into the fabric of your skirt.
She lets out a plume of smoke. Silence settles between you before you work up the courage to speak again.
“When they came to your ranch… did they… did-” you swallow, stuttering as your voice cracks.
Sadie drops the cigarette, mashing it into the ground under her boot.
“Yeah.”
You squeeze your eyes tightly shut, sighing before your voice cracks again, “I… when we just got to Horseshoe - there was a house I was scopin’ a-and then… then an O’D-driscoll-” you start to sniffle as your vision clouds with tears.
Sadie does not meet your gaze, simply closing her eyes and breathing out her nose.
“And you're thinkin’ it's his.”
You nod, the tears slipping down your face. What a miserable excuse for an outlaw you are, weeping like a frail woman in front of someone who endured the same trauma.
She lets out a long, thoughtful breath, heavy with the weight of familiarity, “I know, better than most, that you ain't gonna listen to anyone, but y’know it's probably Arthur’s.”
You swallow, about to retort something back at her when she turns on her heel, her spurs jingling.
“You and he weren’t exactly subtle with what you were up to.” Her hand brushes your shoulder before she walks back toward the camp. You remain still, looking out over the lake with your arms wrapped around yourself.
“Best if you start lookin’ forward instead of lookin’ back. You’re only gonna find pain there.”
You look back toward her.
“Are you lookin’ forward?”
Sadie Adler turns halfway to look at you, her jaw set and eyes hard.
“No.”
-
You dream of blood. Of the overpowering richness and stifling warmth in the stale air of the tent. Of movement, people, murmuring voices, and hushed tones.
You dream of pain. You dream of being torn apart from the inside. You dream of screams, nearly inhumane, echoing in the tent.
You dream of Susan Grimshaw dabbing a damp rag over your head, a soft, pitying look on her face.
You dream of the women of camp surrounding you - of Abigail and Sadie, Tilly and Mary Beth. Karen, even Molly. Sadness, forlornness in their eyes.
Abigail holds a whimpering newborn in her arms, swaddled in a blanket.
The bundle is placed in your arms, and as you draw back the linen, the child’s features are revealed. Instead of Arthur’s dark honeyed hair and blue eyes, the babe has dark, dark hair and near-black eyes that blink up at you. Dark, cruel eyes that are nothing like your own.
Nothing like Arthur’s.
You rocket up in the cot, gasping, holding a hand to your breast to calm your racing heart. Your movement has awakened the other person in the tent, and Arthur shoots up from his bedroll on the ground, his head darting this way and that, looking for potential danger before realizing that you had been plagued by a nightmare.
“Sweetheart-” Arthur reaches toward your face to wipe the tears from your cheeks but you flinch and draw back further so that he cannot touch you.
“I just… I…” your voice stutters in the night, “P-Please don’t touch me.”
His hand retracts from between you, “Course, darlin’.”
You gather the thin blanket around you closer, refusing to make eye contact with the man who has crawled closer to the cot from where his bedroll lay spread out on the ground. “Why are you doin’ this?”
“Doin’ what?” Arthur says quietly as he pushes himself up, from his knees to sit at the very end of the cot, opposite where you have curled yourself.
“This.” You gesticulate to the distance between you, then to his bedroll on the floor, “You shouldn’t be sleepin’ on the ground. You’re far too high up in this gang to be doin’ that.”
“You’re pregnant. I c’n sleep anywhere, don’t need a bed.” Arthur says, running his thumb over his bruised knuckles, also not making eye contact with you.
“I ain’t pregnant with-” You begin, clenching your fists in the blanket, your voice faltering.
“You are. Don’t start with this - you remember how many times we was stupid.” Arthur looks up, clenching his jaw and narrowing his eyes in a look of irritation before sighing, running his palm down his face against the exhaustion creeping in on him, “Look, sweetheart. I don’t know why you keep thinkin’ the baby’s his. We’ve been sleepin’ together for months.”
You turn your head away from him, setting your jaw. He doesn’t understand, how would he ever understand?
Arthur lets out a breath and moves from the floor up to sit at the opposite end of his old cot.
“But what if he is? What if this baby’s daddy is that O-”
“My daddy wasn't nothin’ but the man that made me.” He interjects, “Hosea and Dutch raised me more than my actual father did.”
You glance at the mugshot placed on the wagon in the corner of the tent. Lyle Morgan stares at you, with unrepentant eyes, as if he were mocking you from the grave.
“If…if-” You stutter, your eyes watering over again as you draw your knees awkwardly to your chest, your belly getting in the way, The strap of your chemise slips down your shoulder, “If this baby is born and y’ see it’s h-his-”
“It doesn’t matter,” Arthur’s voice raises a bit, and as he realizes it, he slides closer to you on the cot, and grasps one of your hands in his own, his large, calloused hand engulfing yours, “I’m gonna be this child’s pa. Me. I’m gonna be that for the babe, and I’m gonna be that for you.”
You don’t fight his touch. Your eyes water over as you tightly close them, “I don’t know why you’d want another man’s-”
His thumb tenderly swipes your cheek, dashing the tears cascading from your eyes, “Cause I want you, sweetheart. ‘Nd anythin’ you create, it’s gonna be from you, and I want that too.”
You can’t hold back the sob from your throat as you crumble forward in the cot, Arthur winds his arms around you. You breathe in the musk of him - of leather and tobacco and safety.
And in the dim silence of the night, you allow it, burying yourself into his embrace, crying into his collarbone, your swollen belly pressed against his ribcage.
summary: while infiltrating the mayor’s party, arthur’s surrounded by the boring buzz of all the high society bigwigs who came to show off their wealth. while snooping around for information on a potential score, the two of you seem to grab each other’s attention.
word count: 2684
a/n: eat the rich.
ways to help palestine | operation olive branch
‧₊˚౨ৎ
arthur wasn’t exactly in his element, surrounded by all the high society lowlifes that had attended this flashy party of the mayor’s. sure, he liked robbing them, but actually mingling with them? not a way he’d prefer to spend his evening. but dutch had insisted, going on about wanting to make “real contacts”. so here he was cooped up in a carriage with dutch, hosea and bill. he had loosened up a little on the ride there, the complimentary bottle of champagne definitely helped with that. after they arrive and converse with that… eccentric signor bronte, dutch sends him off to go and mingle with the party-goers and to talk to the mayor if he can. he was certain they’d find some information here, the steady flow of alcohol with plenty to go around hopefully loosening the lips of these rich socialites.
meanwhile, you are sitting at your now abandoned table, fan in hand, your family who you had come with now lost in the crowd to engage in undoubtedly dull conversation. truly, you didn’t enjoy gatherings like this or the people your family chose to associate with. they were all scum, to put it lightly, in constant competition among themselves to see who could flaunt the most wealth. they bored you, so you chose to keep mostly to yourself during these events. you sighed, the stuffiness of your corset now painfully noticeable as there wasn’t much to keep you occupied as you scanned the crowd of people all chatting away.
that was until you spotted him, floating around between different groups of people. it was often the same people you saw at parties like this, only the rich being invited of course and none of these people were ones to share their wealth. but he was an unfamiliar face, dressed up to the nines though there was a ruggedness about him that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. thankful to finally have something interesting, and rather pleasant you had to admit, to look at, you let your gaze linger on him as he rubbed shoulders with some of the people littered around the garden.
he seemed different to everyone else, a charm to him as you watched him pour champagne into the glasses of some fancy-looking women. he even stopped a guy from choking on a nut, which was truly a sight to behold. thankfully for him, not many people noticed, but you did have to cover the lower half of your face with your fan as you stifled your giggles to not draw attention to yourself.
as arthur continued to socialise, he spotted the mayor in a small huddle of people by the fountain. finally, he could start getting this night to come closer to an end. as he approached he decided to scan the area just to be safe when his eyes landed on you. all dolled up just as everyone else had been that he’d seen, though none caught his eye quite like you did. you were pretty, so much so that it made him falter for a moment in what was his confident stride towards the mayor and his companions. what really got him was that you were already looking at him, though not for much longer as you looked away almost immediately, wide-eyed and a little flustered that you’d been caught staring.
he had to snap himself back into reality, he had a job to do. so after letting his eyes linger on you for just a second more, he reluctantly turned his attention towards the mayor, smoothly inserting himself into the small cluster. you silently cursed to yourself, cheeks hot after he had locked eyes with you. you must’ve looked like such an outcast, sat alone and practically sulking, and now you looked like a bit of a creep, staring him down so rudely. though you couldn’t help but look back up again once you heard the angry protests of that lowlife ferdinand as he forcefully escorted him out.
you eventually decided to busy yourself and actually talk to some people, settling on a group of women you had chatted with at some other party your family had dragged you along to. it ended up not doing much to alleviate your boredom, their choice of conversation topics not ones that intrigued you greatly. but it would do for now, time passing just a tad bit faster now you aren’t sitting by yourself.
the conversation was loudly interrupted by a sudden explosion in the sky, fireworks starting to set off as they crackled into sparkly bursts, giving the dark night sky the splash of colour it was so void of. this being the most interesting thing you’d seen all night, you excused yourself from the group before weaving your way through the crowd to get a better look. as you did, arthur had caught onto part of a very interesting conversation one of the servants had struck up, something about that damned leviticus cornwall. so he decided to tail a good distance behind him, only the path he took led straight into you.
a surprised huff left your lips as his tall frame accidentally bumped into you, your footing becoming a little unstable from the impact. but in a heartbeat a pair of large hands settled on your arms, steadying you. “woah, sorry ‘bout that, sweetheart,” he apologises, hands remaining on your arms until he knew you were stable (and maybe just a tad bit longer). your words fail you at first from the surprise of the collision, as well as the fact that the man you’d been shamelessly staring at was now holding you upright. “oh! it’s alright,” you finally manage to say, virtually gawking at him like a fool. he removed his hands from you once he was sure you were steady on your feet, the loss of contact upsettingly noticeable to you. but now he was in front of you, perhaps this was an opportunity to actually talk to him as opposed to silently eyeing him down from your table. but just as you were about to ask for his name his attention seemed to be elsewhere and he quickly excused himself. “sorry, i uh- got somewhere to be. but i’ll see ya around, yeah?” he said in that gravelly voice of his. he began moving away from you, taking a few steps back with his eyes still fixated on you before turning and continuing in the direction he was going. in your experience, “see you around” was just a polite parting message and nothing more. nobody ever meant to follow up with it, but the way he said it sounded hopeful, and it made your heart beat just a little bit faster. but his urgency to leave also caught your interest, and you’d proven yourself to be quite nosy tonight so after a few moments of contemplation, you decided to follow after him.
you were worried you had lost him as you weaved through the crowd, losing sight of him completely amongst all the people. but after your eyes darted around the place you spotted him turning the corner and heading towards the steps. though he seemed a lot less urgent in his movements, almost like he was waiting for something. how strange… but all it did was pique your interest more. you waited until he had continued walking to follow behind him, trying to look inconspicuous to the other party-goers as you did. you watched as he snuck into the house, that much now obvious to you as you eyed his cautious movements. it was like a game of cat and mouse as he slinked through the large house, moving to fill his previous hiding spots as you tried not to get caught yourself. you were always one step behind him, heart thrumming in your chest as you followed after him.
this was completely out of character for you, always on your best behaviour, more so to please your parents than yourself. but here you were sneaking through the mayor’s house no less, all for some man you had barely spoken to. you were struggling to pin your actions down to pure boredom, perhaps a yearning for something actually exciting in your life. you eventually found him in what looked to be a study, rooting through the drawer under the mahogany desk inside. you tilted your head in curiosity as you spied from behind the wall, watching as he slipped a piece of paper into his jacket. his illicit behaviour truly didn’t bother you, people like the mayor had enough wealth and resources that you could steal from them and they probably wouldn’t even notice. though it did become a problem, at least for him, when you locked eyes once again through the gap in the door. only this time you had caught him stealing.
you probably should have moved and acted like you saw nothing but you felt frozen in place, how exactly were you supposed to explain yourself? you felt glued to the floor as he hastily approached you, an unreadable expression on his face. “come with me,” is all he mutters as he walks past you, expecting you to follow. unsure of what else to do, you comply and follow him down the stairs, your stomach swarming with anxiety. what if you had completely misread this man? you did just catch him stealing after all. when you reach the bottom of the steps he pulls you behind one of the pillars in the room that lead out to the balcony, surprisingly gentle with you. “ya seem like a smart girl so i’m not gonna bullshit my way outta this, but how about we just keep what you saw between us, alright? trust me, it’s not worth-”
“i wasn’t gonna tell anybody,” you quickly chime in, though you hated the way your voice wavered a little as you spoke. he was rather intimidating, his tall build towering over you as he caged you in against the cool material of the pillar. “truly, steal as much as you want from these lowlifes. they have far too much to even know what to do with it,” you admitted truthfully, genuine disgust lacing your tone. he seemed a little taken aback by your words, not expecting it to come from someone that looked like you at an event like this. he seemed to relax at your words which was a relief, the sinking feeling in your stomach dissipating. “your secret’s safe with me,” you add, your voice hushed. you offer him a genuine smile, finally being able to take him in now that he isn’t rushing after someone. he was handsome, a stubble beard on his chin with a scar dotted in the centre of it. a strand of his light brown hair fell across his forehead, escaping the rest that had been neatly tucked away behind his ear. it was hard to make out in this low lighting but you could’ve sworn you saw a ring of green within those blue eyes of his.
“well look at’chu, a deviant in disguise i suppose,” he says, his words far more lighthearted than you were expecting. though it was ironic as he was in fact a deviant in disguise. “i’m just not brainwashed like the rest of these folks,” you state matter of factly. he laughs softly, nodding in agreement. “that i can see.” as you shared hushed whispers he tried desperately not to let himself admire you. he was always hesitant when it came to feelings like this, his luck in the past not being all that great. but he’d be a fool to try and deny the obvious fact that you were breathtaking, not to mention a fellow hater of the rich despite your background. he hesitates for a second before speaking, “y’know, i never caught your name-”
“there you are!” a voice interrupts the hushed nature of your conversation, an unfamiliar man stepping into view. arthur immediately backs away from you, looking almost embarrassed as the man approaches the two of you. the unnamed man turns to you, charmingly tipping his top hat at you as he greets you with a courteous, “ma’am.” you politely bow your head towards him, a sheepish smile on your face. “my apologies but i’m gonna have to steal him away,” he says before gesturing for arthur to follow him out to the balcony. and that is what he does, sending you an apologetic smile as he follows closely behind.
once he was gone you let out a much-needed exhale, your heart still pounding in your chest. you were unsure of what just happened, not understanding your desperate need to pursue this man as he slinked around the party. you moved from behind the pillar, looking through the glass doors to the balcony and settled your eyes on the mystery man once more as he spoke with whoever his companion was. you noticed as his eyes drifted back over to you, that same unreadable expression on his face. they didn’t linger for too long as his attention was snatched away again by his friend, clearly not pleased by his lack of interest. you decided not to venture back outside, taking a moment to wander into the foyer to take a breather. the air somehow felt far less stuffy in here than out there with all of your wealthy cohorts.
“find anything?” dutch asks as he leans on the balustrade of the balcony, “aside from a pretty woman to steal your attention of course.” arthur is lost for words for a moment, settling on a simple scoff and dismissive wave of his hand. “i think so, went rootin’ around and found something.” he decided to leave out the part where you had caught him in the act of stealing it. hosea and bill regroup with them both, defeated as they had come back empty-handed. but upon learning that arthur had found something, their spirits lifted a little. “gentlemen, i think we’re done here.”
you were slightly slumped against the wall, still in the foyer as you desperately waited for this party to be over. your head snaps up as you hear approaching footsteps, a group of men passing by seemingly without noticing you. you recognised two of them, the one in the top hat and him. they seemed to be leaving, heading back towards the entrance they came through. you didn’t know what overcame you but you decided to rush after them once they made it through the door. he had ended up trailing just a little bit behind the rest, his mind going back to you as they headed away from the house.
“wait!” you call out, catching his and the other men’s attention. arthur turns around to face you as you hurriedly walk over to him, your skirt delicately bunched up in your hands so you wouldn’t dirty the hem. “make this quick,” dutch says before ushering the other men towards the carriage that awaited them. arthur was surprised to say the least, not expecting to see you again after earlier. you were a little out of breath from trying to catch up with them, your words soft yet pressing as you hurriedly spoke. “um... you said earlier that you’d see me around. did you… did you mean it?” he looked dumbfounded, you were actually hoping to see him again? “i mean… i’d like to,” he replies, finally letting himself admit defeat against his better judgement. “i never got your name,” you remember. how spontaneous of you to be chasing after a man you didn’t even know the name of.
“arthur, arthur morgan.” you repeat his name back to yourself, committing it to memory. you were hopeful that this wouldn’t be the last time the two of you met, something about him captivating you from the start. “well arthur, i hope to see you again soon.” his name sounded almost unbearably sweet falling from your lips, and though he thought himself an idiot for it, he knew he’d do anything to hear it again.
a/n: aaaa arthur + southern belle is my fave thing ever ૮꒰ྀི >⸝⸝⸝<꒱ྀིა i hope you enjoyed !! mwah xoxo
Summary: You and Arthur escape through writing.
Pairing: Arthur Morgan x gn!Reader
Word Count: 2,345
Trigger Warning: Tuberculosis, death
Tags: angst, sadness, high honor Arthur
a/n: Thanks for you kind words on Chiaroscuro. I've enjoyed writing again so much! I'm in my tragedy era. My hs english teacher's voice haunts me when I'm writing, so I spent a lot of time scrutinizing this. Didn't mean for it to be so long, but I hope you enjoy! Thanks for reading!
pastiche: a work of art or literature that imitates the style or character of another, often as an homage or tribute.
