adrian kissing your pussy after he absolutely destroyed you because he was full of adrenaline after a crazy mission
😵💫😵💫😵💫 FUCK!!!!!!! just little tiny pecks while he looks up at you with glassy, puppy dog eyes and an apologetic grimace, he murmurs "fuck m'sorry, didn't mean to get rough like that babe, here- lemme kiss it better-" it's a kiss that makes your whole body jolt, then another, and then another.... eventually he's slotting his whole mouth in there, though you were complaining and whining at the tenderness and oversensitivity at first, in the end you're digging your hands in his hair and begging him not to stop oop
Cant stop thinking about adrian fucking you until you have to tell him to stop. Hes cum like three times, hes past the stage of overstimulation. Just whining and grinding into you while lapping at the skin on your shoulder.
at that point its less about fucking and more about him just wanting to stay inside you for as long as you'll fucking let him honestly
even when you're tearing up at the overstimulation, even when he's already spilled out his balls like three times in a row
he hisses with every thrust because his dick is so sensitive it hurts, but he loves that shit, like a lot, he likes it when the pleasure is so overwhelming it finally starts to border on plain torture
like even when he winces theres a hint of a smile, eyebrows furrowed and mouth agape but theres a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth when he lets out a breathy and unstable "aaaaghh f-fuck!" into the side of your neck "just a little longer, yeah? shit- i swear-"
but god knows you're hitting your limit when he keeps nudging into you and it feels like he might just rip you in half with every stuttered and abrupt jolt of his body against yours
"Adrian, baby- fuck! it hurts-" You whine in protest, but the effort is kind of half assed since you dont actually tell him to stop at all
if anything- you're just grabbing fistfuls of his hair a bit more harshly while he's licking and sucking at the skin of your neck and shoulder messily
so of course he thinks you're encouraging him, he moans in response to your harsh pulling and the needy sound of your words
"yeah it hurts soooooo fucking good" his voice breaks for a second when he feels you tighten around him again "holy shit! i dont think i'll be able to pull out, you're literally trapping me in!! you want me in there forever babe?- fuck yeah i know you do-" he whines, voice raising to a devastated higher pitch, his movements picking up speed with new found stamina and edge
you have to tell him to stop, you have to, any minute now... soon
cw: just random sex idk, mentions of killing somebody
It hadn’t been long since you ended things with your shitty boyfriend—the one who never listened, never cared, and treated you like an afterthought until you finally snapped.
Word must’ve gotten around fast, because Adrian showed up not long after, worried and restless when he heard the news, insisting he just wanted to check on you with that awkward mix of concern and overeager energy only he could pull off. One thing led to another, words melting into touches, and now he’s got you flat on your back while he rapidly pistols every inch of himself into you.
Adrian has you pinned beneath him, your legs hooked over his hips as he drives into you, the mattress squeaking with every hard thrust. His curls are plastered to his forehead with sweat, his glasses still somehow resting on his nose. He leans down close, his breath hot against your ear as he groans, voice low and ragged.
“Fuck—you feel so good,” he pants, his words tumbling out between gritted teeth. “You don’t even know how long I’ve been wanting to do this.” His hips snap forward harder, like he’s proving a point with every stroke, his hand sliding up your side to brace your ribs as if to hold you still for him.
Your head tips back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut as wave after wave of heat rolls through you. Every thrust makes your body shiver, your mind swimming, thoughts dissolving into static. Adrian’s voice reaches you; low, breathless, frenzied—but the words barely register. You catch fragments, something about waiting, about how good you feel, but it all blurs together under the haze of sensation.
Adrian’s pace doesn’t falter, every thrust sharp and claiming, but his words tumble out in that fast, frantic way he always talks when he gets caught up.
“He didn’t deserve you. Never did,” he pants, his forehead pressing to your shoulder “The way he treated you? Like you were nothing? God, I should—” his breath catches on a groan as your body clenches around him, “—I should fucking kill him. I should’ve killed him the second he made you cry.” His hand slides up your thigh, gripping it hard as he drives deeper, voice breaking between ragged moans.
You’re still in the clouds, every nerve alive from the way he’s moving inside you, but even through the fog you catch onto what he says. ‘Kill him’?
For a second, it jars you—Adrian, always rambling, always spiraling into the extreme. You manage a shaky laugh, brushing your hand over his shoulder, choosing not to linger on it. Surely he wouldn’t go that far. Right?
Summary: Adrian Chase has a crush. Everyone knows. Well, everyone but you, the object of his affection, who seems completely oblivious to it all. When the rest of the 11th Street Kids finally reach the end of their respective ropes, they decide to step in.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Mentions of sex, Adrian is kind of a creep, Okay a little more than kind of but we love it, Adrian is head-over-heels obsessed (and so so awkward about it), The team is exhausted with it, Chris is really bad at advice, Mentions of semi-public sex, Please let me know if I forgot anything!
Author’s Note: Thank you to the lovely anon who requested this! This dorky killing machine is so fun to write. As always, please let me know what you think!
-
“Holy shit.” Chris says, watching as you dodge one blow and land another with terrifying precision. A butterfly's head is blown clean off in a single shot, and you seamlessly dodge another attack to slam the blade of your knife into the eye of your next attacker.
“Holy shit.” Adrian echoes, but there’s a breathless, dreamy quality to his voice that makes Chris raise his eyebrows.
“Dude, I know she’s hot, but this is turning you on?”
“What? No! I mean, of course not. She’s just…” he trails off as you grab one enemy’s arm, spinning into the man’s chest and firing his gun from his own hand into the forehead of the man across from you. You spin out, and finish off the first guy with a swift kick to the chest.
“Holy shit.” Adrian says again, even more breathless than before, and he’s fucking smiling now.
“Oh God, I think his eyes just turned into cartoon hearts.” Adebayo nearly groans. This time, Adrian doesn’t answer.
And just like that, the entire team watches Adrian Chase fall in love.
And just like that, it becomes everyone else’s fucking problem.
-
He sits as close to you as possible in every briefing. He laughs way too hard at your jokes, and even at some of your comments that aren’t meant to be funny. He stares at you with his ‘cartoon heart eyes’ every time you enter the room, and looks like a sad puppy every time you leave it.
It gets annoying fast. And you’re the only one who doesn’t seem to notice.
You don’t get irritated with him, like everyone else does. For a while, each and every member of the team wonders what your breaking point is going to be. If one day you’ll snap when he rambles to you about anything and everything under the sun, and he’ll end up with a bullet between his eyes before he can finish telling you a new random fact about owls.
And yet, you don’t break. In fact, you don’t even seem like you’re humoring him. You listen when he talks like you’re actually interested in what he has to say. Laugh with him when no one else does. You smile when he enters the room, and you even have inside jokes with him that make him laugh like an absolute lunatic.
And yet, despite how painfully obvious it is to everyone else, you still don’t seem to notice his crush.
-
Chris hits his breaking point when he borrows Adrian’s phone, trying to look up directions to the new meeting spot after his own gets smashed in a fight.
“Okay, dude. We gotta talk about this shit.”
“What?” Adrian looks genuinely confused, turning to him with a completely innocent expression.
“First of all, your phone passcode is her birthday.”
Adrian is immediately on the defensive, pink tinging his cheeks as he grips the steering wheel and looks directly out the front window.
“I-what? No, it’s not! It’s a random combination of numbers. If it’s her birthday that’s a total coincidence. Who even is the she in question, anyway? Like I said, I have no idea what mysterious birthday you’re talking about.”
“Your screensaver is her face.”
“My screensaver is a picture of the whole team, because we’re all friends! If my phone maybe zoomed in on a particular person’s face, I have no control over that! I’m a crime fighter, not a master of technology.”
Chris does not let up, and Adrian looks like he’d be less tortured if his pinky toe was cut off again.
“Okay, then why did you Google her name like, twenty times?”
“For research. She’s part of the team! Who says I don’t Google all of you, in case someone - other than you, of course. You’re my best friend and so I know you’re not - is compromised somehow?”
“Dude, just admit you’ve got it bad.”
“I don’t have anything bad!”
“It’s fine, man. She’s like, a solid ten. If you want some advice, bro to bro, I can give it to you.”
Chris is Adrian’s best friend - well, outside of you now, of course - and he does hook up with lots of people.
So, against anyone’s better judgement, Adrian takes his first bit of seduction advice.
-
The briefing the next day is weird.
Very weird.
When Adrian sits down, he doesn’t sit next to you. In fact, he sits across from you, eyes boring into the side of your head when you aren’t looking and darting away immediately when you seem to feel the weight of his gaze on you. When the meeting breaks, and everyone begins to grab their various weapons and get their shit together to load up the van, he sidles up to you in a way that’s so purposefully casual it draws the attention of the rest of the team.
He leans against the counter on one elbow, looking at you through his glasses from the side.
“Sup.” And that word does not sound right coming from Adrian Chase. It especially sounds off with how much deeper he seems to be trying to make his voice.
Your brows furrow, and you continue to load your gun as you glance over at him. “Sup.” You mimic, just as purposefully low, and offer him a familiar little smile.
That seems to disarm him, just a little. Just enough to make him seem impossibly more awkward as he collects himself and continues.
“I was uh…I was just thinking about how I went out last night. There was a girl with an awesome ass at the bar. Totally top-tier. She was super hot.”
Your confusion is palpable. Some of the team cringes behind your back. Neither you nor Adrian notice. “…Okay.”
“I mean, you could be hot too. If you did your…hair different.”
“Thank you?”
“I mean, not that your hair isn’t great. And your shampoo smells nice. Not that I’ve like, smelled it or anything. It’s- you wear a lot of shampoo.”
“I wear a lot of shampoo?” You repeat, finally cocking your head to the side and looking him fully up and down, taking in everything from his stance to the odd way he’s trying to speak to you. “Are you okay? Did you drink weird milk again?”
“Huh? No! I just…you know, I was just saying you… smell, you know?” he trails off, looking a little lost, and you nod slowly like you think he might be on drugs.
“Okay, thanks… I’m gonna start loading up the van.” You offer him an awkward smile, pick up a gun, and make your way out the door.
He deflates so much, so quickly, that he looks like a popped balloon.
“Dude.” Chris says, sympathy and horror coating his tone. “What the fuck was that?”
“You said to neg her!”
“First of all, if you took Smith’s advice this whole situation is gonna get ten fucking times more annoying.” Harcourt snaps, rolling her eyes and holstering her own gun. “Second of all, who the fuck thinks negging works?”
“Hey, I’ve hooked up with a shit ton of people. If you do it right and not like whatever the fuck that was-“ Chris starts, only for Harcourt to hold up her hand and cut off the end of his sentence.
“She’s not some dumbass at the dive bar, you fucking frat boy.”
Adrian doesn’t seem to be very invested in the argument that follows. He looks two seconds away from bursting out the door and trying the ‘negging’ thing again, like he might be able to get it right with practice. Peacemaker himself gave him the advice, after all. It should work if he just does it right, right?
“Just be yourself.” Adebayo chimes in, a softer voice cutting against the sharp tones in the room. “She seems to like you plenty as yourself. Not…whatever that was.”
“It was negging. It’s when you insult someone to make them-“
“I know what negging is.” She stops him with a helpless shake of her head. “I mean don’t do that.”
He frowns. Looks toward the door again like his eyes might be able to find you through it. “What should I do instead?”
“Be yourself.” She repeats, emphatic. “If she likes you, she’s gonna like you a lot less if you keep insulting her. Or…trying to. I couldn’t really follow what you were doing there.”
And so, now with better judgement, Adrian takes his second bit of seduction advice.
-
You fall asleep on him in the van. It happens slowly, beginning with your eyes drifting shut to the rocking and bumping of the vehicle and ending with your head thunking onto his shoulder.
He freezes. Completely, totally freezes. He tries to catch the attention of the rest of the team, but they’re all too distracted either drifting off themselves or taking stock of their own wounds.
And then, slowly, like you might vanish if he jostles you too much, he leans his body back against the wall. You go with him, still peacefully asleep with your bloody cheek resting against his shoulder and your body so, so close to his.
Okay, step two.
Though patience has never really been his forte, he manages to move his arm with the slow precision that only stems from the years of training and practice that made him such a skilled killer. In what feels like an eternity, that arm is finally wrapped around you, and he positions you to lie more comfortably against his side, pulling your body closer to his and trying not to vibrate from the feeling of your warmth seeping into his skin.
You don’t wake. You mumble something in your sleep, your own mask off and resting beside you, and turn your head into him with a sigh.
You’re so warm. Still covered in blood and dirt and grime but still so, so unbelievably pretty. Actually, you’re always prettier than usual after a fight. Exhausted and full of adrenaline just like how he gets. Your smile is always brighter. Your eyes hold the same excitement as his own. Shit, he almost wants to wake you up just so he can look at your eyes, though he wouldn’t dream of risking losing this moment.
His hand comes up, and his fingers glide through your hair like he’s mesmerized by the feeling of it - which he is. You hum in response to the feeling, still sleeping as your body melts a little bit more into his, and he feels like every nerve inside of him is on fire.
And then, like a bit of a creep, he turns his head into your hair and inhales. You smell so nice. Like sweetness and spice and blood and dirt. He wants to touch you all over. He wants to pull you all the way into his lap and wake you up by kissing you. Like, everywhere. He wants to study you in more ways than just all of the endless staring he’s been doing over the last few weeks. Like the way you might feel against him, with more than just your head and side pressed against his body. Or the noises you might make when he-
A throat clears.
When Adrian looks up, everyone is looking at him.
“Are you…sniffing her?” Leota asks, nose scrunched up in an expression he doesn’t understand. Whatever. He doesn’t understand a lot of expressions. But he understands yours. And when he doesn’t, you usually explain it to him. It’s one of the many, many things he likes about you.
“Do you have a boner right now?” Chris asks, and that expression might be disgust, though he doesn’t really understand why. Chris has seen you, right? You’re probably the hottest person Adrian’s ever seen. How is he not supposed to get a boner when you’re pressed up against him and he can feel your soft breath against his neck? And now you’re moving, snuggling a little more into his side, and he couldn’t help his grin if he wanted to as he turns to press his nose into your hair again.
“Fucking weirdo.” Harcourt mumbles, and Adrian couldn’t care less.
-
He decides to - finally - ask you out. He comes up with at least ten different plans, and keeps asking for advice about every single detail until the rest of the team is minutes away from punching him if he says another word about it.
And, in the end, he doesn’t follow a single one of those carefully detailed plans. He doesn’t even come close.
This battle was rough. Chaotic and violent and seeming to last for hours until everyone is drenched in blood and covered in bruises and limping their way back to each other to regroup.
You just blew a group of butterflies up with a grenade. You didn’t move back far enough to keep the blood and guts off of you. In fact, you’re still wiping it from your face, grinning like a fucking maniac as you pull your nearly-ruined mask from your face and take in the scene before you.
Adrian is already making his way towards you like a man hypnotized. His own mask is off. His hair is damp with sweat. His face is almost as bloody as yours.
“Holy shit! Did you see that?” You ask, eyes wild as you turn to him. “That was awesome! I mean, I didn’t expect that to-“
He grabs you. One bloody hand fists in your hair, the other wraps around your waist, and he yanks you into him and kisses you so hard the force of it would knock you backward if he weren’t crushing you to him so tightly.
The 11th Street Kids watch, awed. You make a muffled noise of surprise, eyes going wide as his mouth moves against yours.
And then you wrap your arms around his neck, and you kiss him right back.
For a while, no one speaks. Your hands tangle in Adrian’s hair, and his other hand drops to join the first around your waist. He lifts you off of your feet. You wrap your legs around his waist. He groans shamelessly, and presses you up against the nearest tree so hard it almost looks like it hurts. You don’t seem to notice, stabilizing yourself with one hand gripping at his back while you pull at his hair and draw a noise from him that echoes through the forest.
“This is getting gross.” Economos says, and cringes as Adrian’s hands start to rip at your tactical gear.
“They are covered in blood.”
“Does anyone wanna stop them before they fuck in the middle of the woods?”
“I’m not going anywhere near that.”
Armor is beginning to come off, crashing to the ground as cloth rips and Adrian starts to mumble incoherent - and probably wildly inappropriate - nonsense into your mouth and against your skin, kissing and biting his way down your throat.
“Okay, you know what? They can figure out how to get home. My eyes are starting to burn.”
Hours later, you do find your way home, breathless and grinning and covered in new marks from a very different type of battle.
They thought Adrian’s crush was annoying before. Now that he has you, he is so much worse.
I need all the horny thoughts you have about RDR2 RIGHT NOW!!!
with love,
snail
TW: dub-con below cut <3
i’m having SO MANY horny thoughts you have no idea. mainly about dhdijssojdeoej dutch 💕
there’s just something about him that SCREAMS yandere to me. the charisma, the need for control, the silver tongue. he manipulates people so easily. there’s a reason he’s had a roster of women before (and after) molly. he knows how to talk his way into what he wants.
and that kind of character is so interesting for yandere. the type of person who can truly make you believe that they have your best interests at heart, meanwhile they’re using you for their own gain. dutch plucks people up from situations where they have nothing and believes in them in exchange for them furthering his cause.
i think he'd LOVE a reader who was illiterate. makes him feel smarter then you. I can just imagine him sneaking into your tent at night and sitting you on his lap with a playful little twinkle in his eye, one you've learned to dread. He calls his little visits reading lessons, says it's his responsibility as a the gang leader to make sure you're well educated, but the books he puts in front of you are always just a little beyond your reading level, and the way he touches you as you read to him doesn't exactly help your concentration.
"That word," he points to the paper in front of you, voice low and heady in your ear, "read it again for me."
Your face burns. You shift on his lap, causing the heavy arm keeping your back pulled snug against his muscled chest to press tighter into your tummy. The cool metal of his rings brush against your inner labia as he twists his fingers in your core. They've been nestled there for the better part of an hour now. Stroking and fingering you tortuously slow, bringing you right to the edge and pulling you back over and over as you butcher whatever article is headlining the weekly newspaper. Its become a weekly ritual, him sneaking into your tent like this, pulling you onto his lap and touching you in ways you know ain't proper for a man twenty years your senior. But Dutch has never seemed to care about the propriety of... whatever this is, and you don't have the courage to bring it up. Whatever Dutch says goes, everyone in camp knows that. Even this.
An embarrassing, pitchy sound slips past your lips as his fingers graze a sensitive spot inside of you. "Mnngh... D-dutch please. The other girls are all asleep. I-I wanna be done-" you plea.
It's true. Karen and Marybeth and Tilly all went to bed long ago. You wonder if they stayed up waiting for you. Karen had promised she would tell you all about how the robbery in the last town went from her point of view, but you doubt they'd have waited this long.
"You'll be done when I say you're done. Not too much longer now." his thumb strokes your inner thigh in a manner you suppose is meant to be comforting. "Now go on."