You knew there was something special about Arthur Morgan the day you met him. Despite his best efforts to believe otherwise, he was easy on the eyes, and his dry humor combined with his strong sense of honor sealed your crush on the cowboy. Everybody else could see that he was sweet on you, too, noticing when he pulled you to sit at the fire with him or how he watched you around camp. As more time passed, you'd become mostly inseparable, taking every moment you had to sneak away together. One of your favorite places to escape to was the fields of Little Creek River in Big Valley. You'd be reading a book and glance over to find Arthur staring intently at an animal until it was out of sight. Then he'd open up his journal and sketch it. He wasn't doing that today, though. He was staring across the field, but you could tell he was elsewhere in his mind.
"Got somethin' to say," his eyes met yours earnestly. When he told you he loved you, a laugh erupted deep from your belly. Dumbfounded, he asked, "The hell is so funny?" his own laugh betraying his attempt to be solemn. It was hilarious to you that he didn't think you already knew that and that he didn't know you absolutely felt the same.
Another day, you were lying in Arthur's lap in the grass. Just the day before, he had returned to camp with bruised knuckles and some poor fool's blood on his face—one of Strauss's clients. You longed for a life where bruised knuckles and loan sharking were distant memories.
"Where would you be if you weren't here," you'd asked, holding his hand in yours. He stroked your thumb with his and gazed over the valley like always.
"Hard to imagine." He mumbled, sounding far away.
You nodded in agreement and replied, "You're always writing or drawing in your notebook. Maybe you could've been an artist or a writer." The thought brought a soft smile to your face, and you imagined, just for a second, a life where Arthur's biggest worry was perfecting his latest masterpiece.
He huffed in dry amusement, "Probably wouldn't have known how to read if it weren't for Dutch and Hosea."
You assented again and sighed, the smile on your face growing wider.
"Arthur Morgan: author and illustrator." You held your hands up in dramatic fashion as if envisioning the words in front of you. Then you untangled yourself from him and sat up, "You could, you know? It's not too late. Maybe a biography?"
"A story about my life, huh?" He looked at you with a dumb smile, "I think a book about dirt would be more interestin'." He bobbed his head up and down as if nodding made his thought more true. You shoved him playfully, and he raised his eyebrow at you and held out his hands questionly. "What? There's all different kinds of dirt," he started counting on his fingers." Brown dirt, red dirt, hard dirt—"
You cut him off, "I'm serious, Arthur! This life…it ain't one normal folks live." A shit-eating grin crept up his face as he fought not to make another joke at his own expense. He shoved it down and kept listening. "Sure, it's just your life to you, but other people might find it interesting, exciting, even."
He thought for a second, then put his hands in the air, mimicking you, "The Confessions of Arthur Morgan: The Detailed Life of a Gunslinger by Arthur Morgan. Sounds like a Pinkerton's wet dream."
"I see what you mean," you trail off, fingers playing in the grass. "Could change the name. People publish under a different name all the time. There's a word for that, I think."
"Pseudonym," he responded, his accent thick. "Think it's got one of those silent letters in front." He said it so matter of factly, and it confirmed what you already knew about him: he was far more intelligent than anybody ever gave him credit for. Still, you left the idea alone and thought Arthur had, too.
Then, on another afternoon in the fields near Little Creek River, he spoke out of nowhere. "Arthur Callahan or Tacitus Kilgore?"
"Hmm?" you asked, barely glancing up from your book.
"For the pen name," he confirmed, scratching his chin thoughtfully.
From that day on, your trips to Little Creek River became writing sessions. He bought a notebook that you two would trade off, coming up with ideas for the dramatized life of the gunslinger. You'd taken some creative liberties, and the story wasn't exactly a biography anymore. It had shaped into a Western love story. Arthur Callahan, after living a bad life, met someone who made him want to be better, an angel sent to rescue the devil himself. Arthur Callahan would get the perfect ending; a normal life. It was all Arthur's idea.
"It's not my story; it's ours," he'd told you.
You had been daydreaming about the possibilities for your novel for some time, but the chaos of life with the gang left little room to focus on it. The sudden move from Horseshoe Overlook to Clemens Point made things worse. Somewhere in the move, the manuscript was lost or destroyed—either way, it was gone. You couldn't hold back your tears during your next trip to Big Valley. Arthur's big hands swallowed your face as his thumbs wiped your tears away.
"Shhh, we'll rewrite it, sweetheart," he promised.
Despite Arthur's gentle nudges, you couldn't find it in you to rewrite the story. Another day, he'd invited you to ride with him, heading off to your usual spot. He'd asked once more if you were feeling up to writing again. When you rejected the idea, he shook his head, seemingly surrendering.
"Fine! You're so damn stubborn." There was no malice in his voice, though, and his eyes twinkled a little. "Looks like I gotta take matters into my own hands." Instead of stopping the horse in the fields as usual, Arthur stopped short, cutting into nearby woods. Eventually, he halted outside of the small cabin that was Vetter's Echo and hitched the horse outside.
"Come on," he said, helping you down. "I've got a surprise for you." You walked up the cabin's steps, and he swung the door open to a small living quarters. "It don't got a back door, and I'm pretty sure the feller living here got mauled by a bear, but it's got one of these things." He gestured to the desk in the corner of the small cabin, a typewriter sitting atop it, "I don't have the first clue about using it." So he left it for you to figure out. He'd sit on a stool beside you, reading from a notebook, and you'd type slowly at first, but as time went on, the keys felt as familiar to you as a gun trigger did to him.
Then things started falling apart. You'd moved from Horseshoe Overlook to Clemens Point, then to Shady Bell in a matter of weeks. The men went on a job to rob the bank in St. Denis, and most didn't return. You'd forgotten about the manuscript while trying to survive and spent weeks worried about Arthur and everybody else.
Then he came home to you, waterlogged but alive. You'd never felt more relieved. He was skinny and had a persistent cough, blaming it all on his rough journey. But it didn't stop him from finishing the book as promised. He'd write whenever he had a chance, and you'd go back to the little cabin in the woods, you typing and him reading.
Then he couldn't get through a page without coughing. You listened, concern etched on your face as he told you about his coughing spell and subsequent visit to the doctor in the city. Tuberculosis: practically a death sentence. After that, he'd step back when you tried to be close to him and wouldn't let you kiss him or be intimate with him. You spent a lot of time crying while he dipped his head in profound shame.
Weeks later, he woke you up at night, gently shaking you and whispering to not alert anyone else. "C'mon, get dressed and ride with me." He was serious, his jaw set, his voice low but demanding. You didn't know what was wrong, but dread ran through your veins. You rode far away from camp, mostly in silence, your anxiety not letting you say anything.
"You're gonna live a good life. "he finally said, breaking the silence. Your eyes stung, and you felt a lump in your throat.
"I don't want to hear this right now, Arthur."
He shook his head, frustrated, and spoke through clenched teeth. "Listen to me." His tone made you flinch. He'd never taken on that tone with you, ever. "This whole thing with Dutch, it's over. You gotta run. Gotta get out and make a good life for yourself."
You wanted to protest; you weren't going to leave him, not now. But then you saw the waiting stagecoach up ahead. Your heart dropped and shattered into a million pieces. You reached around him to pull the horse's reins, coming to a skidding stop. You hopped down and started shaking your head, frantic in your movements and words.
"No, Arthur. No."
You wiped away the quickly falling tears as you turned, fast walking, almost running back to that godforsaken camp that was Beaver Hollow. Even in his sickness, it only took Arthur a few big steps to reach you, grabbing you by the waist and turning you to face him. And then you cursed at him, pounded your fists against his chest, and wailed into the night. He just pulled you close to him, squeezing you until you didn't fight anymore. He gave you a stack of cash, made you promise to run, and said he'd come find you after it was all over. But both of you knew, deep down, that you were setting eyes on each other for the last time. He kissed your head. You sobbed into his chest, only letting go when the impatient stagecoach driver beckoned you.
"Never could've imagined I'd know somebody as perfect for me as you." All you could choke out was, "I love you," over and over and over again. He slipped a folded letter into your hand and helped you into the coach filled with your things. He stood silently with his hat in his hands while you rode off into the night. You sobbed for as long as your body let you while the coach took you down to Copperhead Landing.
First, Tilly showed up with Jack, and then Sadie came with Abagail. But then John arrived bearing Arthur's hat and satchel with a look in his eyes so terrible that it brought you to a screaming sob. That night, when everybody had finally settled down to sleep, you slipped away, leaving a note of thanks and well wishes. You were alone then, the way you wanted it to be without Arthur.
Eight years; it had been eight years since everything went to shit. In eight years, you worked your ass off with any odd jobs you could find. Keeping busy was how you cured your broken heart. You'd tried as hard as you could to forget about the life you'd once lived until you read a headline in the newspaper: MICAH BELL KILLED. The memories flooded back to you, and you returned to a place you hadn't visited in a while. You only kept 2 things from that time: a letter from Arthur and the manuscript you'd written with him. Forged in Fire, you called it. After all this time, you couldn't remember who came up with the name, but you remembered why. You two were like tempered metal; the more you walked through hellfire, the stronger you became.
Then there was Arthur's letter. You'd read it only once before today.
"Things I wanted to say but did not have the courage to say aloud." was scrawled across the top of the page, followed by a list.
"Keep visiting Big Valley.
Keep writing.
Publish the book.
Watch every sunset.
Trust your gut.
Please, be happy."
You heard his voice through every word. He'd underlined the third point: publish the book. In that moment, you decided to take a leap. You wrote to a publisher and sent a copy of the manuscript. And that's all it took. Things went into a tailspin after that, and before you knew it, you were holding a hard copy of the manuscript you and Arthur had worked on together all that time ago.
You'd made an effort, then, to find Abigail and John and Jack. They were held up at a ranch, Beecher's Hope, and were married now. You caught up with the Marstons and apologized for hastily disappearing all those years ago. They were happy for you, and you for them.
On your departure, John took your hand, "I don't talk about him much these days, but I don't think he loved anybody like he loved you." He paused for a moment and forced his eyes to meet yours. "He's buried out in Ambarino, near Donner Falls. Top of the mountain. I can take you." You declined John's offer but set out east toward Donner Falls the next day.
You found him around noon and watched wistfully as an eagle flew from its spot on a rock behind the flowery grave. You fell to your knees, no longer able to control the tears flowing down your face. "I did it, my love," you choked through tears. It'd been a long, long time since you let yourself feel this pain—a longing to reach something impossible. You dabbed the tears away from your eyes and sat in the grass, hugging Forged in Fire to your chest. "Thought I'd read it to you," you spoke into the air. You opened the book, cracked the spine, and read "Chapter One: Heaven's Fall, Hell's Rise."
Summary: You're very fond of silk scarfs and Arthur Morgan.
Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader
Word Count: 1,555
Tags: fluff, developing relationship, Horseshoe Overlook, kissing, affection
a/n: It's been 10 years since I've written and published any type of fiction, so I'm a bit out of my comfort zone. Also learned that they mostly used "scarfs" instead of "scarves" in the 20th century so I wrote accordingly. Let me know if you enjoy; thanks for reading!
( ´˘ᴗ˘)♡(´ ❥ `✿)
chiaroscuro: an Italian term used in art to describe the contrast between light and dark, often associated with dramatic lighting.
You let yourself indulge in one of the few simple pleasures you could afford: silk scarfs. Your clothing trunk was full of them; they were light and didn’t take up a lot of space, something you had to think about in your line of work. The often patterned and bright pieces of fabric were soft and delicate, two things you frequently wished you could be if your life had gone differently. You didn’t want to admit it, but you cared about looking pretty. You didn’t like to go out of your way to style your hair or put on makeup daily, so you settled on scarfs. Still, you didn’t feel like you were easily noticed, like Mary Beth or Molly, but you’d caught the attention of the only one you’d care to, Arthur Morgan.
Arthur had started to notice your growing collection. He invariably knew when you were wearing a new one, always taking the time to acknowledge it. “New scarf?” He’d ask with his brows raised, or “That’s a nice one.” Sometimes, he’d tease you, “We’re gonna have to get you a whole wagon for all those scarfs.” More seriously, he had started complimenting you, “looks mighty fine, miss,” he’d say, tilting his hat. You’d flush and thank him shyly, and the two of you would go about your separate ways.
Then, the cowboy started seeking you out in the mornings, leaning casually against the wagon where your clothing trunk and scarfs were stored. The two of you would share small talk while you picked out your scarf for the day. He would smile and nod in approval of your choice, no matter what it was, and then he was gone again, disappearing like a whisper in the wind. Once, he leaned over you, grabbed a specific scarf from the pile, and held it out, “That one’s my favorite,” he’d say, making you work to maintain your composure when you were beaming inside.
After a week or two, your communication was much less vocal. It was intense eye contact and shy smiles and nods. He’d silently look through your scarfs, pick one, and wrap it around your neck for you. He seemed so confident in the moment but would scratch his chin and look away right after, finding some excuse to swiftly depart. His sudden lack of confidence embarrassed him, but you found it endearing.
Finally, the tension had built. Arthur was wrapping your scarf around you like he’d started to do, and you grabbed onto his hands as he finished tying the knot. Both of you paused, staring intently at one another. You lifted up on your toes just as he bent to reach you. It was hard to say who kissed who first, but you’d never been kissed so gently and tender. You wondered if you’d made him want to be that way-- gentle and tender, words no one would usually use to describe the outlaw. You could’ve kissed him forever, but you had to breathe, and he had a job to do. But you’d been giddy, and your heart would flutter whenever he was around; it also ached for the following day when you’d have your moment with him again.
Some mornings, he’d be there waiting before you’d even gotten completely dressed, still in your shift and bloomers from the night before. He’d hand you a metal cup of coffee, and you’d stand close together, shoulders touching, and you two would go on about whatever came to mind. When you couldn’t waste any more time, he’d pick out your scarf and tie it around your neck. You’d share your anticipated kiss before he went off on whatever errands Dutch wanted him to run for the day.
You’d found him sitting alone another day, seeking solace from camp with his back against a large rock. His head was dipped into his journal, sketching so intensely that he didn’t notice your approach. You’d only caught a glimpse of pencil markings on the page when he looked up, saw you, and closed it. You’d wonder what he was always writing in that thing, but you respected him enough not to ask. He reached out for your hand and pulled you down to sit with him, not letting it go for the entirety of your conversation. You and he would spend hours behind the boulder, lost in conversation. The mystery of the leather-bound book’s contents would fade away, consumed by memories he’d share with you.
But you’d find out sooner than later by accident. Arthur hadn’t returned to camp in a few days, which was typical. However, it wasn’t normal for him to stalk straight to his tent on his return. His routine usually involved stopping by the donation box or sitting by the fire and, lately, seeking you out. You discovered him in his tent, digging through his satchel, his brows furrowed in frustration. His face softened as you approached, and he looked at you, scratching the back of his neck.
“Lost my damn pencil,” the brooding man murmured, looking around his tent.
You helped him look around his tent and through his satchel, taking the leap to dump all its contents onto the cot. Cigarette cards, documents, herbs, feathers, and his journal fell onto the bed. You’d started to give up when you noticed the gray tip of the pencil sticking out of the journal. You flipped the book open without thinking, too caught up in being the solution to his problem to realize you were about to invade his privacy. As you went to grab the pencil from the crease of the journal, your eyes fell on the bookmarked page. The markings on the paper were so detailed and intricate that you couldn’t help but draw your eyes to them. You’d gone quiet, and he turned to face you. His eyes landed on the open journal briefly before you closed it hastily. Handing it back with the pencil on top, you murmured a quick apology. You looked away from him, putting the contents of his satchel back and going to stand. He gently grabbed your wrist as you tried to leave, making you stop in place. Without resistance, you found yourself guided to the cot, where he sat down, pulling you beside him. His face was soft but riddled with thought as he opened his mouth to speak.
“I—“he paused, searching for the words but decided to show you instead. In your full view, he opened the book, smoothing the pages over his lap. Above an inscription, he’d drawn a flower. You recognized it instantly as a printed flower from a scarf you wore a few days before. Your fingers reached to absent-mindedly touch the fabric around your neck. Then the words caught your eyes and made them almost fill with tears, “That girl and her scarfs bring color to my dull, dull life.” You laughed and wrapped your arms around him. As surprised as he was, he wrapped his around you and held you close for a while
The gunslinger had been less shy after that, keeping the journal open when you’d come to sit beside him behind the rock. He’d sometimes tear a page out and hand it to you or leave it for you to find. You’d started finding them all over the camp. He’d leave one in your clothing trunk, caring to leave several if he knew he’d be away from camp for a while, or you’d find one tucked under your pillow when you went to lay down for the night. The sketches were always so identical to your scarfs that you knew exactly which scarf he was thinking about when he drew it. You’d study the drawings, noticing all the elaborate lines. You wondered how the images stuck in his mind so easily, but he’d confessed to you that every part of you stuck in his mind, always.
You woke and walked to the wagon one day, but he wasn’t there. In his absence was a small box wrapped in twine with a bundle of English mace sticking out of the top. Your name was scrawled across a tag in his handwriting. You opened it to a pool of plain white silk. “Pure as you” was written on a piece of torn paper on the inside. You beamed but left it in the box and tucked it away with all your other scarfs.
Arthur returned to camp in the evening just as Pearson had served the stew. As he approached, he smiled at you, but his smile fell when he noticed your unusual lack of a scarf.
“Did you—“he started to ask, but you threw your arms around him and cut him off with a kiss.
“‘Course I did,” you pulled him to the spot at the wagon and held the box to him, “Just been waiting for you to tie it on.”
His mouth formed into a slight grin, his chest rising and falling with a deep chuckle.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way, darlin'.”
He enveloped you in the scarf, sealing his gesture with another affectionate kiss. As you sat together at the fire, you were engulfed by another type of warmth–– your feelings for Arthur. Though neither of you had said it yet, you knew you loved him, and he loved you too.
Request- I NEED ARTHUR TO STEAL DUTCHS GIRL AND SHOW HER A REAL MANS LOVING. FILTHY PASSIONATE LOVING. WORK YOUR MAGIC
A/N- I got incredibly carried away with this. Is basically prawn with no plot honestly. And far softer smut than I think you intended it to be but. Here we are. Enjoy.
Warnings- 18+ | implied toxic relationship ( reader is in love with Dutch van der Linde what can you expect here ), smut: cheating/affair, Arthur being desperate to please!!!, fingering, oral ( reader receiving ) , unprotected p in v and he accidentally finishes inside oops, like the tiniest amount of cockwarming ( WC-8.9k )
AO3 | Masterlist - requests are open :)
Arthur didn’t involve himself in Dutch’s relationships. He stayed polite to whatever young woman he had hanging off his arm at the time, but that was about it. He’d seen too many girls come and go- usually in floods of tears at being dismissed by the man that had seduced and charmed them into loving him. Just working his way through shiny new plaything to plaything, hiding his unending sorrow for Annabelle under the skirt of some new girl.
Unfortunately you were no different.
In your defence, he supposed, you had lasted far longer than the rest. The only real exception to that being the famed Annabelle herself. But as was almost inevitable, your time in the honeymoon phase was slowly crumbling down around you.
Arthur did wonder if it was simply because of the current stress levels in camp. They had all been on the run for longer than he cared to try and count, but after the mess in Blackwater they had reached new heights of being hunted. It had never been this bad. Nothing had ever gone this wrong. Because before everything had gone to complete shit, he’d actually seemed quite taken with you. In truth Arthur actually had begun to consider the idea that Dutch really did love you. Had finally been able to move on from the weight on his heart of his dead lover.
But no.
Arthur was observing the same pattern as always, it had just taken far longer with you. And that just seemed to make it all the more cruel.
He barely even looked at you most days now. Barely uttered a few words in return to any question you asked.
And the arguing was growing ever more fierce. It was practically everyday.
Arthur didn’t like it. Didn’t like the way Dutch treated you. Didn’t like the way Dutch was treating anyone lately. But you in particular had never been anything but nice to him, kind. Sweet. Incredibly naive but sweet. To Arthur too. Some of the girls Dutch had strung along had been vile, rude and entitled and stuck up. But you? You were a genuinely nice person it seemed. And maybe that was your greatest flaw, for someone like that did not belong with Dutch Van Der Linde.
In fact Arthur had come to like you from a distance. The times he had spoken to you you had been interesting, intelligent. Far cleverer than him and he had always liked that in a woman if he was honest.
But still you clung to Dutch. Though your patience with him of late seemed to finally be wearing thin.
Dutch had never really been one to be ashamed or afraid of airing his dirty laundry within the gang. Whether that be packing on the PDA in camp in a way that often made Arthur want to vomit up his breakfast, or the even more puke inducing sounds of the two of you making up all night long. So arguing was no exception to that either.
And today was no different.
“ you barely even look at me! I’m right here! I always have been, I’ve always been such a good girl haven’t I? I do as you say. And look at how you repay me! “ Arthur sighed as he dropped a stack of bills into the box, successfully recovering yet another of Strauss’ debts for him. You were both screaming at each other again, the tent flaps pulled down as if that would over any form of soundproofing. It was the camp's regular ambience now it seemed.
He did feel sorry for you, he really did. You’d left everything you had for Dutch. Some beautiful, intelligent, well spoken girl. Heiress to her daddy’s mining fortune up north, used to the finer things but seeking some adventure. And Dutch had offered you both. Drowned you in jewels and gifts- though unlike the ones you had once owned the ones he gave were not his to give- Shown you off like a shiny new toy on his arm. Expressly informed Miss Grimshaw that you were not to be lifting a finger, that you would not have to earn your keep with chores like the others.
You earned your keep by looking beautiful beside him, by boosting his ego with your constant devotion to him, by letting Dutch use you for his own source of pleasure and by the sounds of things- that Arthur truly had no choice but to overhear- not getting very much back in return.
“ You know I don’t think I’ve ever met a more selfish woman in my life! “ Arthur sighed and sat down on his cot, debating whether or not to make some attempt to get the sleep he had been planning the entire long journey back to Clemens Point. But his tent was but a stone's throw from Dutch’s.
“ I have needs too Dutch Van Der Linde!” Everyone else in camp didn’t seem to mind it though, most of them preparing to settle in for the night. Whether that be passing out on their bedrolls or drinking by the fire. But Arthur wasn’t sure he could put up with another moment of the damn yelling.
“ oh? You have needs? “ Dutch’s voice was condescending. Mocking “ I give you everything! You are acting like a spoiled child”
“ a child? A child!? “ Arthur stood back up again, deciding he’d fare better trying to sleep on the damn ground rather than next to the likes of you and Dutch. So he headed out towards the edge of camp, hiding himself in the woods by the water. He slumped down against a tree with a heavy sigh and wished he’d thought to pick up a bottle of beer on the way.
But it was no matter. He was far enough away that he couldn’t hear the fighting anymore, but close enough that if he was needed anyone calling his name would be heard.
He looked out across the water, enjoying his rare moment of peace. It was a clear night and a full moon, the reflection bouncing off the water in the most beautiful way. He pulled out his journal and started to sketch it, wishing he could capture its beauty better.
‘ Dutch and the girl were arguing again. Got out of earshot for a bit to try catch some sleep. Thought the water and the moon looked mighty pretty ‘
He scrawled underneath when he was done, tucking it back into the satchel discarded at his side. Javier's guitar had silenced back in camp now and he figured everyone had gone off to bed. But he was quite content there by the water, so dropped his hat over his face and settled in to try and catch a few hours himself.
He was just dozing off when he heard the sound of boots marching quickly through the undergrowth, snapping twigs as they went. And then the soft sound of someone mumbling to themselves. He silently hoped whoever it was would keep well away from him. But the boots grew nearer and came to a halt not so far away. The crackle of a match being lit and a heavy sigh.
“ thinks he can talk to me like that? Bastard. Bastard he is. I’m a lady I deserve better than. Than that “
You.
He cleared his throat lightly to inform you that he was there, but unfortunately still seemed to startle you.
“ Christ! Gave me a damn heart attack Arthur “ he placed his hat down with his satchel with a sigh and looked up at you. In the light of the moon reflecting off the water he could see your cheeks were tear stained, the glow of the end of your cigarette illuminating your face further and showing your makeup in streaks.
He couldn’t lie that it made his heart ache for you. He didn’t particularly have any solid feelings for you, but he did feel sorry for you. It was hard not to feel sorry for the woman seduced by Dutch.
And you truly were a cut above the rest in his opinion. Beautiful as the early morning sun and, when you weren’t screaming at Dutch, as kind and warm as it too. But maybe that was fitting. Because much like the sun you could bask people in warmth, but burn them too. Beautiful and bright but scalding and he found he couldn’t look at you for too long, no matter how many times he wanted too. Simply blinding his eyes with your flaming beauty and having to turn away.
But maybe he was just getting caught up in his metaphors.
“ shouldn’t be out this far from camp “ you simply shrugged, taking another drag of your cigarette “ ain’t no one nice lingerin’ in woods at night miss” even if no Lemoyne raiders were sneaking around the trees, there were plenty of species of wildlife that would happily do a number on you. Chew off a leg or bite you with poison fangs. You didn’t know how to take care of yourself. You couldn’t handle a gun, didn’t have a single survival instinct in you.
Dutch had quite made sure of that, he’d heard you ask once or twice. And had been denied. Charming you with some string of words about how you were far too delicate to be handling a gun. To leave it for the men.
“ you’re lingering in the woods aren’t you Mr Morgan? “ he chuckled and shrugged.
“ and I ain’t that nice. Point proven lady “
“ not like Dutch would care if someone took me anyway. He’d probably be thankful “ your voice was hoarse from the shouting and he couldn’t tell if you were going to cry again or not. You took a long drag of your cigarette before seeming to suddenly remember something, dipping your hand into the waistband of your skirt and pulling out a pack “ sorry my manners. Want one? “ he took one with a nod of thanks “ can I sit? “
You sat down carefully beside him then with a long sigh, tucking your legs beneath you, and leant forward so he could light the cigarette between his lips with the end of yours.
“ thanks “ you both sat quietly for a short while. Smoking and watching the ripples in the water. He didn’t mind it actually, as much as he had been slightly annoyed at you disturbing his attempt to sleep. You were decent company.
You rarely strayed from Dutch’s side, but on the odd occasion you had and Arthur had stumbled upon you having a moment to yourself at the edge of camp it had been quite nice. So he didn’t mind sitting there with you, company. For you both.
“ I think you’re nice. By the way “ you said to break the silence, refrenching his previous comment of bad men lingering in the woods.
“ No offense to you Miss, but you’re in love with old Dutch. I don’t think you’re particularly qualified to be sayin’ whether folk is nice or not “ he said it teasingly in some hopes of making you smile. And it did. A little.
“ maybe not “ he watched you bring your cigarette to your lips again, glancing at your hands. Nails perfectly trimmed and not a single speck of dirt or sign of a scar. Hands that had never had to lift a finger. Ever. It was an interesting contrast to his own. Calloused and scarred and bruised “ but Dutch he… he…Can I ask you something? “
“ Sure “ he said and flicked his cigarette away.
“ Do you think I’m beautiful Arthur? “ you asked meekly. Your face was sad. Lingering innocence yet to be wiped away by life somehow, the kind that only remained because you had lived a life so sheltered. Even with Dutch you were as sheltered as could be “ and don’t lie. Please “
“ I think you’re beautiful, sure “ you turned back to the water again, tossing your own cigarette before promptly lighting another.
“ Dutch doesn’t. Not anymore. Barely even looks at me “ Arthur ran a hand over his face, not entirely sure what he was supposed to say to you in the situation. At all “ I know I know I don’t expect you to agree. You two you’re…you’re like two peas in a pod aren’t you? “ you said with a small laugh, but it held no humour. You took a long drag of your cigarette.
“ me and Dutch it’s… we go back a long way. But… I will agree the way he’s been treatin’ you. Ain't nice. Not when you done nothin’ but be loyal to him for so long “ you turned back to him again and gave a small smile. It was like a wave of relief had washed right over you.
Someone was finally listening.
“ I think he’s got his eyes on Mary-Beth “ you mumbled, red stained lips wrapping around your cigarette again. Much like how he had found himself admiring your hands he now found himself admiring your lips. Soft and plump and stained red in the way they often were.
He blamed it on his fatigue.
“ he’d be a fool to give you up. You’re kind, loyal, hell you might jus’ be the most beautiful woman I know. He’s in a weird place right now. He’ll snap outta it, be back to readin’ you Evelyn Miller in no time. You’ll see “ maybe the last part wasn’t entirely true. But the first part was. And you seemed to bask in his compliments. He wondered when the last time Dutch had said something nice to you had actually been.
“ Thank you “ you looked as though you might cry again. And he really hoped you wouldn’t. He didn’t like to see you cry. And he really wouldn’t know what to say to you then. Once again you turned your attention back to the water and gave a small sigh “ maybe I chose the wrong outlaw “ you said with a small laugh “ always have thought you were quite handsome “
He nearly choked on his own saliva, clearing his throat in hopes to pass it out smoothly. He didn’t know if it had worked.
“ Really? “
“ Hmm “ you mused, tilting your head inquisitively to the side “ but you were oh so hung up on that Mary girl when I found Dutch”
“ Yeah well. Mary she’s- that’s all done with now “ maybe Mary was the reason he seemed to sympathise with you so. Because he too had had a broken heart. Though he was sure his was not as brutal as yours.
“ Guess we both have bad taste don’t we Mr Morgan “ he chuckled and nodded.
“ That we do miss. That we do “ he placed a gentle hand to your shoulder and squeezed in some form of comfort “ don’t worry bout Dutch though. Really. He’ll come to his senses and if…if he don’t then. Any man would be lucky to have ya “ you sniffled and he figured you’d started crying again “ I didn’t mean to upset- “
“ No. No I’m fine. It’s just…you mean it all don’t you? All these kind words? “ he shrugged and then nodded.
“ Sure I do. You’re a beautiful woman. Inside an out “ something seemed to flash across your face, a million and one things whirring away behind your eyes. He’d never been that good at reading people, never one for knowing what people were thinking. And the look on your face was the most confusing he’d ever seen.
The next part happened far too quickly for him to process it. Maybe because he was tired, maybe because he truly hadn’t even slightly suspected you to do it. You flicked away the butt of your cigarette and leaned forward, one hand to his leg and the other to his neck. And kissed him.
He was taken aback and you pulled away before he could make any attempt to figure out what you’d just done.
“ Sorry “ you sighed in slight annoyance, seemingly at yourself, sitting back beside him again. Like it was no big deal. Just something that had happened and had no real consequence “ shit- sorry “ Arthur scratched the back of his neck awkwardly and shrugged with a small laugh. Attempting to play it as cool as you clearly were.
Maybe he’d finally cracked and entered some weird fatigue induced psychosis, hallucinations and hearing voices. And kissing Dutch’s woman.
“ S’okay. No harm done “ he was bewildered. Trying to process the last 30 seconds and coming up completely blank.
“ Just the way you talk about me I- Lord forgive me “ he was certain he must have looked half dense. Still completely confused at what on earth was happening with you. And maybe, just maybe, a tiny bit flustered at having a woman like you kiss him. Even if you were begging the Lord for forgiveness right after it “ no one’s spoken to me like that in a long time and…and I wish they had. I want to be told I’m beautiful again. I want to be kissed. I want I want…I want a lot of things “
Maybe Arthur was a stupid, idiotic fool. Maybe too many gunshot wounds and bumps to the head had finally caught up to him. Maybe he too wanted to act on his ever growing annoyance with how Dutch was behaving. But he found himself reaching out, fingers tucking under your chin to turn your face to look at him. Your eyes were so beautiful up close. Practically sparkling in the moonlight.
Oh he was such a fool.
“ could’a jus’ asked “ a small smile tugged at your lips and you laughed a little.
“ Yeah. Of course. Because you’d have said yes Arthur? “ he shrugged. He didn’t know if he would’ve actually. But now the thought was in his head “ alright “ you whispered and shuffled a little closer to him “ indulge me “
His thumb was absentmindedly brushing over your jaw, looking at you in the light of the moon and wondering how on earth Dutch wasn’t constantly begging for your attention. If he had a woman like you constantly hanging off his every word he wouldn’t know how to act. Would be like a mangy dog trailing around after you for food.
“ I might’ve “ you gave a roll of your eyes but you were smiling still, a beautiful, tempting smile.
You were a temptress. A siren. Luring him in with your beauty to do something terrible. And you were vulnerable. Sad and seeking appreciation. And he was truly debating it.
“ Well…“ you started quietly, looking up at him through your long lashes in a way that made his chest go tight “ there is… still time for you to say yes “
“ we ain’t gonna tell no one bout this y’hear? This it’s… it’s jus’ between me and you. Okay? “ your eyebrows furrowed for a second looking up at him intently, as if trying to figure out if he was joking or not. If he was serious. He wasn’t entirely sure himself, needed you to agree or disagree to put the thought to rest. His thumb continued to brush along your jaw tenderly and your eyes fell closed for a moment.
How long had it been since someone had touched you with such care? That something as simple as that seemed to mean so much to you.
“ I understand “ you whispered, eyes flickering down to his lips again. He pulled you in close, barely an inch between your lips and then spoke again “ you’ll give me what I want? Don’t treat me like him “
“ Anythin’ ya want. You got it. I’ll give ya what you deserve “ you let a shuddering breath escape and gave a small nod before closing the gap between you both again.
He hadn’t kissed anyone in a while, but he sure found his footing quickly. You kissed him like he was your source of air, climbing your way into his lap and slipping your hands into his hair. You tasted of cigarette smoke and something almost sweet. Whatever it was, it was an intoxicating mix. You were like a siren singing your call in his ear, drawing him in and taking him for your own. The weight of you in his lap was almost familiar, welcoming. Just… nice.
He had almost forgotten just how fun it was to kiss a woman. How so many men seemed to shun it as boring, pointless- Dutch obviously included. But Arthur had always loved it. Had spent many a night as a youngster sneaking his way into Mary’s room just to kiss her. To spend hours kissing and talking and kissing some more.
Kissing you was something else. Addictive. Intoxicating.
Eventually he had to pull away, his lungs screaming at him for air. Your hands slipped out from his hair and down to grasp at the collar of his shirt, resting your forehead on his.
“ Anything I want you say? “ you asked quietly, breathless.
“ Anythin’ “ you smiled and lifted your head, a quiet determination settling over you. Your lipstick had smeared and he wondered how much of it was now on his own face.
“ okay… undress me then “ you softly commanded, shifting slightly in his lap “ please. Dutch never- he makes me do it myself, barely even looks I- Please “
He almost laughed to himself about now he immediately thought getting you naked was entirely too risky. As if the entire situation alone wasn’t risky anyway. But he didn’t want to think too hard about that, instead simply channelled his recent annoyance towards Dutch into his actions. Tried to tell himself he was doing a good thing, taking care of you.
You watched his face carefully as he gently untucked your shirt from where it was tucked into your skirt, some silky soft thing that probably cost more than everything he owned in his clothing trunk put together. He undid every pearl button slowly, eyes darting up to your face as he did. Your chest was heaving in long, heavy breaths. You were nervous. Or excited. He couldn’t tell which.
You shivered lightly when he pushed it from your shoulders, now only the soft cotton of your chemise between his hands and your chest. Your nipples had hardened, from the slight night chill or lust he couldn’t say. But he found himself unable to resist the sight, leaning forward and capturing one between his lips through the cotton. You gasped softly, a sound so beautiful it made him groan. You sounded delicate. Innocent. You’d never made such sounds when he’d overheard you with Dutch. In fact a majority of the time you almost sounded in pain.