You bite your lip and squint, struggling to make out the letters through the dim lamp light above and the tears spilling from your eyes. "Ca... Cacacop-"
"Cacophony." he interrupts, twisting his fingers deep, sending a wave of heat to your tummy that makes your toes curl. "Say it with me now. Cacophony."
You do as you're told, choking the word out as you watch a new droplet roll down his knuckle into the crevices of his rings. You wonder if he'll make you get on your knees once you're done to suck them clean like last time.
"Good girl." he praises, eyes fixed between your legs, entranced by the way your juices glint on his fingers. You think you hear him mumble something like 'Messy' under his breath and the tears of humiliation come on their own.
That doesn't stop him though. You still feel him hard as a rock underneath his pants.
"Oh sweet thing." he coos, brushing the tears from your eyes with a gentle smile. "My poor, poor dear. Tell you what, let's take a snack break, ok?"
You nearly leap for joy as his fingers slide out of your cunt. It might not be freedom, but any respite from Dutch's torture was near unheard of. You open your mouth to thank him, until you hear the clink of his belt buckle.
His eyes grow a shade darker, "Why don't you get on your knees and let me feed you?"
I HAVE A REQUEST, and i know your requests are closed but i cant contain myself HAHA but what kinks would the red dead men have?
RDR2 Men and Their Kinks
Overview: the kinks the Red Dead Redemption 2 men would have!
Genre: Smut
Pairing: Fem!Reader X RDR2 Men
A/N: OKAY... I know my requests are closed, but I'm a slut for Red Dead, so I cannot contain myself. PS, this is my first real NSFW post, so be nice to me <3
Warning! NSFW! Mentions of CNC on Micah's part!
Arthur Morgan
I just KNOW this man would have a raging breeding kink. He can't get enough of your slick, warm, tight pussy. Cumming anywhere else is almost blasphemous to him. Sure, he'll occasionally shoot his hot ropes of cum onto your belly or tits, but if he had the choice, he'd finish in your cunt every single time. The sight of his hot, milky load dripping out of your pussy... smeared on your inner thighs, along with the thought of you carrying his baby? It's like heaven to him.
"You gonna let me cum in your perfect pussy, ain't ya, pretty girl? Yeah? Good girl. Gonna fill you up... give you my kids. You hopin' for a boy or a girl? Yeah? A girl would be nice..."
John Marston
Say it with me. John Marston has a spanking kink! Watching you squirm upon the impact of his calloused palm on your perfect, bouncy ass? The handprint he leaves every time? The redness on your plump butt? It borders on a religious experience for him. He even stole a camera once for the sole purpose of taking a picture of you bent over his cot, your rump painted in his cum, and your ass all red and sore from his merciless spankings. He keeps that picture with him at all times.
"Look at you, darlin'... ain't you just the prettiest sight in the world? Ass all red for me? Yeah... look at it bounce. Oh, come on, girl. You can take it. Whatchu you squirmin' for?"
Javier Escuella
Now, Javier is a romantic. He doesn't like anything too crazy, but he does like praising and worshipping you. He adores you, so why shouldn't he let you know just how beautiful you are? You deserve to know how perfect you are... how much he worships you. How you could bring him to his knees with a simple glance. You're a goddess, so he treats you like one.
"Ah, mierda... you're squeezin' me so tight, mi amor. You're so fuckin' perfect, my love. A work of fuckin' art... shit, baby! Can't focus with your perfect pussy milkin' my cock like that."
Dutch Van der Linde
Dutch loves some face-fucking. He almost gets drunk on the sight of you struggling to take his cock down your throat, drool dripping down your chin, and tears in your beautiful eyes. It's a power thing for him. He pulls your hair, forces your head down to his balls, and watches you like a hawk while casually smoking on his cigar. It's his favorite sight.
"Oh, come on. You're strugglin' already? My cock ain't even halfway down your throat, sweetie. Let me help you a lil' bit, darlin'. Oh, you're chokin' now? You can take more of me, sweetheart. Suck it. There..."
Charles Smith
CHARLES IS A MUNCH. He loves face-sitting. He begs you for it. He adores the taste of your pussy... your wetness is like liquid gold to him. And your cum? A piece of heaven. He always wraps his arms around your thighs, keeping you in place even when you're overstimulated from his skilled tongue. There's nothing better than the feeling of your full body weight on his face, and your pussy gushing on his tongue. He'd eat you out for days if he could.
"I need to prep you first, baby. C'mere... sit on my face. I promise I'll stop when you're ready for my dick. Yeah, put your full weight on my face."
An hour later...
"I'm sorry, baby... I know it's sensitive. Jus' one more. You can give me one more. I'm sorry... you taste too good."
Micah Bell
Micah is a slut for some CNC. That's it. That's the explanation.
a/n: He doesn’t get TB in this. Why? Because this is fanfiction and I’m god and fuck canon (I just finished the game, I’m emotionally distraught and needed this)
Warnings: brief attempted SA
Summary: Your father is a gambling man and you’re always the collateral. He refuses to pay the wrong man and now you’re being dragged across country roads to a man you’ve never met. Arthur Morgan, an outlaw down to the bone, is in charge of making sure you get there in one piece. Except, he doesn’t feel right selling a woman off like she’s property.
You’re done being a doormat and letting the men in your life tell you what you’re worth. You’ve got three days to escape him, but you’re not prepared for the reality of the real world.
“Put your hands where I can see ‘em, cowboy.” Arthur’s shoulders tense and he curses under his breath. His hand darts to the revolver on his hip, but the second his fingers twitch towards it he hears a hammer being pulled back. The cool barrel of a gun digs into his neck and he raises his hand in surrender.
The man behind him lets out a familiar laugh and tugs him around. Arthur rolls his eyes and glares at Dutch. “The hell are you doing?”
Dutch clears his throat, still laughing slightly. “Relax, Arthur, but if I had been an O’Driscoll you’d be dead right now.” Arthur doesn’t point out that the only thing they have to worry about out here are the Lemonye raiders. He’s more focused on why Dutch is even out here. Rarely does he leave Shady Belle to traverse the streets of St. Denis.
None of them are particularly fond of the place. If he wanted to step in horse shit every other step he’d go to a stable. At least those smell better. Dutch slings an arm around Arthur’s shoulder, tugging him away from the saloon he was heading towards.
“You’re gonna have to save the cheating for later, Arthur, I need you for something.”
“You know I don’t cheat,” Arthur jokes and Dutch grins at him and it’s nice. This is familiar to him. This feels right. Dutch has been odd lately, the jobs he’s been taking, the risks he’s been imposing, none of them feels like the man he knows.
Now, Arthur would follow Dutch straight into hell without being asked. But he can’t abide by how he’s putting their people in harm's way. He’s felt like a stranger more often than not and he’s been doubting the people he shouldn’t. Right now, though, he can see the man he knows in the teasing curl of his lips.
“What’dya need?”
Dutch pauses in front of a tailor and pats Arthur’s chest. “I need you to look prim and proper for a party we’ve got tonight.”
Arthur’s brows furrow cynically and he scoffs. “Someone invited us to a party?”
Dutch hesitates, a stiff smile on his face. “Well, let’s just say someone is interested in our work.” Arthur wants to question him further, he’s hiding something from him. But Dutch is pushing him towards the door of the shop before he can argue. “And get a haircut, we need to look presentable not like a bunch of mountain men.”
Arthur watches as Dutch leaves, something heavy weighing down on him. Dutch doesn’t usually tell people about his plans beforehand. At least not every step of them. But this is odd, he’s definitely hiding something and Arthur isn’t sure he wants to know what.
With a resigned huff, he heads into the tailor. He has to mentally prepare himself for being stuffed into a starched collar and a stiff suit for the rest of the night. He hates these damn parties, hates having to pretend like he knows what the hell is being said.
Most of the people that attend are educated or pretend to be. And when he lets it slip that he’s more likely to shoot a gun than read a book they turn on him like jackals. You can’t let them see that you’re different than them or you’ll never get a word in edgewise.
The only part he enjoys is the booze and robbing them of their money. It’s not like they earned any of it. Most of it was made by breaking the backs of the people they mock for being too poor to afford a fancy suit.
Arthur takes a deep breath and looks for the cheapest suit he can find in the overpriced shop.
“Now,” Mr. Crane’s hand tightens around your bicep and he jerks you closer to him. You keep your face impassive, not letting him see just how much he’s hurting you. But you can feel your skin being stretched to its limits by his clammy fingers. “You’re going to behave tonight. I’ve got a few gentlemen I’d like you to meet.”
He looks at you expectantly but you keep your mouth firmly shut. His eyes narrow and he jerks you around roughly. “Understood,” you force the word out through gritted teeth. You’re trying to breathe as little as possible, not wanting to smell his cigar-laced breath any longer.
Finally, after a tortuously long moment, he releases you. You take ten steps back, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles from the silk skirt he’d forced you in. You glance out the window of his office, watching as the workers scramble to set up the tables for tonight. You can hear cooks in the kitchen, shouting out orders for the food for tonight.
Everything must be perfect. Mr. Crane never fails to deliver on his extravagantly indulgent parties. The man himself is the very embodiment of greed. You glance over with a disgusted sneer as he sinks himself into his leather chair and pulls out a wad of cash.
He catches your eye and sends you a sickly sweet smile. “This,” he waves the money at you and you track the movement boredly. “Is how much you’re worth, sweetheart.” Your brows raise in amusement and you scoff. More than you thought he would put up for you.
You wonder who he’s going to have transport you. He’ll need you out of the city soon, your father is starting to catch onto what’s happening. It took him long enough. You’ve been missing a month, you’d think he would have put two and two together faster. Then again, he’d never been very interested in you beyond what you were worth to others.
“When will I be able to meet these gentlemen?” You ask, taking a step towards him. Your eyes dart towards the letter opener on his desk and for a brief moment you picture yourself strabbing it into his fattened jugular.
But he flicks his wrist and like magic the door opens, his men coming inside and standing resolutely by your side. “Not anytime soon, my dear.” He looks to the men surrounding you and you take in a sharp breath, wishing you’d just taken the chance when you had it. “My associate is feeling quite tired, take her back to her room, please.”
They grab you by the elbows, even though it's entirely unnecessary. You wouldn’t run, and even if you did you wouldn’t get far with the chains he has hidden under your dress. A punishment for the first time you snuck from his home. You’ve been well behaved since then but he doesn’t trust you.
You’re whisked away without another word. The trek of the stairs is a slow one. They’re forced to help you navigate by lifting your skirts and not tripping on the chains. It no longer brings you any satisfaction to cause a hindrance in any of their days.
Before, you would think of being an annoyance as a small victory. But it’s not, it never was. It was just a way for them to keep you complacent by allowing you to think you’d done something for yourself. You believe your father used to do the same thing.
It’s just another way of keeping you quiet.
When you make it to your rooms, they shove you inside. Like clockwork, you hear the jingle of the keys and then the lock clicks. You sigh and take a step towards your vanity, working on touching up your hair.
You think the worst part of this must be how well you’re treated. You have meals made by a private chef. Your quarters are decorated more lavishly than they ever were at your father’s house. Yet, you hear the suffocating tick of the clock as it counts down your doom.
You’re not entirely sure what their plan is with you. You know your father had made a promise to Mr. Crane involving some land. Or perhaps it had been a wager. But as always, you were collateral when your father refused to pay up.
You know Mr. Crane wants you out of town so that he has more time to negotiate with your father, to call in the interest he owes him. You also know the only reason your father is interested in finding you is because you’re meant to marry the son of a business partner in two months. The money he’ll get from that will be enough to finally pay off his debts.
Except, now, Mr. Crane tells you that should your father refuse to pay you’ll be married to one of his associates. And the deal he’ll make from that will be enough to cover what your father has refused to pay.
No matter what, you’re going to be married off to some man you’ve never met and yet again be a quiet trophy on a shelf. It’s a very convoluted situation, one which makes you think leaping from a window might be a better fate.
None of the men your father or Mr. Crane is in business with are particularly kind. They’ve got more skeletons in the closet than there are in the graveyard. You doubt you’ll live a very happy life with whoever they pick for you.
You slump forward onto the vanity, trying to fight off the burning feeling in the back of your eyes. You’ve known this would happen for years. Even before Mr. Crane had you kidnapped, you knew that this would be your destiny. You would never get to be one of the free-spirited women who fought for the right to choose. You would always be forced into this role.
Yet, being so close to it coming to fruition makes you feel choked and suffocated. You can feel the noose around your neck tightening, the hangman’s fingers twitching as he waits to see you drop.
You dig your nails into your palm, taking in a deep breath and fighting back the wave of despair. Where there is doom, you also see a sliver of hope. Your next journey will be a long one. He’s hiring someone to have you transported to an area further up the map.
If you play your cards right you might be able to escape while you’re traveling. If you’re incredibly smart about this, thinking with your head and not your heart, you might have a shot at freedom.
You take in a deep breath, reapplying your makeup and resolving yourself to another night of mindless entertainment. But you hold onto that fleeting feeling of hope. You have a shot, you just have to take it.
Arthur’s heard of these parties before. Some Mr. Crane fella that likes to blow all his money on food and booze. He indulges his guests and when they’re weakest, gets their secrets from them. He’s a snake and everyone knows it. Yet, missing his party is social suicide. They have no choice but to go and indulge in him.
Arthur had never had any interest in meeting him or doing any business with him. But Dutch had informed him that’s exactly what’s happening tonight. They’ll mingle for a little while, maybe scout some other jobs, and then Mr. Crane will invite them up to his office for a private discussion.
Dutch still hasn’t told him what exactly their business with him is. He brought Hosea along tonight so he has to assume it’s not going to be anything violent. But he can’t think of anything else they could be good for.
“Alright, gentlemen,” Dutch places his hands on Hosea’s and Arthur’s shoulders, a scheming smile on his face. “Try not to embarrass me.” He slips behind them, heading up the stairs of the home. Hosea and Arthur share a brief look before they split up, blending into the background of the garden.
Arthur lurks near the bar, he knows he should be talking to these assholes, possibly learning something useful. But he can’t be bothered. He orders a whiskey, gaze surveying the partygoers. They’re all loud with painted faces and fake smiles. Not a goddamn person here seems to be genuinely interested in anything they’re doing.
“First time?” The soft voice beside him catches him off guard. He glances to the side and is surprised to see that you’ve slipped past him. He hadn’t even noticed you slide up next to him. You laugh at the look on his face and it’s the first thing here that seems real. “Sorry, it’s just that look on your face, I recognize the disappointment. You’ve never been to one of Crane’s parties before?”
“No,” he clears his throat, still recovering from the surprise. “Uh, I can’t say I have.”
You suck on your teeth, narrowing your eyes at the people passing by. “They’re not worth the effort. Everyone who leaves here leaves carrying his debt on their back.”
Arthur chuckles a little, lips twitching up into a small smile. He’s surprised by your frankness, most people like to hide behind passive-aggressive digs. He appreciates the straightforward attitude. “Then why are you here?”
You shrug and Arthur finds himself enchanted. He shouldn’t be, he’s never been one for romance. He finds women pretty and he’s been in love before, but he’s never bought into the idea of love at first sight. Or any of that mushy stuff that Mary Beth devours in those books of hers.
But you are absolutely gorgeous, dressed in a silk dress that’s so expensive he’s sure he could buy two new horses with it. Your fingers and neck are decorated in dainty jewels that you fidget with as you stare down at your drink. When you set your eyes on him again he thinks he might have been struck by Cupid’s arrow.
“I don’t have a choice,” you finally answer, sending him a stiff smile. “What about you? Why are you here?”
Arthur suddenly remembers himself, remembers why he’s here and what he’s supposed to be doing. The fog in his head dissipates and he’s disappointed in himself. Pretty women have never done anything except get him in trouble.
“Business,” he answers vaguely. Your eyes narrow and your brows twitch in discontent. Something like realization dawns on your face and you back away from him. The easy attitude you’d carried yourself with is gone, replaced by a vague look of distrust.
“Right, should’ve known.” You let out a rough sigh and Arthur can’t help but feel like he’s said the wrong thing. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you again soon.” You slip past him before he can ask you what you mean. He hears the faint sound of metal clinking as you walk back up the stairs.
Something silver flashes under your skirts but he can’t get a good glimpse of it. He feels unsettled as he turns back to the bar. The whole interaction was odd. From how stricken he was with you to how cold you turned.
He doesn’t know what you saw in him but it was probably for the best that you left when you did. Neither of you needed the trouble the other would bring. He shakes his head, downing his whiskey and muttering nonsense to himself about not thinking with the wrong head.
It’s not that much later that Dutch is appearing on the balcony and silently motions him forward. Arthur leaves the bar behind and slips up the same stairs you’d disappeared on. Dutch says nothing as he leads Hosea and Arthur through the house.
The mansion is a maze more than anything. Arthur loses track of all the turns they take and the winding staircases they descend. Finally, Dutch stops them all in front of two large oak doors. He raps once on the door and then lets himself in.
A large, balding man with a shiny head is perched on top of a leather chair. He looms behind his desk, fingers steepled as he greets them all with a false smile. “Ah, gentlemen, so nice to finally meet you.”
Dutch grins and motions to Arthur, “This is the man who will be doing the transporting, Arthur.” Arthur’s eyes narrow in confusion but he says nothing as Dutch moves to Hosea, “And this is my associate, Hosea. He’s a lot better with money than I am, Mr. Crane. You understand.”
Mr. Crane lets out a boisterous laugh that makes Arthur’s ears hurt and nods his head, his cheeks jiggling with the movement. “That I do! Well,” he waves them forward when they linger in the doorway too long, “come in, come in.”
Arthur closes the doors behind them as Mr. Crane lifts himself from his desk. There are two couches positioned in front of an unlit fire. He takes one of them and Dutch and Hosea take the other. Arthur perches himself on the armrest of their couch, eyes surveying the office like it might reveal the truth of their visit.
“I trust Mr. Van der Linde has kept this all quiet?”
“He has,” Arthur grouses.
At the same time, Dutch says, “Of course, Mr. Crane. I promised confidentiality and Dutch Van der Linde is nothing if not a man who keeps to his promises.” Crane nods, looking satisfied and Arthur holds back a laugh at how easily he seems to trust Dutch.
“Good, good.” He dips his hand inside his jacket and Arthur’s palm instinctively drops to where his gun should be. Of course, they’d had to give up their weapons before they came into the party, if he does has a gun Arthur can’t do a damn thing.
But he doesn’t, instead, he pulls out the thickest stack of cash that Arthur has ever laid his eyes on. A loud thud resounds through the room as he slams the bills on top of the table between them. Arthur’s eyes widen and Hosea’s jaw nearly drops at the sight of it all.
This would be enough to get them out of St. Denis tonight. Shock sours quickly into suspicion. What the hell has Dutch signed up for? “Now, this is the first half. This is simply for accepting the job and,” he gives them all severe looks, “for your silence.”