But this sound wasn’t that. This sound was beautiful. And he wanted to hear more. One hand pushed at your back to bring you closer, the other palmed at your neglected breast in hopes you’d make the sound again. And you did. Gentle, soft gasps as his tongue dampened the material of your chemise, teeth tugging at you gently through the material. Your hand found his hair again, raking your fingers through it and arching your back into his touch.
He couldn’t imagine why Dutch had never wanted to do such a thing. How could he not want to hear you make those pretty pretty sounds? How could he not want to feel you writhing in his lap and yearning to be touched. Maybe Dutch was more of a fool than he had originally thought.
“ Need you to touch me- properly I- take this off “ your sentence was choppy, like you weren’t focussed enough to truly articulate the words you wanted to say. But he understood, pulling your chemise over your head and dropping it to land with your shirt.
He took a moment just to look at you, not even entirely because he knew you’d want him to. Just because he wanted to. He’d be a liar if he said he hadn’t wondered what was hiding under your expensive clothes once or twice. How could he not when he had to try sleep through the sounds of you and Dutch of a night.
“ God damn “ he said softly, hands soothing over your waist as you basked in his admiring stare, taking in the feeling of finally being looked at. Properly.
“ like what you see Mr Morgan “ you asked, voice sultry and low in a way that made his cock twitch in his pants.
“ Dutch is a damn fool “ is all he could say, leaning forward to kiss you again, his hands moving to grab at your chest. You moaned into the kiss as he squeezed and massaged your breasts with his large hands, seizing the opportunity to dip his tongue into the warmth of your mouth. Your fingers in his hair, twisting strands around your fingers and tugging lightly. He felt like he was on cloud nine. Certain he’d somehow taken a stumble through the veil and ended up at heaven's gates.
He wasn’t a particularly religious man, but the way he was prepared to worship and praise you could truly be consider blasphemous.
He couldn’t resist the temptation of getting his mouth on you again much longer, dragging his lips from yours and wrapping them around a pebbled nipple instead. You rolled your hips against him, those beautiful soft moans still falling past your lips. This was what you had wanted from him. To be worshipped. To be looked at as the beautiful temptress of a woman you were. And not merely glanced at and then used like some two dollar whore in a saloon.
He wanted to nip at your skin, bite and soothe it with his tongue. But he knew he couldn’t. Couldn’t risk Dutch seeing it if he felt the need to stop ignoring you for a short while for his own needs. But oh how he wanted to. To mark up your smooth skin with reminders that you were desired. That you could look at as they faded and be reminded that you were wanted.
“ I need more “ you whispered “ Arthur please. Give me more “ another roll of your hips followed by a small whimper told him enough.
“ I know I got ya “ he murmured against your skin, pressing kisses up your sternum and your neck. Nose brushing at the underside of your jaw and working his way back to your lips again “ stand up. Lemme get you out of these damn clothes “ he caught the smile on your face as you stood up, he stayed seated and ran his hands over the fabric covering your hips. Something seemed to blaze in your eyes as you looked down on him. He realised it was most probably you that was usually being leered down on, but not now.
Not with him. Not with Arthur. Arthur looked up at you like the goddess you were, looked up at you with what he knew was a silent pleading in his eyes. Dutch would never ask he knew it. Dutch took. Stole. Used. Arthur didn’t. Wouldn’t.
“ I like how you look at me “ you said quietly, hand soothing over his hair “ you make me feel beautiful “
“ Cause y’are “ he murmured, hands reaching to the ties of your skirt. He wanted to see more. Wanted to see all of you.
You helped him with the slightly tedious task of getting your skirts and undergarments off, but all so slowly. Taking his time. Making sure he appreciated every single layer of clothing you removed for him, right down to unlacing your boots and holding your leg gently to help you out of them. Until you stood there as naked as the day you were born, illuminated by the moonlight on the water.
“ well ain’t you a sight “
Your skin was so smooth. Soft. Not a single scar that he could see. The skin of a woman who had never had to lift a finger. Had never known the hardships that he had. The only true blemish on your skin was the almost completely faded bruises on your hips. Fingertips. Dutch.
He soothed his hands up your legs, pressing soft kisses to the pillowy flesh of your thighs as he went, and stopped as he reached them.
“ He can be a little rough. It’s how he likes it “ you answered before he could even ask. Arthur too had been known to have his rougher moments. But he could never hurt you. Never mark you in anyway other than that of affection and care.
“ I ain’t like that “
“ I know. That’s why I want you “ he pulled you back down into his lap, his large hands splaying over your hips as he took yet another moment just to look. To admire. To thank whatever stupid damn God may exist for placing such a heavenly body in his presence “ I feel a little like the odd one out here though “ you said with a small smile, tracing a finger down from the open top buttons of his shirt to his pants.
He’d been far too occupied with you to even really notice the fact that he was ridiculously overdressed in comparison.
“ Can’t have that now can we darlin’ “ your smile grew and you made quick work of the buttons on his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders with a gentle sigh. You ran your fingers through the hair on his chest, nails scratching lightly at his skin and peppering lipstick stained kisses as you went. Littering his collarbones, his sternum.
“ much better “ your hands kept roaming and your lips kept kissing. Hands seemingly wanting to touch him all, scratching lightly up his sides and over his waist, his stomach and his ribs. Slowly moving to slide over his shoulders and loop around his neck. You rolled your hips against him again and whined softly. He was so hard it was growing painful as he stayed restrained by his pants. But he wasn’t selfish. Not like Dutch. And he wasn’t about to seek out any form of pleasure himself until he had you seeing the stars you deserved.
“ tell me what y’want “ he murmured, peppering soft kisses across your jaw.
“ touch me “ you sighed blissfully “ please touch me “
His hand slipped down in between your bodies, brushing past the soft curls between your legs and couldn’t contain the groan of a sound that left him when he felt how warm and wet you were.
“ Christ “ he muttered as your head dropped to his shoulder with a shuddering breath “ he ever touch you like this? “ he asked lowly, already knowing the answer. Why would he? He didn’t get anything out of it.
But Arthur did. Oh Arthur did.
“ no “ you whispered “ no never…please. More “ he tested the waters, pressing lightly against your clit and revelling in the squeak of a sound that it caused you to make.
“ or like this? " You shook your head again, breathing shakily as he dragged his finger through the wetness and drew light circles around your entrance.
“ Arthur “ you moaned his name in the most delicious way as he pushed his finger inside, burying it to the knuckle
“ yeah and what about this darlin? “ he again knew the answer. Dutch didn’t care about your pleasure. Didn’t care about wasting time on something as simple as making you whimper and whine for more “ he touch you like this? “
“ no “
“ think ya can take one more for me? “ you nodded again and he withdrew his finger, gathering your slick on his other before pushing them both past the resistance of your entrance “ that’a girl “ he pumped his fingers in and out steadily, curling and probing at your velvety soft walls to test what you liked.
“ This is so… oh god. This isn’t proper at all “ you laughed slightly, melting into a soft moan. Arthur chuckled, lifting your face up so you’d look at him.
“ Ain’t proper at all? It’s damn right filthy darlin” your cheeks were aflame and you closed your eyes for a moment, grinding yourself against his hand “ look at ya. Drippin all over ma fingers like that. Ain’t proper. Not one bit “ you smiled, a cheeky, devious smile that made him lean forward and kiss you again.
You were so wet it was obscene. He couldn’t tell where the sounds of you kissing stopped and the sopping sounds of his fingers began. You continued to grind down against his palm, practically riding his fingers, his whole hand wet and sticky with you.
And he wanted to taste it. To taste you. To flood his mouth with the slick, liquid gold covering his fingers. It was an almost primal desire, like a desperation as strong as needing air. He needed to. He had to.
“ Darlin’ “ he murmured, lifting your head from where it had fallen to his neck again “ gotta let me taste you. You gotta “ the look on your face only made him want it more. Your skin flushed and eyes blown out with nothing but pure lust and desire. He’d never needed anything more. Nothing else mattered, not the painful hardness in his pants, not the realisation that you were very much Dutch’s girl. He didn’t care about any of that. He just needed to be between your thighs.
“ really? No one’s ever- oh god. Yes. Yes. Please Arthur “ he withdrew his fingers making you whimper and quickly grabbed his discarded shirt and lay it down on the ground. Then he kissed you again as he wrapped his arms around your waist, gently turning you to lay back on the shirt. It still couldn’t have been particularly comfortable. But you didn’t seem to mind, tugging at his hair and lifting your hips up against him as he hovered over you.
He took his time moving down. Leaving a long and slow trail of hot, wet, kisses on your skin. You writhed underneath him, whining softly and twisting your hands in his shirt underneath you. He took extra time with your thighs. Kissing up from the inside of your knee and stopping before he could place his mouth where he really wanted to, then repeating with the other.
“ Arthur “ you whined, still squirming around and desperate.
“ I know. I got ya. Gonna make those pretty sounds for me again yeah? "You nodded, pushing yourself up onto your elbows to watch him as his head sank lower, spreading your legs wider to give him full access to the centre of you “ that’s a good girl “ he spread you open with his fingers, in awe of the way you parted for him. Like petals on a flower, dripping with the morning dew.
But you were far more delectable. A forbidden fruit begging to be tasted.
And oh was it pretty. Even in the dark, in nothing but the light of the moon on the water, it was pretty. Begging to be tasted, touched. Admired.
The sound you made as he dragged his tongue from your weeping hole to your clit was like music to his ears. He didn’t know how he managed to not come in his pants just at the sound of it.
You still kept it quiet, but loud enough for him.
His own, deep, guttural moan escaped from his chest as he licked again. Your taste flooding his mouth in a way so so much better than he could’ve imagined.
He ate you like he was starved. Like a savage predator that hadn’t seen meat for days, like a man ready for the gallows enjoying his last meal. His arms wrapped around your thighs, keeping your legs apart for him as you bucked and squirmed against his face. It was visceral. Carnal. You made him feel like his grip on his own composure and control was weaker than ever, that he was holding on to it with nothing but his fingertips.
“ Arthur “ he dipped his tongue into the welcoming warmth of your cunt, his eyes falling closed for a moment as he felt you clench around him, desperate for more. Desperate for him. And he would give you more, would give you anything you asked of him. But not until he made you come first.
He let go of one of your legs and brought his fingers back to their previous position, wanting to feel you again. To be inside of you, as close as he could get. To make you see stars.
The flat of his tongue found your clit again, certain he could feel you pulsing against him. Desperate and full of desire for him. He felt honoured, privileged. That you were so loyal to Dutch, glued to his side. Never even batting an eye at anyone else. And yet you had broken that for him. Had sought him out because you knew he would treat you well.
Your back arched off the ground as he sunk them back into you, slipping in with a welcome ease. His thick fingers pumped into you at a steady pace, his tongue diverting all its attention to your clit. Lapping and sucking and letting you press his face harder against you as you tugged on his hair.
“ don’t stop please dont- Arthur “ he had no intentions of stopping, none at all. In fact he simply honed in on his ministrations, working harder to push you closer and closer to the edge of the orgasm he knew you had been craving for weeks.
“ Not gonna stop darlin. Ain’t stopping until you come for me. Taste so good, so good “ he murmured against you, curling his fingers and hitting a spot that made you gasp and your body shudder “ there we go, right there “
He flicked his tongue over your sensitive bundle of nerves, looking at you as best he could to gauge your reaction. You were pulling a little painfully at his hair, squirming and rolling your hips against his face. He let you do it. Let you be the one using a man for your pleasure, rather than being the one used for once.
Your sounds were sinful. Melodic. He took it all in. Basked in the noises you made for him, the delicious taste of you on his tongue, drunk on you. On your taste. Your smell.
“ Arthur- Arthur please I- “ you babbled, a slightly smug smile working its way onto his face as he watched your prim and proper facade melt away “ don’t stop “
He hummed an assurance that he wouldn’t, your hips bucking against his face as he did. You were so unbelievably wet, dripping out around his fingers and soaking the hair of his beard. He would never have thought it of you. The way you held yourself around camp, so poised and prim. The accent when you spoke that made everyone else around you sound so common. And yet there you were. On your back in the woods, chasing an orgasm being offered to you by an outlaw. Repeating his name like a mantra.
And not even that of the outlaw you were in love with.
“ Arthur- “
Only seconds later it happened. You held a hand over your mouth as your orgasm hit you, muffling your choked moans, back arching off the ground and walls clamping down on his fingers as he worked you through it. Tongue still working diligently at your clit until you pushed your hand at his head, squirming away a little.
He almost didn’t want to stop. Could’ve happily stayed there a while longer, but moved back, an obscene wet sound in the late night silence as he withdrew his fingers.
He took his fingers to his mouth, sucking the remnants of your climax onto his tongue. Unable to control himself. You watched him do it, mouth slightly agape and eyes half open with some desperate undeniable look of utter desire. He could almost see the way it made you feel, could see you unable to contain the overwhelming feeling of realising you were desired. Wanted.
“ God. You are unbelievable “ you whispered, pushing yourself up onto your elbows and grabbing at his arm. Your fingers looped around his wrist and tugged his hand towards your own mouth. He shook his head with a chuckle, slightly in awe as you took those same two fingers between your red lips.
Your tongue swirled between his digits, plush lips wrapping around them and sucking. Your eyes locked on his as you did. It made his cock ache. He wanted your lips on him, wanted your tongue swirling around his length and milking him dry. He could imagine it if he thought hard enough. The way you hummed slightly in appreciation as you sucked his fingers clean, sent vibrations straight through his bones. Rattling him to the core. But he would never ask that of you. But the thought was one he would hold onto. It made him shift slightly.
“ you ain’t so prim and proper lady “ he murmured as he withdrew his fingers, a string of saliva connecting his fingertips and your lips “ This ain’t very proper of you miss “ Arthur said with a small smile, teasing “ rollin’ around in the dirt with the likes of me “
“ Oh to hell with being proper if it means I get to feel like this “ you said with a small laugh and he kissed you again for what felt like the millionth time. He wondered if you could taste yourself on his lips, smell the heady delicious smell of you on his beard.
He would’ve been more than happy to leave it at that. No matter how badly he wanted to sheath himself inside you and stay there for eternity. His goal had been your pleasure and he had achieved it.
But as he kissed you your hands began working at the buckle of his gun belt, opening it with a skilled ease that made him pull back.
“ Darlin’ you ain’t gotta do that- “
“ shush “ you pushed at him lightly so you could sit up and went to work on the buttons on his pants next “ I want to. I- Arthur take them off “ he made far quicker work of his own clothes than he had of yours and you leant back on your elbows to watch him.
You looked like a pinup girl. Like something he’d seen drawn come to life. Your eyes seemed hungry as you looked at him, dragging down his body and lingering on his rock hard cock. He was practically throbbing with want, the tip an angry shade of pink and leaking precum slightly embarrassingly “ come here. Please. Back down here “
He did as he was asked, crawling back over your body as you eyed him greedily.
“ We really don’t…I mean, If y’don’t wanna- “ his words stuck in his throat as your fingers wrapped around the length of him with a small sigh.
“ I want you to I just…can I ask one thing? “ he couldn’t get the word yes to escape his mouth, your fingers squeezing him softly in a way that made him see flashes of white in his vision. So he simply nodded “ don’t fuck me. Dutch fucks me, make love to me “ you seemed a little embarrassed at the request. But he didn’t think it was embarrassing. In fact he had had no plans to use you as brutally as Dutch. He was almost a little offended you thought he might.
“ Told you, anythin’ you want. You got it “ you smiled softly and pressed another kiss to his lips before laying back down again. He positioned himself over you, caging your head in between his arms. And it truly was incredibly intimate. He wondered when the last time you had had such intimacy was. If you’d ever received such a thing from Dutch.
He spat on his hand and grabbed a hold of his sensitive cock, stroking himself a couple of times to get himself slick. Not that he really needed to, you were already wetter than he’d ever known a woman to be. But the last thing he wanted was your discomfort. He lined himself up with you, eyes trained on your face as he dragged his weeping tip between your folds. You gasped as he caught your clit, still sensitive and alert from your first orgasm.
“ Arthur please “ you whimpered rolling your hips up against him, so desperate to have him inside of you.
“ So God damn wet for me “ he murmured “ such a good girl ain’t ya? “ you whined in answer, fingers wrapping around what you could of his bicep and digging your perfectly trimmed nails into his skin “ gonna make you feel so good I promise darlin’ jus’ like you deserve yeah? “ you whispered out a yes and brought your other hand to the back of his neck. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from you, still running his cock along the length of your slit. Teasing.
“ Keep looking at me. Please look at me Arthur “ he continued to do as asked. Again. Though his eyes had barely strayed from your face anyway “ I need you so badly “ Eyes locked on yours, he finally pushed into you, he took it slow. Letting you take it inch by inch, watching the look of ecstasy wash over your face. Your eyes fell closed.
He fought to retain his own composure, overwhelmed by the tight, wet, warmth of your walls enveloping him. He could feel every unique ridge and bump that made your cunt oh so perfect, feel every muscle stretch and contract as you adjusted to him.
“ god- oh god “
“ shh shh easy there. I got ya “ he paused once he was seated inside of you, grabbing at your hip with one hand to angle your hips better. Allowing you to comfortably take all of him in. He waited, let you adjust to his size, not daring to move before he got the go ahead from you “ there you go, look at you, takin’ all of me like that. So good for me “ you basked in his praise, a dopey kind of smile spreading across your face.