Arthur shifts uncomfortably on his perch and waits for Mr. Crane to finish. “The other half will be given once the package has been safely delivered.” There’s a certain lilt to his words when he says package that has Arthur’s hackles raising. Whatever is getting delivered is not going to be good.
Crane turns towards the bookshelves on the wall and calls out, “Darling, won’t you join us?” Arthur figures the man must have lost his mind, they should just take the money and leave. But there’s a loud creak and something like metal gears grinding together. One of the shelves pops open and the panel swings forward.
You pop your head out, glancing towards Crane and then taking a step forward. Arthur, without even thinking about it, finds himself sitting up, and brushing some of the dirt off his pants from the ride over.
At first, he’s so confused by seeing you again that he doesn’t realize why exactly he’s seeing you again. Then you glance towards him, a knowing look on your face and it clicks. You’re the package. You’re what he’s meant to be transporting.
He glares over at Dutch, when exactly did they get into the business of trading women?
Hosea voices his doubts in a much calmer manner. “If I may, sir, why does she need to be delivered so discreetly?”
Mr. Crane laughs and your face twitches unpleasantly. You grimace, glaring at the back of the man’s head with something like murder in your eyes. He doesn’t know what he’s done to cause such a visceral look of hate and he doesn’t want to think about it. This whole situation is bothering him. You’re not here willingly, which means you’re not going to be transported willingly either.
None of this makes sense. Dutch would never have taken a job like this before, even when they needed the money. And there’s no way in hell a rich man like this one would want to pay a couple of grungy outlaws so much money. There’s got to be some sort of trick in all of this.
Cran clears his throat, “She’s a daughter of a, well,” he frowns and struggles for the words. “Let’s just say we’re in a hostile competition for a lot of land. This land, boys, could be very beneficial in expanding my business. He’s not interested in selling and, well, desperate times, desperate measures.”
You scoff, laughing slightly at him and rounding the couch. Dutch ignores you, Hosea looks uncomfortable, and Crane continues prattling on without missing a beat. “Should her father not pay me, she will be married to the associate you’re bringing her to. He’s promised me enough land and money to cover what I lost to her father. And if he does pay, she’ll be returned in time for her wedding here.”
Arthur’s eyes dart towards you and you send him a bitter smile. It makes him shift where he sits, hating the way your eyes bore into him. “I just need someone who's not afraid of getting their hands a little dirty to make sure she behaves while she’s delivered to my friend,” Crane glances over at Arthur. He asses him, the bulge of his arms in the suit and the scars on his face, whatever he finds must be satisfactory because he smiles over at Dutch.
Arthur stands, ready for Dutch to tell Mr. Crane that they’re not in the business of selling women off. But Dutch doesn’t, he smiles at Mr. Crane and reaches for the money, passing it off to Hosea to count. “Well, I do believe my friend Arthur is just the man for the job.”
“I think you’re right, Dutch.” He stands up now, pot belly nearly bursting the buttons of his shirt, and reaches for Dutch’s hand. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
Dutch smiles and takes his sweaty palm, “You as well, sir.” Dutch walks towards you and holds his arm out. “This way, my dear.” You glance between him and his elbow before rolling your eyes and reluctantly placing your hand on his arm. You follow him silently and obediently, no fight is left in you. Hosea follows after you both, a concerned look on his face.
Arthur remains in the office, standing dumbfounded and staring at the doorway you’d disappeared through. He’s struggling to process what just happened. Arthur has helped people get home safely before and provided protection. But he’s never been one to traffic a hostage.
Crane glances up, finally noticing him still standing there. He walks past him, patting his shoulder as he does and giving him an approving smile. “Don’t be afraid to take care of her should she get out of hand.” He’s nearly out the door but he looks back and adds, “Just don’t bruise her too much.”
Arthur’s fingers twitch for his revolver once more and he’s never wanted to shoot a man more. But he knows Dutch is waiting for him and he’d never make it out of here alive if he started a fight right now. Reluctantly, he makes his way out of the manor and towards where you’re all waiting for him.
He’s fuming by the time he stops in front of Dutch. He’s trying to help you onto his horse and Arthur finally realizes what the metal sound he heard earlier is. There are chains around your ankles and you can’t maneuver yourself on the saddle.
His eyes narrow and he glares at Dutch, “What the hell are you doing? We’re selling women now?”
Dutch glowers at the tone of Arthur’s voice. You watch them both passively, fiddling with the rings on your fingers and looking unbothered by the entire situation. “Watch yourself, Arthur,” there’s a clear warning in his tone but Arthur’s too upset to care.
They’ve done a lot of bad things. They weren’t good men. But this was just going too far. “We need this, Arthur. You want to get out of here, you want to keep our people safe?” Arthur let out a deep exhale, gritting his teeth together and nodding reluctantly. Dutch huffs, “That’s what I thought. We’re not selling anyone, Arthur. It’s a simple delivery.”
His jaw clenches as he watches Dutch struggle to help you again. “It’s not going to work,” you inform Dutch. You lift your skirts, flashing him the chains he hadn’t seemed to notice yet. Neither of you gets a chance to say anything as Arthur pulls out his gun and shoots the lock off.
He feels a little guilty at how startled you look. Your eyes widen until they look like they might bulge out. Your hands fly up to cover your ears as the sound rocks through you. It breaks violently through the silence of the night.
Dutch turns and gives him a stern look, “Have you forgotten the meaning of subtlety?” Arthur can tell he’s trying not to shout and drag any more attention towards you all.
Arthur glares at Dutch, something wicked brewing in his stomach. “The lady wouldn’t be able to ride a horse like that.” He mounts his horse and rides off without a look back. He can’t stand to be near you or Dutch any longer.
The reality of what they’ve turned into hits him like a bag of rocks and it makes him irate. They’ve never been these people. Never traded a person off like they were an object. He’s sure plenty of people in camp would have a problem with this. But he doubts Dutch will let them know the truth until the job is done.
And by then, everyone will be too happy with the money to complain. Dutch is nothing if not good at saving his ass. He’s hitching his horse as the rest of you ride into camp. He lingers by Diablo, resting a hand on the thick neck of the shire while Dutch helps you off the saddle.
His eyes narrow in on the way Dutch’s fingers glide along your waist as you jump down. You take a step back the second your legs are steady sending Dutch a dirty look that almost makes Arthur laugh.
He starts towards Dutch, ready to try and reason with him again. But he holds his hand up and walks away, not even giving him a chance to speak. Arthur lets out a rough sigh as Hosea comes up behind him.
He pats his shoulder comfortingly, “You should get some sleep, Arthur. You’ll ride with her to Strawberry tomorrow morning.” He almost walks off but he whispers a quiet, “I’m sorry,” before he goes.
Arthur glances towards you but you’re looking around the camp, eyes lingering on Javier as he sings by the fire. He swears he almost sees you smile but it's gone as quickly as it came. He takes his hat off, running his hand through his hair and letting out a tired sigh.
“Alright, come with me,” he starts towards the house. It takes a minute to realize you’re not directly behind him. When he looks over your shoulder he sees you with your skirts lifted, tiptoeing through the mud and trying not to get your pretty skirts dirty.
He rolls his eyes, storming back towards you. Your eyes widen at the look on his face and you stumble back a few steps. Undeterred, he bends over, throwing you over his shoulder and walking towards the house.
Your hands claw at his back, desperately grasping onto his shirt so you keep your balance. He storms up the stairs, ignoring the alarmed looks he gets from others in camp. He can already hear them whispering, wondering who you are and why he’s dragging you into his room.
They can make up whatever the hell they want. Arthur’s too pissed off to give a shit about rumors tonight. He drops you unceremoniously onto his bed and storms back out. He heads downstairs, rooting around in one of the chests for some extra clothes.
You won’t be able to ride to Strawberry in those ridiculous clothes. You’ll need some pants if you’re going to sit on the horse properly. He tucks the outfit under his arm and makes his way back to you.
When he opens the door your hand immediately darts away from his shaving kit and shoves itself under your butt. His brows furrow as he catches a flash of silver in your hand. He places the clothes down on the end of the bed, eyes drifting towards his shaving kit. Sure enough, his razor seems to be missing.
He lets out a sigh and you tense up, hand clenching around your prize. He briefly debates taking it from you. But he figures you should be allowed a modicum of comfort. Even if you did try and use it against him it’s dull, he hasn’t sharpened it in a while and you wouldn’t be able to do much damage anyway.
He lets you keep it, leaving you on your own without another word. He can hear the exhale of relief you let out when he walks away and it makes him feel just a little better about this. At least you’re not completely terrified.
You change into the clothes Arthur gave you. They’re a little big, but you appreciate the pants. It’s much better than the ridiculous dresses Crane had you in. You collect your dress and toss it out the window of Arthur’s room, watching it sink into the mud pit below. It brings you some satisfaction to see Crane’s pretty silk getting ruined.
You take off the jewelry you’d been given and stuff it into your boots. If you did manage to escape while you were traveling with Arthur then you were going to need some cash. You could sell off the jewels and hopefully, it would be enough to keep you comfortable.
It feels nice, to wear real clothes. Not being dressed up like a doll for once. You envy some of the women here, who can wear what they want. There is an appeal to the outlaw life. As long as you’re on the right side of it, which, currently, you’re not.
You slip out of the house before anyone has a chance to retrieve you. The whole night you were curled up around a dull razor with your eyes wide open. Spending a night surrounded by outlaws isn’t exactly restful.
You figure you might as well try and walk around before you’re on the back of a horse for the rest of the day. There are more people up than you’d expected. Luckily, you don’t see Dutch around anywhere. You don’t feel like having to deal with any more of his false charm or empty apologies.
The same man you’d seen strumming his guitar the night before is asleep next to the dying fire. A blonde woman catches your eye, she’s walking past some other women in dresses. They’re still asleep but she looks like she’s been up for hours.
There’s a bit of blood on her pants and you briefly wonder what she’d been doing. “Who are you?” She asks, surveying you from head to toe with suspicion in her eyes.
“A package,” you tell her bluntly, walking past her towards the only lit fire of camp. She follows you, a wry grin on her face as she watches you pour yourself some coffee.
“You’ve got a real attitude, I like it.”
You huff out a laugh, taking a sip of the burnt coffee and giving her a brief smile. “I’m sure my future husband won’t.”
She rolls her eyes and scoffs, waving you off. “Husbands, good for nothing. I loved mine but he was useless as a sack o’ flour. You’re better off without them.”
Your smile turns strained and you look down at your feet, at the boots that aren’t your own. You’ll never get to dress like this again. Or speak like this to a woman who isn’t afraid to voice what's on her mind.
“Yes, well,” you shrug and meet her eyes again, “I don’t seem to have much of a choice.”
Her eyes narrow and she frowns, “What’s that supposed to-”
“Mrs. Adler!” Dutch’s voice booms from across the camp and forces the others awake. Most of them grumble, but they’re quick to get started on morning chores. “I see you’ve met our guest,” he says your name with a flourish that almost makes you laugh.
He’s a good actor. He’s especially good at covering up his mistakes. “Yeah, what’s going on, Dutch? Who is she? Why don’t you guys ever let me in on this stuff?” She fires off questions rapidly, you almost don’t catch them all. There are clearly underlying issues here other than your unexpected presence.
“In due time,” he assures her, laying the charm on thick. But even you can tell he’s full of it. He’s not planning on letting her in on anything unless it benefits him. “And this is our guest, her fiancee has paid us handsomely to provide her safe passage back to him.”
He walks towards you, laying a hand over your arm and squeezing slightly. You give Sadie a stiff smile and let him lead you away. “I do believe it’s best that you just wait for Arthur, dear.” He gives you a look that lets you know it’s an order, not a suggestion.
Still, you play along, “I think you might be right, Mr. Van der Linde, thank you for the hospitality.” You run a tired hand over your face, sitting down on the stoop of the house and finishing off the rest of your coffee. Dutch watches you for a while, never straying too far from where you are and intercepting anyone who asks about you.
He spins quite the romantic tale of your lost love and how he desperately wants you back. You wish it were true, that you were living out some wonderful fairytale and were about to be reunited with the love of your life. Instead, it feels like one long walk to the gallows.
The wood creaks behind you and you don’t need to turn to see who it is. “Ready?” Arthur asks and you figure he means, ready to leave freedom and happiness and the will to live behind?
No, “Sure,” you toss the rest of the coffee into the grass and leave the mug on the stairs. You get to your feet and let him lead you towards the horses. He shares a brief look with Dutch as you pass by him but it doesn’t look entirely pleasant.
He makes his way toward a towering black shire and your eyes widen in horror. “What’s this?”
He works on saddling the horse up, not paying much attention to you. “This is Diablo.” You take a step closer and the horse starts huffing, swinging his neck towards you with his lips pulled back. You jump back a step back, eyeing him warily.
Arthur glances over and lets out a low chuckle, “He won’t bite. He’s just curious.”
“Mhm,” you give him a disbelieving look. “You’ll have to excuse me for being wary, I’ve not met a lot of horses.”
Arthur looks a bit shocked by your admission. “Really?” He questions, sounding doubtful.
You give him a brief smile and nod. “Hard to believe, I know, but I’ve lived a very sheltered life, Mr. Morgan. Haven’t had many opportunities for exploring on my own.”
He opens his mouth, looking like he wants to say something. At the last second, he stops himself, instead taking a step closer to you. You flinch away from him when he reaches for you and he lets out a sigh. “You can’t spend the next three days terrified of him, come on.”
He coaxes you forward and you reluctantly step closer to the beast. He chuckles at the scared look on your face. You don’t appreciate how much amusement he’s gaining from this. “Come on,” he mutters, taking your wrist and leading you closer to Diablo.
The damn thing is named Devil, how could you not be terrified of it?
“He won’t bite, I promise.” You don’t trust him but he doesn’t give you much of a choice. He presses your open palm to Diablo’s nose and you wince, bracing for him to lash out at you.
But he doesn’t, he lets out a soft knicker and it seems like he doesn’t even care that you’re there. You let out a relieved laugh, running your hand tentatively over his muzzle. It’s shockingly soft and oddly squishy.
He doesn’t seem to mind as you awe over him. You smile and glance over at Arthur but it drops when you see the odd look on his face. He seems perplexed by your reaction and you can’t fathom why. “You really never have ridden a horse before, have you?”
You shake your head, “No. I told you.”
He purses his lips and nods. You don’t know what it is about this that’s bothering him and you don’t care to ask. If he doesn’t believe just how strict your upbringing has been then fine. “Alright, come on, we need to get a move on.”
He leads you around to the saddle and helps you up on the back of the horse. It’s beyond odd, sitting on something in pants. Getting to spread your legs freely is something you are going to greatly enjoy during this journey.
Arthur takes off without much warning and you yelp, throwing your arms around his waist to steady yourself. He glances over his shoulder at you but says nothing. You turn your head, watching as the camp gets smaller and smaller.
The people mill about, greet each other, and break bread together. It hits you suddenly, this will be the last time you get to see people being free. If you don’t get out, if you can’t escape, your life will be filled with starched collars and powdered faces. You’ll never have a genuine conversation with someone again. You’ll be turned into pretty jewelry hanging off the arm of a man you never met.
The ride to Strawberry is three days at least. You have three days to get your plan together and to escape. You almost feel sorry for Arthur and the repercussions he’ll have to face losing you. But not sorry enough that you’re not gonna try.
Arthur’s speed evens out and you let your arms relax, easing away from him slightly. Your wrist jolts against the gun on his hip and you eye it curiously. If you had a gun there would be no doubt you could escape. You see Arthur’s fingers twitch on the reigns of the horse and you move your arms higher up his torso.
You doubt you’ll be a quicker draw than he is. He is an outlaw after all. You don’t think he’d have many qualms about delivering you to your fiancee with a few extra holes in your gut. Your mind drifts to the razor in your pocket and you consider it for a moment.
You’re sure you’d be quick enough to just whip it out and slit his throat. You sigh and dismiss the thought. You were a lot of things but you were not a murderer. There are lines you can’t bring yourself to cross. Besides, as wicked as what he’s doing to you is, you know he’s a good man.
It was an instinctual feeling. Mr. Crane and your father were both horrible, evil men. They knew nothing but greed and would never be satisfied by all the riches they reaped. They were the type of men you looked at and knew deep down that there was nothing left to save.
Arthur has undoubtedly bad things. You don’t become an outlaw without spilling some blood. He was weathered and rough from a hard life, but that didn’t mean there was nothing good left in him. You won’t have his blood on your hands, no matter how much you might want to get away from him.
As grateful as Arthur is for the silence, it is odd. He’s helped a few ladies find their way back home before and for some reason, they seem to think he’s the best listener in the world. It seems everyone who rides with him wants to tell him their life stories.
You’re completely silent, though. He has to keep looking back just to make sure you haven’t fallen off the back of the horse. You’re pretty complacent, following along with whatever Dutch said and coming along quietly. You seem beaten down, the fight dragged out of you.
He wonders what Mr. Crane had done to you. A few times, he’s seen just a glimpse of the spark that used to be there. But it was snuffed out before he got a chance to know it. He almost wishes you would talk. It would distract him from what he was doing right now.
It didn’t feel right, bringing you along to marry a man you’ve never even met. He has to keep reminding himself that it would have happened no matter what. Ladies like you are always sold off into a profitable marriage. The only thing he’s doing is switching up who the fiancee might be.
None of that makes him feel better, though. He should be helping you, not dragging you away to your worst nightmare. But, his people come first. The amount of money Dutch’ll get from this will be enough to get them all out of here. This could finally be the last score.
You gasp behind him and he whips his head around, immediately expecting someone to be following along beside you both. Maybe your father’s men or just some raiders. But he doesn’t see anything except a herd of deer running through the trees.
His brows furrow in confusion and he glances back at you. You’re watching them like they’re something spectacular. Arthur’s always been a fan of the quiet beauty of nature. He appreciates them in ways most folks don’t understand. But you’re looking at ‘em like you just found God.
“Never seen deer before?” He teases, chuckling a little at your reaction.
You startle, not realizing he had been watching. You clear your throat and look away from them sheepishly. He almost feels bad for ruining the moment for you. “No. No, I haven’t.”
He knows it's possible, but it’s astounding to him that someone truly lived their whole life in the city. It just doesn’t seem right. Cities are full of shit, smog, and bad people. Not even having a moment out of that your whole life seems like torture.
“I’ll just enjoy it while it lasts,” you mutter, eyes darting back to the tree line. But the deer are gone and you don’t look very interested anymore.
“Right,” he shifts forward, the air between you awkward. He’d only meant it in jest. He didn’t mean to remind you of what was about to happen to you. He doesn’t like the silence, not this time, it feels wrong. It makes him stew in his shame and that’s a nasty feeling.
Selfishly, he prods you for more. “A few days on the road, you’ll be eager for the city again.”
You laugh but there’s no humor to it. “I very much doubt that Mr. Morgan.”
“Arthur,” he corrects, “just call me Arthur.”