“ so much bigger than him “ you whispered with a small laugh and Arthur couldn’t help the smug smile on his face. Kissing you and touching you and making you come on his tongue had been one thing. But having you like this? Having his cock buried to the hilt inside of you, so unbelievably close together. And to then be told that? To know he was about to do you better than Dutch ever had. Ever could. It felt like the biggest fuck you to the man that had been not only mistreating him of late, but also the goddess of a woman beneath him “ I’m good. You can move. Please move “
He didn’t need telling twice. Pulling out almost completely and thrusting back in in one smooth motion. The pace he fell into was just as you’d asked. Loving. Tender. But hard and deep, making sure his hips were flush with yours with every stroke. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulled his face back down to kiss him again.
If anyone had spotted you they’d have easily mistaken you both for a lovesick couple having a private moment to yourselves. The entire thing intimate and passionate. No one would assume it was an affair in motion, hidden away in the woods by the shoreline in fear of your lover finding the pair of you there.
But it was what you wanted. What you had needed. And he felt privileged to provide.
He pulled back from your lips to watch you again, enthralled by the way your face relaxed and twisted in the pleasure he was providing you. You continued to spill those angelic sounds from your throat, growing breathier and higher pitch as he continued to drag his cock against the sopping, sensitive heat of your cunt. He had to focus hard not to finish in seconds. So much build up paired with being practically celibate for months was truly doing him no favours, but he focussed. He wasn’t letting this end until you came once more. You deserved it.
“ Keep those pretty eyes on me “ he murmured as they fell closed again “ that’s it darlin’, look at me there ya go “ everytime he spoke the slightest word of praise you practically beamed, so desperate to hear it. To be told you were good. Beautiful. So different to Dutch constantly yelling at you about how annoying you were, how much your mere presence bothered him these days. So he kept it up.
“ Doin’ so well for me. This pussy it’s perfect, ain’t that right? C’mon tell me “ he urged, still fighting off his ever looming orgasm. The sounds alone was enough to make him want to burst. Sweat slicked skin on skin, the wet sounds of your cunt dripping around the swollen intrusion of him. And those sweet sweet moans of yours.
“ yes “ you whimpered “ it’s perfect “
“ That’s a good girl “ he increased his pace ever so slightly and your hands slipped from his arms to his back, dragging your nails down him to try to pull him impossibly closer to you.
He moved a hand down between your bodies, rubbing your clit in time with his thrusts, grunting and choking back his own moans as you squeezed him. Like your body never wanted him to leave, gripping his cock with your cunt and making it ever more harder to hold back. He couldn’t help but have a look, glancing down to see the way you stretched around him, mesmerised at the way you took him in so deep.
“ tell me I- oh. Tell me I’m beautiful “ you whimpered, sounding almost like you might cry. From pleasure, from upset. He didn’t know. But he continued to do as asked.
“ you’re beautiful “ he murmured picking up his pace a little more, his sweat slick skin slapping against yours. He was desperate to see you come again. Wanted to see your face up close this time, watch your eyes roll back and your kiss swollen lips part in ecstasy “ so beautiful darlin. Doin’ so well f’me, takin’ me so well “
“ don’t stop, don't stop “ he dropped his head to your neck whispering every word of praise he could think of into your ear, your body arching up against his and whimpering and whining with every word.
“ ain’t ever looked prettier than this “ he whispered, his own voice becoming breathless with the effort “ shit- look at ya, takin’ my cock so well. So pretty darlin’ “
Your second orgasm seemed to shock you as much as him, clawing at his skin to hold him close as your body trembled beneath him, biting at his shoulder to muffle your moans.
He didn’t mean to finish inside of you, had fully intended to pull out. But the way your cunt had squeezed him, the sounds you had made as he pushed you over the edge for the second time…
He muffled his own groan of pleasure in your neck, fingers digging into the dry earth beneath you, spilling load after load whilst fully sheathed inside of you. His entire body tensed, a pleasure he hadn’t felt in an incredibly long time. His heart was hammering in his chest, blood rushing loudly in his ears as it seemed to drag on forever.
And then he came to his senses.
“ m’sorry. Shit. Sorry “ he panted as he tried to compose himself and pushed himself up onto his hands to pull out. But you yanked him back down, arms wrapping around his back again and legs tightening around his waist.
“ no. Please. Stay. Stay right there. Just a moment would you “ he had come to realise in the past.. how long had you two even been out there? However long it was, he’d come to realise he was terrible at saying no to you. Could never possibly even dream to deny you of anything you wanted from him. And so he slumped back down onto his forearms, dropping his head against your shoulder for a moment. Your chest heaved beneath him and you caught your breath, fingers tracing gentle strokes along his spine. He felt he could stay there for hours.
“ You doin’ okay? “ he asked, pressing a light kiss to your jaw when he had composed himself a little more.
“ marvellous Mr Morgan “ you whispered with a small smile “ truly. Marvellous “ he couldn’t help but kiss you again, the long lingering kind meant for two lovers.
After a few minutes you both finally moved, re dressing in silence and then sitting back in your original position against the tree. He handed you a cigarette, lighting it and placing it between your lips.
He wondered what he looked like. Wondered what evidence you had left on him. Had he sweated off the lipstick prints on his chest or were they still there? He knew you had scratched his back up good and proper and would have that reminder there for a few days at least.
“ Thank you. Mr Morgan '' you said quietly after a few silent moments of smoking, blowing out a long stream of smoke “ I mean it I- i'm not sure what I’m supposed to say “
“ Don’t say anythin’ “ he said with a small wave of his hand, appearing as blaise as he possibly could but in reality knowing he wasn’t about to forget that night anytime soon “ its fine. Really. Anytime y’need me, for anythin’, you know where I’ll be “ you smiled and he watched your body relax a little more.
the only heaven i’ll be sent to (is when i’m alone with you); arthur morgan x reader
word count: 2K
warnings: smut!, afab!reader, religious themes (kinda. a bitch loves blasphemy<3), oral (f!receiving), body worship (arthur worships the ground you walk on), multiple orgasms (again, f!receiving), expressively asking for consent because that’s sexy! also yes the title is a hozier reference! feedback is appreciated as always <333
!!!!!MINORS DNI!!!!!
The wind blows softly over the half-closed lapels of the tent you and Arthur had set up somewhere around Dewberry Creek, your old, rusted lantern creaking as it sways with the night breeze. The flickering light does not seem to bother your companion, however, as he flattens his tongue over the seam of your cunt, moaning greedily into you. Arthur’s eyes flutter closed in ecstasy as your fingers tangle in his hair, giving the honey brown strands a sharp tug when he delivers a particularly hard suck to your pulsing clit. Your legs close around his head instinctively, trapping him between your thighs, tense muscles flexing against the sides of his face. A soft, breathy apology leaves your swollen lips, the pressure disappearing soon after as your lover pins your body down with calloused hands, brushing off your apology with a chuckle against your skin. You do not have anything to apologize for; Arthur Morgan, a man who has escaped death more than once, would gladly let himself be smothered by your cunt if it came to it. What a way to go that would be, he thinks. The closest to heaven’s gates he will ever get. And although Arthur isn’t a man of religion, he is more than willing to spend every day and every night praying at the altar that is your body, worshipping every inch of you with his eyes, his lips, his hands. Every kiss, every mark you leave on his skin is a holy reminder of the love shared between the two of you; of the passionate nights where Arthur can forget all about his sins and fully allow himself to be bathed in the sacred light of your affections.
“There you go, beautiful. Come back to me.” he coos at you, pushing hair out of your teary eyes, a tender grin on his face. His thumb gently runs under your eyes, wiping away the moisture there as you come back to your senses, focusing on his form above you. The sight of him is like a punch to the gut; blue irises swallowed up by fully dilated pupils, lips swollen and shining with the evidence of your previous orgasms, his beard is soaked through and his breathing ragged. You let your eyes wander down to where his bulge is straining against his union suit, biting your lip. The effect is immediate— his cock twitches under your sultry gaze, a soft groan leaving your lover’s throat.
“Stop lookin’ at me like that.” Arthur warns lowly, calloused hands running over the bare skin of your thigh. You giggle, lifting yourself up to brush your lips against his, your hand running down his chest, feeling his muscles flex under your touch.
“Like what?” You ask innocently, the teasing curve of your smile betraying your oblivious act. Arthur glares at you playfully, hand coming down to squeeze your inner thigh.
“Like ye wanna do real bad things t’me.” He mutters, voice raspier than usual, dripping with arousal. Suppressing a grin, you sit up, letting your hands slide all the way down to cup him through his clothes, thumb gently pressing against the wet spot on his underwear. A sick sort of satisfaction fills you at Arthur’s reaction —pretty blue eyes fluttering closed, his lips part in a strangled moan, hips jutting forward, seeking more pressure. You allow him a few moments to bask in your touch, swirling your thumb around his tip through the fabric and cupping his balls, before taking your hands off of him, leaving him breathing heavily.
“Maybe I do wanna do real bad things to you, Mr Morgan.” you whisper against his neck, leaving open mouthed kisses over his pulse point. A satisfied little giggle leaves you when you hear him cursing under his breath, hips bucking upwards of their own volition. Your victory is short lived, however, as your lover pinches your clit in retaliation, making you cry out. Satisfied, a smug grin on his face, he finally bares himself to you, making your breath hitch. It isn’t the first time you see Arthur in all of his glory —far from it, really, but the sight of how strong, how capable he is always manages to steal the breath right from your lungs. Freckles adorn the robust planes of his shoulders, ascending all the way across the broadness of a back toned from years of hard work; a petite waist and powerful hips curve out into muscled thighs and chiseled calves— Arthur Morgan is truly a sight to behold. He flushes under your heated stare but says nothing —how wise of him, you think, for he knows by now that you would never allow him to look down on himself, not even under the pretense of a joke. You deserve better than the way you treat yourself, you’d told him a million times. And you’ll spend the rest of your life proving it— that he’s worth it, be it through words, comfort, actions or through the passionate entangling of your bodies and souls. Because sex is more than just that to the two of you; it is a way of communicating the love and the needs you have for one another— Arthur, so painstakingly touch starved before you came along, now revels in the physical familiarity you two share. From fleeting touches to lingering kisses, he simply cannot seem to get enough of you; he does not believe the longing in his heart could ever be quelled completely.
Trembling gasps leave the two of you as Arthur slides his cock between your folds, coating himself in your slick. Jolts of pleasure thrum through your body every time his tip bumps against your swollen clit, your soft cries of pleasure causing Arthur’s cock to twitch.
“Sweetheart, if you keep makin’ all them pretty noises it’s gonna be over b’fore it even starts.” His accent is thick and his voice is shaky, excited little tremors running through his body at your state of undoing —all because of him. He’s made a real mess out of the two of you; drenched, sweaty and needy — thick strips of your wetness clinging to Arthur’s lower abdomen, precum pearling over the tip of his cock and gliding down his length; yes, your lover is more than willing to drown himself in your shared desire, to indulge in the carnality of your bound. Wrapping a hand around himself, he groans behind clenched teeth, sensitive to the touch, fingers quickly getting wet from how thoroughly turned on he is. He, however, remains unashamed, having accepted long ago that he will never be in control when it comes to you —he has never felt so connected with another human being, be it physically, psychologically, mentally or emotionally and he no longer bothers trying to hide the way you make him feel.
Understood. Respected. Appreciated. Loved. Alive. He’d never felt so many emotions prior to meeting you. Had never felt so alive; had never wanted to keep going as much as he has since you walked into his life. You make it worth it.
Letting his lips brush along your brow line, Arthur curls the fingers of his free hand around one of your thighs, spreading you open for him.
“Ye still good? D’ye want me to stop?” He asks, blue eyes roaming over your bare form with tenderness, trying to assess the situation. Even with you soft, pliant and soaked underneath him, Arthur Morgan would never dare to make assumptions about your desires, would never be so single-minded as to claim you without expressed consent from your part. He needs to know you want this as much as he does, wants this to be good for you— he thrives on your pleasure and your pleasure alone; can only feel good if you are. It is one of the many reasons why you love him so deeply, but in your lusting daze, you find yourself too strung up to fully appreciate it.
“Arthur Morgan, if you stop now m’gonna kick your sorry ass—oh!” Your voice breaks off into a pitiful little whimper when his cock teases your entrance, a low, rumbling laugh leaving him.
“As you wish, m’lady.” He allows himself to be playful for a few moments longer, basking in the frustrated little furrow of your brows and your pouting lips before pushing inside in one smooth glide, aided by your shared arousal. Arthur curses under his breath as your cunt flutters around him, trying to adjust to his girth. The blunt ends of your nails leave crescent marks onto the broadness of his shoulders and Arthur clenches his jaw, doing his best to stay still and allow you a moment of reprieve from the sensations that overtake your body. Busying himself with leaving marks onto your skin, he soothes the spots where his teeth have dug into, lips moving feom your neck to your chest to take a nipple into his mouth. The loud, broken mewl you let out at the action makes him shiver, goosebumps spreading all over his skin at the sound, but he continues to stay still, waiting for you to give him the permission to go on. It’s only when your legs wrap around his waist that he does finally let himself move, pulling himself almost all the way out before sliding back in with a quick snap of his hips. Another cry leaves your lips at the action, although this time sounding strangled, your cunt clenching around your lover’s cock at the delicious friction he provides you with. Your foot presses into the meat of his ass, encouraging him to go faster, deeper— a silent demand he is quick to indulge in. A series of loud, wet noises begin resounding around the two of you, only motivating Arthur on to thrust harder; your back arching up into him when he starts battering that one spot inside of you, rough fingers coming down to rub circles onto your clit. The moans pour freely from your mouth and into his as he kisses you, tongues tangling together in a messy, sloppy fight for dominance. You’re vaguely aware of the spit trickling down your chin but are far too gone to care; the coil in your stomach getting tighter and tighter with every powerful snap of Arthur’s hips into yours. Already sensitive from your previous orgasms, you rake your nails down his back, trying to warn your lover of your impending climax. Alas, gargling moans are the only thing you can manage before you finally snap; vision going white, body going rigid under his, you repeat his name like a prayer as waves after waves of pleasure wash over you. Arthur isn’t far behind you, spurred on by your own release, a long, incredibly deep moan rumbling through his chest before he pulls out of you, sticky cum splattering across your stomach. Coming down from your high, you tuck a few strands of hair behind Arthur’s ears, fingers lingering on his face lovingly. He leans into your touch immediately, turning his head to press a gentle kiss into your palm, his body trembling with the aftermath of his own orgasm.
“Was…” He clears his throat, rolling off of you and pulling you along to rest on his chest. “Was that good f’r ya?” The gravelly tone of his voice cannot conceal the genuineness of his question, his fingers running down the length of your spine. It makes you smile— he makes you smile, your sweet cowboy. Shifting to look at him, you kiss him right over his heart, fondness warming your features.
“It was. It always is, with you. I love you.” And despite it not being the first time you utter those words— far from it, really— emotion still takes over Arthur’s heart and features, eyes shining with a sheen of tears.
Love. You love him.
No, Arthur Morgan may not be a religious man, and he remains unconvinced of God’s existence, but he does know one thing; you are his little piece of heaven on Earth.
Request- how about some of the girls going along to the mayors party in Saint Denis. Have you seen the cut content of Molly when she was meant to be at the party? So Dutch takes Molly along, Arthur takes reader? And what if Arthur gets a a little jealous of reader mingling and then they sneak away for some smutty time together…
A/N- this is my first Arthur fic so he may be a lil out of character whilst I get to grips with writing him. I also have not written straight smut in like 2 years. But we vibe. Enjoy
Also shoutout to @devnmon for supporting and enabling my rdr2 brainrot. You’re a real one
Warnings- 18+ | smut: unprotected p in v, semi public sex ( wc - 7.7k )
Masterlist / AO3
Saint Denis was a little too rich for your blood. You’d only ventured into the city a handful of times, but the times you had you’d decided you didn’t really like it. You felt too… common. You never had liked the wealthy, flaunting their security and safety that was wrapped up in dollars and gold.
But. You loved money. God did you love money. And as much as you hated the residents of the city, you sure loved robbing them blind. You always had had a knack for making the rich mysteriously lose their dollars and their watches, it had been the sole reason you’d ended up in Dutch’s gang in the first place.
You’d even tried picking his pockets at first.
But you were on best behaviour tonight. Under Dutch’s orders. And you figured as boring as that sounded, you’d oblige. Simply because the men rarely let the girls get involved with any of the interesting stuff in camp. There was only so much laundry you could do before your brain truly went numb from boredom. Only so much listening to Miss Grimshaw nagging at you to do some work or Micah antagonising someone over something stupid.
So even with Dutch’s strict orders to behave and your dislike of the city, you had jumped at the chance to come along to the party.
“ i can practically smell the money “ you sighed as you took Arthur’s hand to step down from the coach, already hearing the bustle of the party happening somewhere out the back of the mansion in front of you “ you sure I can’t go pickin? Just a lil “ you were half joking, half not. On the times you had wandered into the city, the stuff you’d gathered picking your way around the saloons and back alleys had been a decent haul. The stuff some of these people carried around on the average day was enough to fund the food for the whole of camp for a couple days or more.
Who knew what kind of goodies they’d have on them in their finery.
“ no miss “ Dutch’s stern voice sounded, but he was sporting a small look of amusement “ keep those talented hands of yours to yourself. This is about business. We steal nothing. That goes for all of you. Steal. Nothing. Unless it’s information “
“ don’t worry. I’ll keep her in check “ Arthur spoke with a small chuckle, placing a hand lightly to your back.
“ this is why we shouldn’t have brought the women. They always cause trouble “ Bill complained, as he stepped out of the second coach with Hosea, making you scowl.
“ I hope you aren’t grouping me into that Mr Williamson “ Molly piped up with a disapproving scowl of her own as she stepped out of the coach, seemingly more mad at Dutch for not helping her out more than at Bill though. Arthur offered her his hand instead, helping her step onto the path without breaking her neck in her extravagant dress.
Always the gentleman.
She looked wonderful and you had begun to wonder if she had owned that dress all along or had gone out and got it special. Maybe Dutch had picked it up for her. It wouldn’t surprise you if she had been lugging it around from place to place, waiting for some perfect moment to pull it out. She always did look more put together than the majority of camp. Though you really didn’t understand how she could walk in the dress she was currently wearing, skirts full and you guessed pretty heavy too.
“ no need to bring you “ Bill continued.
“ I ain’t even causin’ trouble “ you piped in, throwing your own scowl Bills way again “ When did you last contribute to the box anyways huh Bill? I don’t see you doin’ nothin’ but sit around all damn day. No need to bring you I say. Jus’ cause you ain’t got no lady on your arm you’re complainin’ bout me and Molly “
“ what? A lady like you? I should be damn lucky I ain’t “
“ why you- “
“ Bill I suggest you leave it “ Arthur murmured lowly, planting himself between you and Bill before you did in fact cause some trouble. Bill grumbled something, spitting on the floor with a look of disgust and turning away from you.
Dutch sighed heavily, looking increasingly pissed off at the group in front of him and held his arm out to Molly.
“ Miss O’Shea “ It pained you a little to know he was probably only being nice to her tonight for appearances sake. He’d been practically ignoring her recently. And wasn’t doing Molly any good. You hoped a night out of camp would do her well “ now would you all just calm. Down. We, are simple distinguished gentleman, here for business. So start damn acting like it “ you scoffed at that, making a pointed look in Bills direction as you did
“ distinguished my ass “
“ play nice now “ Arthur said quietly, but you heard the smile in his tone as he did. He then offered you his arm as Dutch had done to Molly. But unlike Dutch the act didn’t feel performative, a way to blend in and appear far higher class than they actually were. Arthur actually was a gentleman. For the most part anyways.
“ why thank you mister “ you said in a cheery tone, throwing him a coy smile and slipping your gloved hands into the crook of his elbow.
It did feel a little funny to be walking beside him like that. All dressed up and in clothes that weren’t smeared with gun oil, dust or god knows what else. It made your mind drift a little to what life could’ve been like.
Your group crossed the street, promptly being stopped at the gates
“ gentleman “ the guard greeted, taking the invitation from Dutch’s hands “ the mayor doesn’t allow guns at official functions “ the way he looked at Dutch and the others was almost demeaning. Like he knew you were all riff raff and of course would be the sort to attend such an event armed “ Not after last years incident “ none of the boys seemed particularly thrilled to be handing over their firearms. Arthur in particular sighed heavily beside you as he handed his pistol over.
He didn’t like being unarmed. Especially when he was out with you. You usually also had your gun belt permanently fixed at your waist. But it wasn’t exactly fitting with your current attire.
Though you did note the guards didn’t even spare a glance to you or Molly, which in turn made you all the more smug knowing you had your knife tucked into your boot. Just in case of course.
“ Luca here will take you gentleman to Mr Bronte. I believe he is expecting you “
“ I know you got that knife in yer boot “ Arthur said lowly so that no one else would hear.
“ he ain’t said anythin’ about knifes. Only guns “ Arthur smiled and shook his head slightly, placing his hand over yours for a moment.
“ that’s my girl “
You walked up the neat cobbled path to the mayors house then, unable to do anything but look in awe at the huge house in front of you. You’d thought Shady Belle was something spectacular, had walked around every room imagining what it had looked like in all its glory. Amazed at the vastness of the place and all the rooms it had.
And yet it was nothing compared to this place. This was real money.
“ I look okay? “ you asked, suddenly feeling ever so slightly nervous, smoothing your hand over your skirts. Even in your attempts to look as clean and put together as you did, some part of you felt like everyone would see you were a walking sham.
All in all you knew you probably did look fine. The dress was the most lavish thing you’d ever owned, you didn’t even want to guess how much it had cost Arthur. It was still on the simpler side, skirts not quite as full as Mollys and not as detailed. But it was beautiful. Pale pink and ruffled shoulders and details on your skirts, gloves up to your elbows in a material so soft you’d sighed when you’d first pulled them on.
It all made a nice change from the usual simple clothes you wore, hips weighted by skirts rather than your gun belt. And skirts that didn’t have a million holes darned over.
And Arthur had picked it all out. Had picked it himself especially for you.
It did make you smile to imagine him in the tailors, completely out of his depth when it came to women’s fashion but determined to find you something nice. Your big, tough cowboy staring blankly at fabric swatches and fancy hats.
“ gonna be the prettiest girl here “ you smiled warmly at his words, hand smoothing over your dress again.
He’d turned up that morning into your shared room of shady Belle, finding you hiding away from Miss Grimshaw on the balcony, the dress draped over his arm along with some fancy suit and tie get up for himself. He’d looked almost sheepish as he’d shown you it, promising to go get you something else if you hated it. Which of course you hadn’t.
You’d practically jumped with joy at being able to go out on a job. The boys so rarely let the girls do anything meaningful other than tend to camp. Though this particular outing you knew Dutch had only brought you and Molly along because it would make your group seem a little more agreeable. Something about women making them look a little less intimidating. And of course Dutch and Arthur’s partners were the most obvious of choices.
Much to Mary-Beth and Karen’s dismay. Though they had very quickly changed their mind at the idea of having to hang off Bills arm all night.
It wasn’t exactly the reason you wanted to be brought along. But you took it.
The inside of the mansion was as glorious as the outside, it almost made you angry that people had such wealth. That these people could sleep in a new room each night of the week if they felt like it, when people were starving outside of their gates.
“ Hosea, Bill. Take the ladies out and enjoy the party. We’ll join you after we pay our respects to signor Bronte. Arthur, with me “ Arthur gave a curt nod
“ I won’t be long “ he assured, hand slipping down around your back and leaning down to your ear “ hands to yourself “ you scoffed as he said it, looking up at him as he stepped away from you.
“ I can’t promise “ you caught his smile as he walked over to Dutch and the staff. Disappearing up the stairs.
“ it’s just this way “ one of members of Lemieux’s staff spoke, gesturing the four of you in the direction of some doors leading out into the party.
“ let’s go ladies. You fancy a drink? “ Hosea said cheerfully, following closely behind you and Molly as you headed outside. You were ushered out into gardens, a mass of the rich and wealthy of Saint Denis all crowded around. Drinking and laughing at things you were sure were not as remotely funny as they were making it out to be.
Bill quickly made himself scarce, disappearing into the crowds to do lord knows what, much to your joy.
“ right. Champagne? “ Hosea excused himself to collect some drinks and you stood on the back porch looking down at the groups of people.
So far removed from what you were used to. You wondered how they’d react knowing you and your little group were currently sleeping in a barely standing plantation home, half of you out under the stars. That you were frauds. Not glamorous and wealthy like them.
In your experience the rich liked to pretend the poor didn’t exist. Unless they were hiring them as help.
“ oh I missed this “ Molly said beside you, almost dreamily in tone. And seemingly more to herself than to you. It was quite possibly the happiest you’d seen her look in days.
She fit right in. Her gorgeous dress rivalling that of some of the other woman down in the courtyard, her hair piled up on her head and her fancy jewellery that was actually hers. Not something stolen from an unsuspecting lady in town. This was Molly. Money and wealth. It still baffled you how she had ended up with Dutch, how she could leave that all behind for a life wandering.
“ you go to party’s like this a lot? Before Dutch I mean “ she gave a small shrug, searching in her small purse for a moment before placing a cigarette between her lips. You could imagine an even younger Molly, a bright eyed teenager done up all fancy and weaving her way through a party just like this one.
“ sometimes “ her eyes were scanning the crowds, practically sparkling at being surrounded by the upper class again “ wonder what kind of people are here “ she seemed to be talking more to herself than you again and very promptly dismissed herself, heading down the stairs and gliding between the guests. Like some true social butterfly, decked out in her finest.
Hosea returned with three glasses of champagne and a slightly confused look noticing Molly had vanished.
“ eh more for me “ he said with a smile, handing you your glass before promptly finishing his own and moving onto what would’ve been Mollys “ I’m going to do some snooping. You’ll be alright? “
“ I’ll be jus’ fine Hosea “ you said with a smile and watched him too disappear down into the crowds.
It was interesting to watch them, to see them behave as if this entire event was a normal evenings activity. Maybe for them it was. But it all felt so… false. People who appeared to be friends but didn’t seem to even really like each other, some silent competition between everyone to have the better dress. The better hat. The biggest house.
You’d take your creaky cot under the stars with Arthur any day, would much rather sit around the campfire getting tipsy and singing. Surrounded by real family. Real friends. Relationships built on loyalty and protection. Not on trying to out do each other.
You walked between the small crowds, eavesdropping on conversations in hopes to find something useful. Something to take back to Dutch to prove bringing you along wasn’t a useless endeavour. But it was mostly women discussing their elaborate hats, sharing stories of the terrible jobs their maids did, or complaining about their husbands poker habits. Or gossiping about how they had heard one of their friends was in delicate condition.
You heard mentions of Leviticus Cornwall, but nothing concrete enough to warrant telling anyone about.
You tried hunting down Molly, simply to have a friend to stand beside and not feel so…out of place. But she had vanished into the crowds somewhere. So you planted yourself on the side of an ornate water fountain, simply hoping Arthur would return soon. Maybe he’d dance with you, or take you walking around the vast garden laid out ahead of you.
You two never really got the chance to do things like that. Romantic things. Arthur had his ways, of course. He’d take you out riding or sit with you on his lap by the fire, telling you about whatever interesting thing he’d discovered that day. He’d bring you flowers he’d pick from time to time, find you interesting things when he went wandering, let you read aloud to him with the excuse he wanted you to get better at it. When in reality you had seen him confess to his journal that he simply just liked to listen to your voice.
He was far softer than he appeared. With you anyway. And as much as you didn’t like the kinds of people in attendance, you thought it might be nice to pretend for the night. To be two wealthy young oil tycoons, dancing and drinking champagne together, gushing about your money and your jewels.
You made your way through another flute of champagne before he returned, interrupting your frivolous daydreaming.
“ there she is “ you turned your head with a beaming smile at his voice, relief at a familiar face “ been lookin for ya “ he sat down beside you, looping an arm around your waist “ you behavin’? “
“ course I am. Ain’t took as much as a pearl “ you said quite proudly, though decided not to mention that the temptation had truly been hard to deny. Not only were these people rich, they were getting drunker by the second. They were practically begging to be robbed.
“ good girl “
“ it go okay with ugh.. what’s his name? “ you asked, turning to face him. He looked just as uncomfortable with the entire situation as you did. This wasn’t his scene. It never had been. He’d grown up just as poor as you had.
Arthur robbed the rich, he didn’t fraternise with them.
“ Bronte. Yeah. Fine. Dutch he’s tryna find the mayor or somethin “ he ran a finger between his neck and collar of his shirt, clearly growing uncomfortable with it. It made you laugh a little.
“ you ain’t cut out for the finer life “
“ no. I ain’t “ he was looking around at the guests in a similar way to you. With a mild sense of disgust “ saw some woman back there, hat so big she were topplin over “ you smiled and leant your head against his shoulder, he tucked you in closer to his side and dropped a kiss to the top of your head.
“ was daydreamin whilst you were with Dutch “ you mused.
“ yeah? About what? “
“ playin’ pretend. Bein’ fancy for the night. Y’know dancin’ and pretendin’ we got buckets of money “ the small sigh Arthur let out made you wonder if he thought that was a life you pined for. It wasn’t. Not really. Yeah, you liked money but.. you just wanted to be comfortable. Little ranch or a cabin some place quiet. Not poor. Not rich. Just. Existing happily “ ain’t us though “
“ you and me we… we ain’t like these people. We ain’t ever gonna be like these people “
“ we don’t gotta be. Me, you. Some pokey lil farm someplace out west? Now that’s the dream cowboy “ he chuckled and nodded, dropping another kiss to your head
“ that’s the dream darlin’ “ you both sat quietly for a short while longer, watching the rich get drunker and more foolish. The odd person acknowledged your presence, greeting you as they passed or tipping their hat. But mostly they left you alone. It was at the point that one man drunkenly stumbled into a bush a few feet away that made you speak up again.
“ never thought I’d miss that damn swamp. But lord above… these people “ Arthur scoffed as he too watched the fool try and right himself again, leaves sticking to the pomade in his hair
“ yeah. I think I need a drink “ he patted your side lightly so you’d stop leaning on him and stood up “ champagne? “
“ oh well ain’t you just so kind sir “ you said in your best attempt a dramatic upper class drawl “ and you gonna dance with me after mister? “ you asked with a teasing smile and he rubbed a hand at the back of his neck for a moment looking almost sheepish. But he was smiling, the sweet genuine kind he only really seemed to show around you.
“ sure darlin’. But I’m definitely gonna need that drink for that “ he ventured back into the crowds then and you stayed put, continuing to watch the guests laugh and talk about how incredible their lives were.
“ I don’t recognise you “ an inquisitive voice spoke, tinged with that accent that the wealthy had started latching on to in some attempts to make themselves sound more superior. Smarter. Whatever. You thought it was quite ridiculous. You turned your head to look at the man, seeing if he was in fact talking to you.
“ talkin’ to me mister? “ he was eyeing you up and down like he was somewhat intrigued but amused by you at the same time. A stupid top hat on his head adored with plumes and the chain of a pocket watch hanging from his pocket. It almost made you laugh at how your brain immediately began thinking about how you could steal it and how much it was worth.
“ I am indeed miss “ he stepped closer, puffing on his cigar and not taking his eyes off of you for a second “ I have frequented many of the mayors parties but you… I do not remember you “ a small wave of panic flushed your skin but you remained calm. Not recognising you was far easier to work your way out of than if he had recognised your face.
“ I’m new in town. My… uncle. He’s friends with Mr Bronte “ the man hummed, sitting himself down beside you.
“ so you’re here with your uncle? “ you shifted slightly at his closeness but remembered you needed to keep up appearances so forced a smile onto your face
“ yeah. And my husband. He’s around here someplace “ the man’s eyes immediately darted down to your gloved hands, probably noting the lack of a ring on your finger. You and Arthur weren’t married. But you may as well have been. He often referred to you as his wife, and he as your husband.
He’d ask you one day.
“ a lucky man “ the man said, blowing smoke in your direction and still looking you up and down. You decided at that moment you very much wanted to steal his watch. Dutch be damned. Having to put up with the likes of slimy rich men for more than ten seconds… well you figured that warranted you at least getting something shiny in return.
“ oh well ain’t you just a charmer “ you said with a smile, placing a hand to his arm “ you here with your wife mister? “ the man laughed and shook his head, scooting a little closer to you.
“ I’m more of a… free spirit “ you gave a small laugh, trying not to crinkle your nose at the smoke blowing in your face again.
Arthur often smelt of fresh smoke, both cigarette and fire, and that fresh air smell that clung to your clothes after being out in the open air for hours. And you loved it on him, because it was well… him. The smoke from this man was far from appealing. But that watch…
“ ohh I see. You ain’t one to be tied down huh? “ your fingers inched closer to the man’s pocket, wrapping lightly around the chain.
“ everythin’ okay here? “ Arthur appeared behind you, a glass in each of his hands.
“ ah is this the fine man that brought you along? Well aren’t you lucky sir “ the man spoke and you noted he didn’t even glance in Arthur’s direction as he spoke, you were now looping the chain of his watch around your wrist. Just one small tug…
“ Mr Callahan “ Arthur murmured, handing you a glass and standing behind you with a hand to your shoulder
“ wonderful to meet you sir. Me and your wife were having a delightful conversation weren’t we dear? "The pressure of Arthur’s fingers increased as he spoke the sweet name, though you weren’t entirely sure it wasn’t because he’d noticed the man’s watch was now safely hidden in the fabric of your skirt.
“ oh yes. Wonderful mister “ the watch discreetly made its way into your boot and you were ready to get away
“ where’d you find a beautiful thing like this sir? I may need to frequent the place myself “ he placed a hand onto your arm and finally looked up at Arthur rather than at you. He made your skin crawl. You didn’t hold a single ounce of remorse for the stolen watch
“ oh no where you’d like “ his tone was a little snippy, the kind when someone was starting to piss him off but he was trying to keep his cool. And Arthur kicking off in the middle of the mayors party wasn’t exactly a part of Dutch’s plan.
“ now I am so sorry but i believe my husband did promise me a dance “ you rose to your feet, sipping your champagne before placing the glass down and taking Arthur’s from his hands “ ain’t that right my love? “
“ yeah… need ya to come with me “ he said lowly, offering you his arm. His face had gone slightly dark, not entirely able to read him, you frowned slightly. But let him lead you away from the man, completely bypassing the area with couples twirling to the music.
“ where we goin? “ you asked with a small laugh, latching onto his arm again and having to take quick steps to keep up with his purposeful strides “ Arthur?”
He didn’t answer immediately, simply led you away from the crowds and around the side of the mayor's house.
“ You mad cause I took that watch? Look he deserved it- “
“ ain’t mad “ he mumbled, still leading you along.
“ okay… so we stealin’ somethin’ else? “ you asked with excitement filtering into your words, already trying to figure out what it could be “ need me to act like a maid? I can do that real good y’know. Is it money? Papers? Oh, is it jewellery? Gold? “ Arthur chuckled at your excitement and shook his head, bringing you to a halt between some elaborately trimmed bushes and trees in planters.
“ we ain’t stealin’ a thing “ you pouted with a mild disappointment and he chuckled again, advancing on you and backing you up against the wall behind you “ don’t gimme that look “ he tucked his fingers under your chin, nudging your face upwards to look at him. He was a god few inches taller than you, but he always made you feel ten times smaller when he looked down at you like that.