“Right,” your tone remains cold, “well if you don’t mind Arthur, I’d like to ride there in silence.”
He's got no other choice but to comply. If you don’t want to talk he won’t make you. He just wishes he could make this a little easier for you both.
Camping is something. You don’t have a word for it. It’s nice to be out in nature and embrace it for the first time in your life. But you really would not mind the comfort of your bed right now.
Rocks digging into your spine and head do not make for a good night’s sleep. You’ve been lying in front of the fire for hours, flipping around uselessly. It doesn’t matter how much you shift, the rock stays digging painfully into you.
You let out a loud huff, flopping onto your back and glaring up at the starry sky in defeat. At least the view is nice. In the city, you can’t see the stars. The smoke’s too thick and you never get a good look at them.
Out here, they almost feel fake. They’re so bright and beautiful, you thought the paintings in the museum had always been exaggerating just how breathtaking a night sky can be. But you were wrong. And you hate that there’s a potential future where you’ll never get to see this again.
“Would you quit squirming so damn much?”
You shoot up, resting on your elbows and glaring over at Arthur. He’s got his hat over his eyes, arms crossed, and looking like he’s been asleep for the past few hours. You hadn’t realized you’d been keeping him up.
“Some of us aren’t used to sleeping outside,” you hiss, throwing yourself back down to the ground. He doesn’t say anything for a while and you figure that’s the end of it. You clench your eyes shut, counting sheep in your mind and trying to force yourself asleep.
You hear boots crunching across leaves and your eyes fly open. Arthur’s standing over you, hands propped on his hips as he glares down at you. “Can I help you?” You snap when you get tired of the staring.
He scoffs and shakes his head, kneeling to be eye level with you. You’re startled by the proximity, an odd heat creeping up your neck. “Come on, I’m gonna tire you out. Maybe then you’ll get some sleep.”
You gasp, astonished at the audacity of his suggestion. “Excuse me?” You demand, tone incredulous.
His brows furrow before he shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Not like that,” he grouses. “Get up,” he doesn’t give you much of a choice. He places his hand under your back, shoving you onto your feet. You stand with a slight stumble, glaring at him as you brush dirt off your shirt and pants.
You can’t help the snotty tone of your voice as you ask, “What are we doing?”
“Huntin,’” He answers gruffly, going over to the horse and taking the bow out of his saddle.
Your brows furrow as you recall the few stories your father told you of hunting bison. “Aren’t you supposed to use a rifle?”
He shakes his head and nods towards the treeline. You glance back at the fire before reluctantly following him into the dark forest. The moon is full enough that it provides just enough light for you not to be terrified of what’s lurking in the underbrush.
“Got a friend,” he tells you, kneeling and glancing at some tracks on the ground. “Taught me how to hunt properly. Bows are quieter, less disruptive, and they provide quicker, cleaner kills.” He looks back at you and motions towards the arrows, “Less pain for the animal.”
Your face slacks with something like astonishment. All you’d heard from your father was the thrill of the hunt, the satisfaction of the kill. He never mentioned keeping anything from the animal, using it for meat, or about how long it took for them to die. You’d never thought there was anybody who actually cared for the creature’s comfort as it died.
You suppose there’s going to be a lot about Arthur that’s different from the men you know.
“Arthur,” a twig snaps behind you, and your eyes widen. You drop your voice to a whisper, not wanting to draw too much attention towards you both. “I don’t want to kill anything,” you hiss.
“Ha!” He barks out a laugh and you purse your lips in irritation. He stands and looks at you, chuckling again before shaking his head. “I wouldn’t be so confident in your huntin’ skill, kid.”
You click your tongue and glare at him, “Don’t call me that,” you snap. It’s the same patronizing nickname your father loved to use on you and you detest it. He raises his hands in surrender and you roll your eyes at the smirk on his face. “Then what’s the point of this?”
He shrugs and heads further into the trees, you have no choice but to follow along behind him. “Figure you should be taught a few skills before I get rid of ya.”
You want to argue with him that there’s no point. If you are given to Crane’s associate, you’ll never set foot in the woods again. However, if you do manage to escape him, learning a few survival skills wouldn’t be a bad idea.
So, you keep your mouth shut and let him lead you through the forest. “How do you know where to go?” You ask, trying to figure out what it is he keeps looking at in the mud. He waves you forward, moving you so you’re standing directly in front of him.
“You see that?” You have to squint, relying solely on the light from the moon, to make out what he’s pointing at. There are some tracks in the mud that look vaguely like hooves. “It’s buck tracks, you can tell by the size.” He kneels and when you don’t follow he tugs you down by the sleeve. “You can’t rely on just the tracks, though. You have to look for other signs of ‘em.”
You glance around, noticing some crushed twigs and grass a few feet ahead. “Like that?” You point towards it and he huffs in amusement.
“Caught on quicker than I thought.”
You feel vaguely offended by that but don’t bother voicing it, just glare at his back as he gets up. You walk silently through the forest, letting Arthur show you which tracks to follow and which to avoid. You’re not comforted by how many cougar prints you find. You stare up into the branches always expecting something to already be looking down at you.
Miraculously, no wild cat chooses you for dinner as you track the buck down. You find him near a small stream, antlers dipping into the water as he takes a drink. He’s got to be one of the most gorgeous creatures you’ve ever seen.
You’ve lived your whole life in St. Denis. The most you’ve seen are overworked carriage horses and mangy dogs. No life slips through the cracks of that place. There’s just smoke and misery. This is nature, real beauty. It’s breathtaking, the way the leaves ripple in the wind and the starlight reflects in the water.
You can’t imagine seeing this and wanting to tear it down to put up an oily machine that contributes nothing to the earth but death. It just makes you hate your father more. It also makes you more resolved to not be forced back into that life. You can’t do it. You can’t have this one taste of freedom and then let it go without a fight.
Arthur pulls the bow out and nocks an arrow. You glance between him and the buck and rapidly shake your head. “No,” you hiss, “I don’t wanna kill it.”
He rolls his eyes and moves you in front of him. You don’t have much choice as he places your hands on the string and guides you into the right position. “Relax,” he murmurs in your ear as you fight against his grip. “You ain’t gonna kill it.”
It doesn’t bring you much comfort, but if you’re going to make it on your own, sometimes you’ll have to do something you don’t like. “Now,” his hand drifts down your bicep and you suck in a sharp breath. “Don’t hold it too long, you’ll get tired.”
It’s dawning on you just how close you both are. You’re kneeling on the ground with him behind you, essentially cradling your body to him. You’ve never been this familiar with a man before, it’s making your brain short-circuit. You can hardly pay attention to what he’s telling you.
He lifts your elbow slightly and points you towards the left. “You need to keep your arm steady even after you let go or your aim will be off. Take in a deep breath and release on the exhale.” You give him an apprehensive look, still not wanting to hurt the buck. He just nods and there’s something in his gaze that lets you relax slightly.
You release the string and the arrow flies over the buck’s head, burying itself into the tree behind it. Its head shoots up and it turns towards you both before dashing off. You let out an astonished laugh, glancing down the bow and then back at Arthur.
“My god, I’ve never shot anything before.”
“Congratulations, you’ve killed your first tree,” he remarks dryly, but you see the glint of humor in his eye.
He gets to his feet and offers you a hand up. You smile up at him, undeterred by his attitude. “Thank you for this,” you tell him earnestly. He gives you an odd look but nods anyway. He doesn’t understand just how important this is to you. Knowing how to do something like this is the difference between life and death when you’re on your own. Of course, he doesn’t realize you’ll be making an escape attempt soon.
He retrieves the arrow from the tree and you run your hand over the curve of the bow. You wonder just how much he’d miss this if you took it from him.
Arthur’s tearing down the camp and you’re standing by Diablo, feeding him some apples. You stroke absentmindedly over the horse's muzzle, watching Arthur intently. He’s too busy pulling the tent apart to be paying attention to you.
You got better sleep last night than you did at Crane’s. He was right, hunting had tired you out. You were eager enough to sleep that you didn’t even feel the rough ground underneath you. He seems to be a little more lax about his watch over you.
Something about last night must have eased him into a sense of comfort that you’re not going to run. That’s his own fault, though. You glance over the curve of the hill, noticing a carriage that will be passing by soon enough.
You look back at Arthur and ease slightly away from Diablo. Arthur is still collecting the blankets and rolling them up. He turns towards the dying fire and tosses the rest of the coffee out. You take another step back and he keeps his back to you.
Slowly, you release Diablo’s reigns, giving him one last apple before you turn on your heel and run down the hill. Your foot slips out from under you and you let out a loud yelp as you go flying headfirst down the grass.
You land on your back with enough impact to make the breath rush out of you. But your descent is still going and you’re flipping over headfirst into the road. You slide forward, the dirt scraping up your chin as you cough and try and catch your breath.
“Look out!” You roll out of the way just before the carriage rolls over you. Someone shouts your name from the top of the hill and you see Arthur glaring down at you. He starts towards you and you scramble to your feet.
“Stop!” You scream, waving your arms wildly and chasing after the carriage. The man gives you a bewildered look as you throw yourself at him. “Please, sir, I’ve been kidnapped, you must help me get back to my husband.”
The man looks behind you, sees a very angry Arthur bellowing out your name, and moves to the side. “Hurry up,” he urges, giving you a hand on the bench beside him. You let out a relieved breath, taking his hand and throwing yourself the rest of the way up.
He whips the horses, hurrying them along all the while Arthur is yelling after you. It’s not hard to believe that he would kidnap you. He looks half-crazed as he follows along behind you. You turn over your shoulder, giving him a brief wave and a smile. “Thanks for the help,” you tell the man beside you. You offer your hand and name.