“ what’s gotten into you? “ you asked with a giggle, hands slipping under his jacket to slide over his waist.
“ just wanted some time alone with you is all “
“ behind some trees? You are a strange man sometimes Arthur Morgan y’know that? “ he gave a heavy sigh and brushed his thumb across your cheek softly, watching you intently. He always looked at you like you like you were the only woman on the planet “ you sure you ain’t mad about the watch? “
“ no. I ain’t mad. Feller flirtin’ with my woman and only loses his watch sounds like a good deal to me “ he grumbled, leaning forward to press a kiss to your lips.
And a light bulb suddenly pinged on in your head.
“ are you jealous? “ you asked, unable to hide your complete utter joy and amusement as the realisation hit you. He grumbled some kind of an answer and tried to kiss you again but you turned your head to the side, so he settled for your neck instead “ why Arthur Morgan. You are jealous “
He didn’t answer you again, simply tilted your head so he could get at your neck more, his other hand splaying over your lower back to tug you close against him. A mischievous streak ran through you and you chewed on your lip for a moment deciding whether or not to push his buttons.
“ he was kinda nice to me y’know. He seemed a nice feller “ Arthur’s teeth grazed your skin at your words and your smile grew bigger “ kept me from bein’ so lonely with you gone “
“ he wanted to do more than keep you company “ your fingers ran through the long strands of his hair, sighing softly as he continued to kiss your neck
“ you think? You gonna keep me company now? “
“ oh I’ll keep you company “ you had said it only really to tease. Thinking that actually, a sordid little moment with your lover behind the bushes would be an incredible improvement on the evening.
But it was hard to simply just kiss Arthur. He had wandering hands, had lips as addictive as whiskey. Even when you assumed he wasn’t particularly trying to work you up, he did. But the way he was tugging at your body to keep you pressed against him, the way his lips were burning a trail along your neck and across your jaw…
“ Arthur… y’know anyone could come round here “
“ stay quiet then and they ain’t gonna be none the wiser “ your skin prickled with heat at his words and your hips involuntarily rolled against him. Maybe it was the thrill. Maybe it was the fact that he was so… needy. Desperate to remind himself that you were his and not some stupid rich man in an equally as stupid hat.
He groaned against your hot skin as you pressed against him, the sound igniting something deep in your bones. Flaring up through good veins and cursing like lava through your veins.
Your hands found themselves back under his jacket, fingers tugging at his shirt to free it from where it has been neatly tucked into his pants. You knew you couldn’t get it off of him but you still wanted to feel.
You hummed softly when your fingertips met his skin, as hot as you knew yours must be. He loved to feel you touch him, loved when dragged your nails across his back, sunk your teeth into his shoulder to quiet your moans when you were dangerously close to other members of camp.
You wished you could do it in that moment. Wished you were back in your room, truly the only good thing to come out of Shady Belle was the fact that you had a room.
But Arthur didn’t seem keen on waiting. Seemingly having some point to prove to himself. And you were more than happy to let him.
His hands drifted down to the floaty material of your skirt, reluctantly pulling himself away from your neck to frown at the material in front of him.
“ why you gotta have so many damn skirts? “ he grumbled, fumbling with the layers of fabric hanging from your waist.
“ you picked the dress “ you reminded him with a smile, chasing after his lips again. Desperate to kiss him properly now that he had stopped his assault on your neck. He kissed you with a energy that demanded your attention, that drew you in and locked you in place. Hot. Wet. Addictive “ least it ain’t as big as Mollys “ you said when you let yourself pull away.
“ yeah well I weren’t plannin’ on keepin’ you in it when we- god damn there’s enough fabric here to dress the entire camp “ you couldn’t help the giggle that fell past your lips, watching him try to figure out how he was going to play out whatever sordid thoughts were running through his head.
Your own mind had quite ungracefully fallen into the gutter itself, realising exactly what Arthur wanted. And your constant desperation for the man in front of you overruling all your concerns at the location.
He seemed to be getting a little agitated with your dress and you held back the urge to giggle at him. Instead opting to try sooth the frown lines worrying at his forehead, reaching forward to palm at him through the material of his pants. In hopes it would be some kind of incentive for him to hurry up as well.
As much as you needed him as badly as you needed air, you were also still aware of exactly where you were. And how long it would take until Dutch came looking.
“ c’mon Arthur “ you whispered, desperation beginning to fill your words “ ‘fore they notice we’re gone “ it had been his idea to take you away, and yet you were seemingly the more desperate of the two of you now. But how could he or anyone else blame you? When he was all gussied up like he was. In truth you liked his normal attire a little more. Liked him a little more… rugged. But lord did he look handsome in his suit, his hair and beard all neat and tidy.
Arthur’s breath audibly caught in his throat from your touch and it seemed to effectively spur him on.
“ yes ma’am “ He spun you around with strong hands to your waist, your own hands bracing yourself against the wall. The next moments were a flurry of his hands hitching your skirts over your hips, grabbing at your undergarments before a strong arm looped around your waist to pull you back against him.
His hand disappeared under your bunched up skirts making you gasp softly as his fingers dipped into the warmth between your thighs.
“ this all for me darlin? “ you could hear the smirk in his words, feel it as he brushed his nose against your cheek. The short stands of his beard tickled at your skin, sending a shiver snaking along your spine.
“ course it is “ the sound of a lady drunkenly laughing a little too close by made you freeze, hand reaching around to grab at Arthur’s arm.
He didn’t seem discouraged by the idea of someone stumbling upon you both, simply moved his hand up to grasp gently at your jaw, turning your face towards his to kiss you. His other hand was still between your thighs, and you sighed softly against his lips as he drew a thick finger between the wetness of your folds “ oh Arthur…“
Your cunt clenched around nothing. As if silently begging for his fingers to just push inside of you, take you in a way you had always found so much more personal than just sitting on his cock. His fingers that held his guns, that he used to beat people to death more times than either of you could care to count. Those same fingers working you open, covered in the slick evidence of your desire for him instead of gun oil. Fingers that cause pain and damage, but also sent you spiralling into mind blowing pits of pleasure.
And paired with the current location? It just felt… dirty. Erotic. You felt no better than a common whore loitering in a saloon for custom. You wanted him so desperately, needed him.
“ Arthur “ you sighed, pushing your self against his hand as he toyed with your swollen clit.
“ tell me what y’need pretty girl “ he said softly, tickling your skin with his beard and dragging his tongue across your neck before sinking his teeth into the flesh, making you whimper.
“ you- Arthur. You. Please “ his hand continued its gentle movements as he worked at your neck. You pushed your hips back against him, grinding against the hardness still trapped by his pants in a way that couldn’t be comfortable. His breath shuddered against your skin as you did, holding you flush against him to let you wiggle your hips in a silent invitation to just take you already.
A smashing glass drew your attention briefly away from him again. And as much as you could let him do that all evening, you were still hyper aware of your surroundings.
You silently wished he’d just waited until you were back at camp, could take his time with you on that shitty little bed in the privacy of your room at Shady Belle.
But there you were. And there were hundreds of others only a few feet away too.
“ stop teasin we ain’t got the time “ at any other time he’d have worked you into a mess with his fingers, even dropped to his knees and disappeared under your skirts, have you coming on his tongue over and over again just because he wanted to. But he hadn’t planned the situation well at all, and you weren’t exactly in the best of locations. If anyone so much as peaked around the corner of the building a little too far you were certain you’d be spotted.
And wouldn’t that be a tale.
“ ain’t you bossy “ you opened your mouth to snip back at him, but your words evaporated into nothing but a soft whimper as Arthur followed your demands, pushing past his desires to take his time with you. Truly it was his own fault that he couldn’t though, as he withdrew his fingers and fumbled with the buttons on his pants.
“ Arthur “ you whimpered softly, breath stuttering at the feel of his swollen tip brushing between the wet folds of your cunt.
“ quiet now darlin’ “ He pushed in slowly, in the way he so often did. Making sure you felt every single devastating inch, your back arching against his chest as your body flushed with warmth. Even after so many times the stretch was still a lot, a deep burning ache that eventually melted away into a blinding hot pleasure that burnt its way through your veins.
He pressed on until he was flush against you, the material of his opened pants scratching against your soft skin as he held you there a moment. He exhaled slowly, his breath warm against your skin.
It was never fucking with Arthur. Not very often anyways. It was love making. Soft. And slow. And a brutal pace that made sure you remembered he’d been there the next morning, but oh so drawn out. He was gentle. Tender. It had always shocked you how violent he could be and yet become so careful and soft with you. And even there, concealed by a few perfectly trimmed bushes and planters, he was taking his time. Reminding you that you were his. And maybe reminding himself of the fact too.
Reminding himself that maybe there were men only a few feet away that wanted you. That would pay for the pleasure of your company. But only Arthur could have it, that he was the only one you would ever offer it too.
That this deep rooted instinct to protect what was his wasn’t entirely necessary but god was it wanted. That his desire made your blood boil with lust, skin burn under his touch.
“ That’s my girl “ he whispered, tone low and steady as he set himself into a bruising pace, still tightly holding onto you as he did. His face had fallen to your neck again, lips latching onto every inch of exposed skin they could.
You were certain you were going to walk back into the party looking like you’d taken a dip with some leeches.
You tried your best to be quiet, teeth sinking into your bottom lip in some hopes that mixed with the sounds of the party happening only a few feet away you wouldn’t be heard. But it was so hard to be silent when he was fucking you like that. So determined, so strong, pulling out almost completely before pushing back in hard.
Your hand was still gripping at his arm, blunt fingernails digging at his skin through his jacket. His pace increased a little, settling into a steady rhythm that carved a devastating stretch inside of you.
“ y’know I think that feller- that feller back there. He wanted you like this “ you couldn’t help the smile that pulled its way onto your face, still flushing with joy at his jealousy. You knew Arthur desired you carnally. Always had done and always would. But a reminder like the present one was always nice.
“ y’think so? “
“ I know “ he grumbled, his pace increasing a little more, clearly attempting to take out his frustrations with the handsy man. But also maybe simply trying to assure himself in the process too.
Arthur didn’t like to admit it but he was a little self conscious. You’d heard him talk down to himself in the mirror countless times, had seen the way he spoke about himself when you peaked over his shoulder at his journal. Had an almost crippling fear of abandonment that sometimes he did need to be reminded that you wanted him.
“ poor feller “ you said with a small sigh before pushing lightly at Arthur’s arm so he’d let you go. You winced slightly as he pulled out, immediately missing the heavy feel of him there, and spun around tugging him back towards you by the lapels of his jacket “ ain’t got nothin on you “ you hitched your skirts up in your arm and wrapped your spare hand around the now slick length of his cock making him stutter a breath.
His face was flushed, bottom lip shiny from kissing you. You wanted to absolutely devour him, strip him of his fancy clothes and remind him just how much you wanted every part of him.
The look in his eyes was almost primal. Desire and lust burning so brightly it made your chest ache, to feel so wanted. To feel so desired.
To have a man so usually controlled and put together, be reduced to not being able to even wait until you got home. That he had to have you there. Right there in that moment. He couldn’t wait.
You needed him to pull you apart. To worship every inch of you in the way he so often did.
But the side of the mayor's house was truly not the place for such a thing.
“ no one could make me feel the way you do “ you whispered, stroking him softly in your hand as you tried to stoke the fire under his ego. Make him realise he truly had no reason to be jealous “ and him back there? He thought he could huh? Poor feller “
“ poor feller “ he echoed, sliding a hand over your leg and hitching it over his hip, sliding back into you with a welcome ease that made your head fall back against the wall.
“ Thinks he could fuck me better than this? Man must be damn crazy “ you said with a smile, breathless as he fucked into you. You were practically dripping around him, the lewd sounds between you enough to make your skin flush.
“ you’re mine darlin “ you nodded immediately. Not a single doubt in your mind on the matter. You were his. And he yours. That was how it would always be “ all mine, you hear? “
“ all yours Arthur. Ain’t no man in this whole damn country could replace you”
He moved with more determination, thrusting into you harder in a way you knew was going to bruise your back from rubbing against the wall. His all too familiar deep, hard pace. You pulled him down by the back of his neck, muffling your whimpers with his mouth cautious again that you were getting a little reckless.
“ that good? Makin me feel so good darlin’ such a good girl “ the entire thing felt almost animalistic. Desires so strong they couldn’t be withheld. Dirty. Filthy. Perfect.
“ God Arthur “ the look on his face alone made you clench around him, never wanting him to leave, needing to feel the heavy bruising sensation as he split you apart for the rest of your life. He hitched your leg higher, hitting some new devastating part inside of you that made you see stars. Eyes rolling to the back of your head and unable to contain the sounds escaping your throat any longer.
“ There she is, jus’ like that darlin I got ya” his grip on your leg grew restless, fingers dancing over your skin and trying to pull you as close to him as he could get you. He always wanted you close. Always wanted to feel your skin against his own. A moment later his thrusts became sloppier and you knew he wasn’t far off. Though quite frankly neither were you “ so pretty for me like this ain’t ya? My girl “ his words only pulled you closer to the edge, knot twisting tighter.
“ Arthur I- “
“ I know. I know darlin, can feel it “ he almost cooed, lifting a hand to cup your face gently “ that’s it look right at me. That’s a girl right at me “ with his gaze so intense you couldn’t hold it any longer, biting down on your lip as you attempted to conceal your sounds of ecstasy as you came over his cock.
He was barely a second behind you, a stuttered groan of a sound leaving him as he dropped his forehead against yours, painting your slick walls with rope after rope of come as you clenched around him. Holding him in place so that not a single drop of him would go to waste. It was a risky business letting him finish inside of you, truly it was. But in your sex drunk haze you didn’t care, couldn’t give a damn because it simply felt too good to give up.
He nudged his nose against yours, brushing his lips against your own and kissed you softly. So tender and gentle, his hand carefully lowering your leg back down, slipping his softening length out of you making you wince. He kissed the crinkles it caused to show at the corners of your eyes, whispering a gentle sorry. He soothed his hands over your waist with a care very few men had for women those days.
“ my girl “ he murmured, littering kisses across your cheeks and nose.
When he pulled back you couldn’t help but smile. The dopey, soft kind. He was looking far less put together than he had done when you’d arrived, the pomade in his hair no longer serving its purpose after your fingers had gotten to it. He’d broken a sweat too, his forehead shiny. His skin flushed.
The smugness was overwhelming though, could see it in his eyes. In the small smirk pulling at his lips. He seemed incredibly proud of himself.
“ you are somethin’ else “ he mumbled as he finished readjusting his clothes, reaching forward to slip the ruffled strap of your dress back up your shoulder from where it had slipped. Pressing a kiss to the skin there for good measure.
“ I ain’t the jealous one “ you teased as you combed your fingers through his hair in some attempt to tidy it.
“ ain’t jealous. No idea what you talkin about girl “ he said with a small clear of his throat in some attempt to hide the obvious lie, you simply smiled again and pressed a kiss to his cheek
“ mhm sure “
There was something about having to go back out into the party with the light ache between your legs, with the evidence of Arthur’s jealousy slowly dripping down your thighs. And Arthur seemed to think so too
Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.
Owanjila VI: Fevered Dreams
Arthur’s entanglements weigh heavily on him, while a fever strikes in camp.
➵ AO3 Link
➵ Fic Masterlist
➵ Previous | ➵ Next
“I’ve… You’re… Oh, you’ll never change… I know that.”
He stares back at her, his eyes following when she dips into the train car following her brother until they find seats.
Arthur doesn’t quite know what he wanted from this. The letter begging for his help - the fool that he is, he rode to her beck and call. His dark-eyed beloved, even now, after years gone by, she’s just as beautiful as the last time he saw her.
That last time, when she broke off their engagement. A letter some months later told him she was getting married, and it was like their love had never existed.
And yet… the fool he is. The fool he is cannot say no to her, he will likely never be able to say no to her. That scarred heart of his - he reckons it will always belong to her. Wanting. Waiting. For something that will never be. She had even said herself - he’ll never change. He’ll never be what she wants, what she needs.
But damn well if he did not wish.
He makes eye contact with her once more through the window - god damnit, she’s just as beautiful as he remembers, age having sharpened her jaw, but those eyes, he can still get lost in them.
He still loves her.
The train jerks forward and slowly pulls away from the station. Mary Gillis leaves him and he’s alone once again, unable to change his ways. Unable to be what she needs.
He is a damned fool.
Arthur stares down at the worn planks of the station’s platform, kicking at it slightly to stop himself from staring at the train receding into the distance. He grits his teeth, one hand going into his satchel and pulling out his half-empty pack of cigarettes. His jaw clicks as he clenches his teeth, annoyed that he’d have to go to the general store and get another pack. God only knows he can’t go without a smoke now, not now. Not when that heavy feeling in his chest, like he’s been shot, threatens to drown him.
His eyes close heavily after he lights the cigarette, breathing the tobacco in deeply.
He still fucking loves her. And still, still, even widowed, she does not want to be with him.
Arthur rips the half-smoked cigarette from his mouth and tosses it to the ground, grinding it under his boot with much more force than necessary. Sighing, he grabs his hat from his satchel and places it back on his head, moving from the platform back toward the road where the Walker is hitched.
Christ, maybe a drink could take the edge off his frustration. By the time he reaches his horse and pulls the reins from the post, he’s made his decision. A drink or two at that saloon in town. He swings himself up into the Walker’s saddle and guides the old horse down the mud-clogged street. By the time he reaches Smithfield’s, he’s edging on wanting to drink himself stupid - maybe then he could forget Mary’s damn eyes.
“Arthur!”
He looks up and finds Lenny Summers leading his horse urgently toward him. Arthur glances around before placing a hand on his hip, “The hell you doin’ way out here?”
Lenny’s face is ashen, sweat dotting his temples, “Strawberry - it was Micah -”
“Of course it was,” Arthur interjects, rolling his eyes as he slides down off the horse, taking the reins and knotting them on the hitching post before grabbing the reins of Lenny’s horse from him, knotting it as well.
“They almost lynched me!” The young exclaims, arms akimbo in agitation.
“Okay, alright, now calm down there kid.” Arthur places his hands on the young man’s shoulder, “Tell me what happened.”
Lenny recounts the sorry tale - that he had met Micah in Strawberry and the outlaw was three sheets to the wind already in a damn dry town - and ended up shooting some feller that he knew - and everything devolved into chaos. Micah was dragged to the jail, and now there was talk of hanging him.
Arthur cannot help but smirk as he guides Lenny up the porch of Smithfield’s, chuckling to himself at Micah’s predicament. He couldn’t wish it on a better man.
Pushing Lenny toward the bar, Arthur digs his thumbs into the boy’s shoulder blades to attempt to relieve some tension. “C’mon now, kid. Let’s have a drink.”
“And Micah?” Lenny asks.
“He’ll be fine. Let ‘im dry out in a cell.” Arthur retorts with a grin as they reach the bar, “Alrigh- We’ll just have a couple, settle you down, then head back, okay?”
Lenny nods, and leans on the bar, rubbing at his face with frayed nerves, “Just one or two… right, Arthur?”
Arthur nods, motioning to the bartender, “Course, just a drink… no big drama. Can we get a couple of beers, please?”
-
The large tent on the hillside blazes with yellow-orange light, lanterns interspersed on tables and barrels in and around the canvas.
Dutch Van der Linde is in a magnanimous mood. A gramophone, of all things, blares music into the night upon the shores of Owanjila, and various members of the gang sit and mull about the campfire.
Molly O’Shea sits upon his lap as if she sat on a throne, her emerald eyes surveying her kingdom and subjects as if the rest of the folk existed to serve. Her arms thrown loosely around his neck, one of his wrapped around her thigh, his rings glinting in the night.
She looks upon you with some kind of bored disdain from across the campfire. You pass the bottle of brandy that was foisted upon you back to Karen - you had acquiesced to her request and taken a healthy sip, frowning at the sweetness.
Mary Beth laughs under her breath, rubbing your shoulder. “Ain’t my favorite neither.”
The men had returned from some sort of score, having ridden out the day before with Dutch all riled up - the kind of energy radiating from them like when they rode out to Blackwater those weeks ago. Horses stamping, voices hooting and hollerin’, but unlike the Blackwater fiasco, when they returned later in the night, it was in some sort of triumph.
For a moment, the glumness that had settled upon the camp was lifted - chores were set aside, and alcohol flowed freely. Even stern Grimshaw sat with a beer around the fire as the night fully settled.
“So, this train - obviously y’got something good, or you wouldn't be in such a mood.” Hosea tips his beer across the campfire at Dutch, who grins as his grip tightens on Molly’s thigh.
“Bearer bonds, courtesy of one Leviticus Cornwall.”
“Cornwall? The railroad magnate?” Hosea arches an eyebrow at Dutch, who seems completely unperturbed.
Across the fire, your stomach drops. You nearly drop the newly opened beer bottle in your hand, but by some divine providence, you don’t lose it. Ripping your stare away from Dutch, you look into the fire as the dread creeps into your chest, clawing at you like some kind of untethered beast, threatening to choke you and steal your breath.
You stare into the fire and see Limpany.
-
However you feel, you fear - about what the men just did, you kept it to yourself for the rest of the night. You excused yourself from the festivities and went to sleep without much further fanfare, but when you awoke in the morning, the stone of guilt and fear lay upon your chest much in the way it did when you had fled to Blackwater.
You busy yourself with morning work, getting the coffee pot ready while Pearson began the stew of unbeknown origins for the day. For all of the bragging that man did about his Navy days, he seemed to be a one-pony show. Maybe you could ask Hosea or Arthur to bring you to Strawberry so that you could eat something other than this stew.
Speaking of which, you noted Arthur’s absence last night - he hadn’t returned with the other men after the job - actually a few of the men hadn’t returned, now that you think about it.
Breaking open the tin of coffee, you dump grounds into the percolator before pouring water from the bucket, drawn fresh from the lake to set the coffee up. Placing it on the hook suspended above the fire, you lean over it for a few minutes as it brews.
The sound of footsteps behind you draws your attention from the percolator, and you turn your head from where you are stooped down to see who it is. Abigail slowly trudges toward you, rubbing at one eye with the back of her wrist. Grabbing one of the empty coffee mugs scattered about the ground, you wipe the inside with your skirt before pouring it full of coffee, standing up from where you had stooped down.
“Didn’t get much sleep?”
Abigail frowns before yawning, covering her mouth for a moment as you hold out the cup of coffee to her.
“Jack was fussin’ all damn night. Kicked at me like a damn mule.” She mutters as she takes the cup, nodding in thanks as she immediately takes a long sip. You give a half-hearted frown as you look behind her, to the lean-to that the two of them sleep in, where Jack is still asleep under a blanket. It is strange for the boy to still be asleep, but if he was up most of the night…
Abigail blows at the hot coffee before taking another sip, “Been a while since he’s been like that. Hopefully was just one night.”
You nod in agreement before she turns to walk back to her lean-to. Going back to the coffee, you start pouring another cup as more footsteps draw you to stand again.
“Good morning, dear.” Hosea smiles, placing a hand on your shoulder as you hand him the next cup of coffee.
“Morning, Hosea. You stay up much later last night?”
“Nah,” he shakes his head before bringing the cup to his lips, “I ain’t much for the late nights and bottles of whiskey like I used to be - hangovers are a bitch when you get as old as I am,” he chuckles.
You laugh and shake your head, leaning over to prepare your own cup as a horse whinnies in the distance, a rider arriving back into camp. Hosea squints toward the horse as it approaches, “Ah, it’s Lenny.”
Lenny guides his horse to where the others are tied off, and slides out of the saddle, nearly stumbling to the ground a step after landing.
“Oh, Lenny, you look like you’ve seen better mornings,” Hosea notes as Lenny staggers toward the two of you, looking absolutely miserable and the slightest shade of green. As he groans and walks closer, the overwhelming stench of alcohol wafts off of him and makes you scrunch your nose. You’re pretty sure there is vomit on his collar. You cover your nose to stop from gagging as Lenny wipes at his mouth, noticing your discomfort.
“Did’ya leave poor Arthur in another state?”
“He’s…somewhere. He was still in Valentine once they let us out of jail.” Lenny drolls, his eyes bloodshot as he bends over and places his hands on his knees, obviously trying to quell his roiling stomach.
“Jail?!” You exclaim as your eyebrows raise.
“Ah, one of those kinds of nights,” Hosea chuckles. Lenny groans and continues onward toward the shared lean-to where his bedroll is spread out, stooping down on one knee before giving up and flopping down onto the bedroll.
Your eyebrows still raised in concern, Hosea waves his hand in a cheery dismissal, “Don’t worry ‘bout him. He’ll slink back to camp and sleep it off. Boy can get a bit rowdy when he goes overboard.”
-
Christ, even his damn eyes hurt. His hat’s brim slung low over his face to keep the sun from his eyes - as if this damn headache could get any worse. The Walker sways beneath him, this ride from Valentine taking twice as long as the ride to town, and he hadn’t even gotten the new horse he meant to.
Arthur thought it smart to leave town quickly after being let out of jail - evidently almost drowning a man in a pig trough is frowned upon in these parts. He’d like to blame the bender on trying to cheer Lenny up, but he knew, he knew that he had let things get out of hand partially on purpose. That drinking himself stupid would push the thought of Mary Gillis from his mind.
Instead, it gave him a massive hangover, a lighter wallet, and still at a loss about Mary. He quietly enters the camp with little fanfare, not wanting and very unwilling to make small talk with anyone.
Fortunately, he’s able to slink back to his cot without needing to talk to anyone, sitting down and pulling his hat off, tossing it further down on the cot as he rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palms.
Hanging his head, his forearms rest on his knees as he stifles a pained groan. A canteen appears in his field of vision. He looks up, ready to tell whoever off, but finds you standing in front of his cot, holding out that canteen full of water. In the back of his hangover-addled brain, instead of shooing you off, he wants to call you an angel - that the water you’re offering him must be holy in the wake of his bender last night. He can already taste its freshness before even taking the canteen.
You smile, “I heard you had an interestin’ night, Mister Morgan.”
The morning light glints off your hair like it was some kind of spun gold. He swallows, taking the canteen from your hand, and mumbles some kind of thanks as he brings it to his mouth, the cool water just godsend that he believed.
“Well, at least you didn’t come back with vomit on your shirt,” You chuckle lightly, taking a step back as you place your hands behind your back, “See you later, Arthur.”
“Missus Shaw.”
He stares down at the canteen for a moment, then flits his gaze back up to your frame, walking down toward the lake. The tendrils of your unbound hair bounce with each step you take. The sway of your skirts….
Oh god damnit.
Arthur rubs at his eyes with one hand once again, gritting his teeth against the creeping feeling in his chest. He downs another large gulp of water from the canteen. Chucking it onto the table across from his cot, he grabs at his hat as he lays down on his cot, sighing as he places the hat over his face, praying that sleep will take him quickly and that this headache will subside.
It did - at least he had that going for him today. A few hours of undisturbed sleep was entirely what he needed - by the time he woke, the sun was setting behind the ridge. He pulls himself from his cot, rubbing at his jaw with one hand as he rifles through his satchel for his cigarettes.
He’s approached by Susan Grimshaw, who steps in front of him with her hands crossed over his chest. Arthur looks past her toward the main fire, not wanting to be lectured at the moment. Susan arches an eyebrow before turning her head to follow where Arthur is looking. He lights a cigarette from his pack as she looks back up at him.
She snorts under her breath, looking back at Arthur with a tinge of amusement.
“Missus Shaw.” Grimshaw shifts her eyes back and forth toward the direction of the main campfire, where all of the women are gathered, chirping like sparrows as they eat their dinner on beat-up metal plates.
“What about Missus Shaw?” Arthur retorts; the lit end of his cigarette throwing shadows on his face in the night.
“She’s a nice girl. Doesn’t talk back, works hard, easy on the eyes.”
He doesn’t respond.
“And she don’t have a mean ol’ drunk of a daddy whispering things in her ear.” Susan narrows her eyes in an almost threatening manner, “Don't think I don't know who that damn letter came from.”
-
The next night proves to Abigail that Jack’s sleeplessness wasn’t a fluke. He had been lethargic all day, overtired and fussy. By the time night fell, the boy’s head was hot to the touch as Abigail scooped him up into her arms, beginning to fret as the night went on and he seemed only to get warmer.
You’ve fallen in next to Abigail, urging her to get Jack out from their flimsy lean-to and into the sick tent, having recently been vacated by John, who had healed enough to get out of bed.
“C’mon, let’s get him into bed,” You reach down to Abigail, sitting on the ground next to Jack, and guide her by her shoulders to stand enough for her to gather her son up. The two of you walk slowly toward the tent, as you reach it, you step inside and turn up the oil lantern as Abigail lays Jack down in the cot. You root around for a blanket for a moment, finding an old one stowed beneath the cot, and spread it out over Jack. Abigail rubs at her brow worryingly.
“Think - think he’s breathin’ okay?” She asks, and the both of you lean over the boy on either side of the cot, holding your ears close to his face.
Jack whines then coughs harshly, and both you and Abigail recoil backward, sitting up straight next to the cot. Abigail frowns, looking apologetic - “God, sorry, Ruth - he -”
You shake your head, “It’s fine. He’s gonna be fine.”
-
You’d like to think it was the lack of sleep for staying up all night with Abigail, but as Jack rolls into another full day of fever, as the next night falls in, you can hardly stave off the exhaustion setting in.
“Shit, Ruth -” Abigail curses from the other side of the cot as she sits back down having brought the oil lantern in from refilling it, “You’re flushed - you - shit, you got a fever?”
You wipe at your brow, damp in the night, “ M’fine,” brushing her off.
But as the hours creep on, it becomes increasingly clear that yes, you had whatever Jack had come down with. It's not much after you start to nod off in your seat that Abigail picks Jack up, gathering him into her lap, and orders you to lie in the cot - your resolve broken by that point.
The night stretches on as you start to shiver in the cot. Jack pitifully whines in his mother’s arms as she hunches over in exhaustion.
“Give - give him here, I’ll hold him. You’re gonna get sick yourself if you don’t get some rest.” You reach toward Jack, huddled in Abigail’s lap. The poor woman’s eyes are bloodshot, dark circles appearing beneath them at her lack of sleep.
Abigail is unable to hide the guarded look in her eye - her hesitance to let go of her greatest treasure. But after a moment, she acquiesced, exhausted.
She leans forward, Jack huddled to her breast like you’re sure she did when he was a baby. Handing him to you, you situate the child against your chest, pulling the blanket above you both. He does not awaken with the movement, but unconsciously, the boy curls himself into your embrace, his clammy cheek pressed against the exposed skin of your collarbone.
Your hand rubs his back slowly, softly, and when you close your eyes, you wonder if your boy would have curled himself into you the way Jack does. Clutch at you, searching for the comfort only a mother can give.
You choke back a sob, trying to keep quiet, but your attempt is in vain as Abigail notices, drawing closer to you again.
“Ruth - are y’ al-... I can take ‘im back-” Abigail stutters, placing her hand on Jack’s back again to brace him, about to pick him up from the cot.
“ ‘s alright,” You sniffle, unable to stop the tears tracking down your cheeks, “Jus - hic - my baby-”
Abigail’s face falls further, her hand moving from Jack’s back to grasp at yours, her fingers wrapping around yours, “Oh, Ruth, I’m sorry-”
“He… he was too early, b-but -” You shudder with another stifled sob, trying to not disturb the sleeping child in your cot, “ ‘e had his just a bit of his father’s dark hair-”
Abigail’s free hand reaches into the bowl of water, grabbing the rag and squeezing the excess water from it. She dabs it gently to your forehead, holding your hand tightly, comfortingly.
“And now… hic - I’ve got nothin, I’ve got no one, they’re g-gone-” You croak, tears falling down your cheeks freely. You draw the child at your chest in closer, as if Abigail’s son could temporarily fill the depthless void in your chest.
You devolve into sobs, and Abigail holds your hand.
-
The ponderosa pines wave in the warm breeze, the sweet vanilla wafting through your nose as the clearing opens before you.
The cabin stands quiet across the way. Far quieter than when you left.
The door was left open.
Aethon isn’t hitched up, but the wagon is still next to the cabin.
The door was left open.
With unsteady steps, you slowly reach for the doorframe, looking down when your boots make a muted squelch on the wooden floorboards of the porch.
The door was left open.
Blood runs in wretched rivulets from the inside of the cabin, out the threshold, and into the world.
You step into the cabin, and upon the ground, his body is contorted into a death throe, his eyes wide open and blood running from the hole in his forehead.
As if you were caught in molasses, you move slowly toward the body, reaching out toward your dead husband who seems to be just out of reach. Finally, finally, when you reach him, you touch his cold form, hands on his shoulders, slowly coating your arms with his blood.
Your Frederick, dead on the floor. You weep into his shoulder, loudly wailing the mourning dirge.
A loud noise from outside draws your attention, and you turn to see a large shadowed figure in the door. A lantern is thrown into the cabin by the figure, bursting into flames on the wooden floor.
Smoke quickly fills the room, and you begin to cough as you crawl toward the open door, taking your chances with the shadowed figure outside rather than with the flames. As you reach the threshold, you look back forlornly at your dead husband’s body before dragging yourself out the door. You stumble to your feet, coughing as you unsteadily step off the porch. You make it only a few steps before doubling over, coughing violently as one of your hands braces on your knee.
As your eyes water over, the shadowed figure appears again, walking slowly toward you. The figure becomes two. Two become three.
“Why, if it isn’t the lovely Missus Shaw. We’ve been looking for you.”
A gunshot pierces the night.
-
The canvas to the sick tent swings shut after Susan steps out, a basket of linen on one hip. He watches as she moves back toward the center of camp, calling for one of the girls to wash it.
He grimaces, the stitches in his skin pulling tightly as he works his jaw. Christ, his face itches something awful, but at least now he’s no longer bedridden, having thrown off the yoke of invalidity a few days ago.
John knows, of course, that Jack has taken sick. Christ, the way that Abigail tutted and fretted about, the whole damn world knows the kid has a fever. He’s kept a wide berth as the boy was relegated to the sick tent that he had so recently occupied.
He was just going to take a quick look in. He’s been listening to Abigail’s damn voice for the past two days through the canvas of the tent, and being stuck in camp and not well enough to ride yet, there was little else to do. She’s finally gone quiet. Hopefully, both her and the boy are asleep.
John barely notices that he’s almost crushed the unlit cigarette between his fingers as he approaches the tent, quietly leaning inside the canvas opening, blinking as his eyes adjust to the lantern light from the darkness outside.
Abigail sits on a stool, her head pillowed on her crossed arms on the small table. She’s dead to the world, exhausted as she’s sprawled out over that table. He looks over to the cot, the mess of blankets piled up over a still form. A mess of sandy brown hair tucked into a shoulder.
You’re awake. He wasn’t expecting that, standing in the tent’s opening. Stuck, unable to escape, John can do nothing but take in the scene, the fevered blush staining your cheeks, the clammy pallor of your skin. The mess of your blonde hair pulled into some kind of bun that was falling apart. The matching, flushed look of the child pillowed on your chest, the boy’s labored breathing loud in the silence of the night.
Your hand moves to cradle the back of Jack’s head as he subconsciously curls further into you in his sleep.
John audibly swallows, knowing he’s been caught. Under your unfailing gaze, he turns and leaves the tent.