He glances down at it but doesn’t take it, instead looking forward and ignoring you entirely. Something uneasy settles in your stomach but you push it aside. You blame the feeling on the adrenaline still pumping through you.
“Where are you headed?” You ask, glancing into the back of the carriage. You notice some moonshine and a crate full of guns but decide not to question it.
“Said yer husband’s waitin’ for ya?” He demands, completely ignoring your question. You stare at the side of his face but his expression isn’t giving anything away. He comes to an intersection. You see a sign pointing towards a town and figure he’s going to take it, but instead, he pulls onto a smaller trail leading to the woods.
“Um,” you clear your throat uncertainly, glancing back at the sign. “Yes,” your voice cracks and you know you sound like you’re full of shit.
He laughs and the sound sends chills down your spine. You rip your eyes off of him, looking down at the horses and suddenly realizing just what you’d gotten yourself into. “You sure about that, little lady?”
Something cold digs into your side and you gasp quietly, looking down to see a gun pressed against your ribs. “You scream, run, or do anythin’ to piss me off and I’ll put a fourth hole in ya.” When you don’t say anything he digs it harder into you. “Understand?” He growls and you can do nothing but nod your head.
You want to move, want to shove him off the side of the carriage and make a run for it. But you can’t, you’re frozen solid. You’re so petrified with fear you can’t even blink. You think you’re holding your breath, as if taking in air is going to set the gun off.
He grins, a blackened curl of lips over rotted teeth, at your obedience and comes to a stop in the trees. “What are you doing?” You whisper, staring at the secluded area with a newfound sense of horror.
“Shut up,” he snaps, his voice echoing through the quiet of the woods. You hear no birds or animals and you feel so alone it makes you want to cry. He gets off the carriage and turns towards you. “Down,” he demands. Your eyes dart towards the reigns of the horses and he pulls the hammer of the gun back. “Don’t even think about it.”
You lift your hands in the air, slowly slipping down the seat. He doesn’t appreciate you taking your time He grabs the front of your shirt, jerking you further into the trees and tossing you to the ground.
You let out a rough groan at the impact, blood staining your shirt as your elbow slips across a jagged rock. It’s like something is snapped loose in your mind. He comes stomping towards you, kneeling between your spread legs and it finally clicks.
You lunge forward with a shout and he rears back in surprise. You wonder how often someone’s actually fought against him or just let it happen. You don’t want to die, you don’t want to get shot by this scum, but there are a lot of things worse than dying.
You grab the arm holding the gun, jerking it around, and knocking it out of his hand. “You bitch!” He hisses, bringing his open palm down across your cheek. The smack rings through the trees and ricochets through the air. Your head whips to the side so hard you think you might have snapped your neck.
Blood dribbles out from your lips, your teeth having bitten into the fat of your cheeks. You spot the gun nearby, the silver of the barrel glinting from under the leaves. Just as you reach for it, he’s wrapping his hands around your ankles and dragging you back towards him.
You feel like screaming as your hands desperately grasp at the dirt underneath you. But there’s not enough air to scream. You dig your nails into the mud, feel them split against the rocks, and kick at his chest hard enough to make him lose his breath.
His grip on you loosens and you throw yourself at the pile of leaves. Hands groping for something solid. Just as he flips you over you wrap your hand around the handle of the gun. You pull the trigger and the bang is deafening.
Your ears ring and your hands are trembling from the recoil. His jaw goes slack and he tumbles on top of you. You let out a grunt, breath pushed out of you by his weight. You scramble against his chest, something warm making your hands slip as you struggle to roll him off of you.
You glance over, waiting for him to spring back up. But there’s something dark pooling around him and sinking into the dirt below. There’s a hole in his chest and his eyes are already flattening. You fall back against the earth, staring up at the trees above you.
The sounds rush back to you all at once. The birds singing, deers prancing somewhere in the distance. You hear a stream rushing nearby and let out a stunned laugh. There’s a smile on your face but there’s nothing to be happy about.
You think you might be in shock. Mind still trying to catch up to what just happened. You glance down at the gun in your hand and toss it to the side, not wanting it near you anymore. Only a second later do you reach for it again.
You struggle onto your hands and knees, checking over yourself for any injuries that you might be numb to right now. The only blood on you is from the dead man on the ground. You keel over, hands on your knees, and suck in a deep gasping breath.
You stumble back, limping towards the carriage. You dig around in the back of the wagon, tugging out a giant hunting knife and walking towards the horses. You cut them loose, keeping the rope on one of them and tugging yourself onto her back. You tuck the knife in your belt and nudge her side, leading her forward gently.
You don't even have time to process the fact that you’re riding a horse on your own. Your body is moving on autopilot. You can only think about getting ahead, getting away. What just happened will hit you later. You slump against the neck of the horse, adrenaline leaking out of you and exhaustion catching up.
He’s going to find you and he’s going to kill you. Leaving while he had his back turned. Getting on some carriage with a man you’ve never met before. How dumb do you have to be? You can’t trust people out here. Not when there are gangs, raiders, hell, he’s encountered a few cannibals.
For all he knows, you’re already dead and he’ll be delivering a body to the train station. The thought makes him curse and urge Diablo forward. It’s not hard to follow the tracks of the carriage, what concerns him is when they lead into the forest instead of the town.
“Goddammit,” he mutters, “the hell have you done woman?” He leaps off Diablo, figuring it will be easier to track you on foot. He follows the paths of the wheels, finding the wagon abandoned and the horses cut loose.
His brows furrow in confusion as he wanders around the side and spots a lump in the leaves. All he can see is the bottom of a boot and blood splattered across the orange of the fallen leaves.
His stomach plummets and he races towards it. But it’s not you buried under the foliage, it’s the man who offered you a ride. “What the hell?” He kneels, brushing the leaves off his chest and frowning when he sees the blood splattered all along his chest.
He doesn’t need to look long to figure out what killed him. He’s sure the bullet buried in his heart did the job. Arthur curses and stalks away from the man. There are prints where the horses were but there are too many to tell which one you might have taken.
He’ll have to rely on instinct to find you. You’re becoming a real pain in the ass for what was supposed to be a simple job. Still, he can’t help but be a little relieved that it was a stranger and not you lying dead on the ground.
He turns back onto the road, taking the turn into town. Someone on horseback rides past him, they look disgusted by something up ahead and it makes alarms go off in his head. He urges Diablo forward, running the rest of the way into town.
An unsaddled mare lazily eats some grass as the sound of a rushing river meets his ears. Diablo’s hooves sound off against the wood of the bridge. He finally sees what disturbed the other rider so much.
You’re sitting on the railing of the bridge, legs dangling dangerously over the edge as you stare down into the crashing waters below you. Arthur gets off his horse, approaching you slowly. He doesn’t want to startle you and have you go tumbling over the edge.
He calls out your name and you glance briefly over at him. Blood is splattered across your neck and the front of your shirt is soaked with it. He knows it isn’t yours but it still puts him on edge. “What’re you doin’ kid?”
You don’t answer him, “Did you follow me?” He eases up beside you, straddling the railing so he can catch you if you slip. He nods and you let out a rough sigh. “Is he dead?”
He scoffs, “Sure as shit hope so, don’t know how someone would survive that.”
A manic laugh bursts through your lips and you double over your head falling into your hands. Arthur surges forward, steadying you before you dive headfirst into the river. “Alright, let’s go,” he quietly urges you around. You don’t put up a fight, letting him maneuver you how he likes.
He gets you on your feet and leads you back to Diablo. You latch onto the horse's reigns immediately, stroking your hand over his mane. Your silence is concerning. Arthur doesn’t know what your regular behavior is, the most he’s seen of you, you have been quiet. This is different, though. He’s seen this sort of quiet in women before and it never ends pretty.
“You’re alright, come on,” he tries to keep his voice low so he doesn’t set you off. He keeps his hands light as they land around your waist, giving you help onto Diablo’s saddle. Your gaze is distant and you move like someone else is controlling your body.
He collects the mare you’d brought along with you and leads both horses into town. He’ll have to get a saddle for her, she already seems attached to you. And maybe taking a horse with you into the city will let you escape a little.
The town, at least, is on the way to Strawberry so he doesn’t have to worry about being too far off schedule. Though, that’s the least of his concerns right now. His eyes keep darting up to you. Waiting for you to try and bolt again or finally break down. It doesn’t look like anything is going on in your head, you seem completely distanced from the situation.
It’s a good thing for him. He can’t handle a distraught woman. He’s not a kind enough man for it.
He hitches the horses in front of the hotel. You turn in the saddle, staring down at him and waiting for a hand down. You slide easily through his hands, landing in the mud with a dull thud and heading up the stairs of the hotel without prompt.
He huffs and follows after you. He doesn’t know how to explain the blood on your clothes away and hopes he won’t have to. The man running the place, thankfully, doesn’t have many questions. He looks disturbed but keeps his qualms to himself when Arthur slips him a little extra cash.
Arthur guides you up the stairs with a light hand on your back, opening the door of the bath for you. “Alright, here’s your room key. I’ll be out for a while so, just,” he sighs, taking in the blank look on your face and shaking his head. “Try not to cause any more trouble.” You nod and close the door behind him.
There’s no worries that you’re going to make a run for it again. He’s sure whatever happened in those woods was scarring enough to make you want to go back to the city and never see country folk again. He wouldn’t blame you, there are some nasty people out here. Himself included, but he could never imagine hurting a woman like that. It just ain’t right.
He heads to the shop across the street, buying some new clothes for you that actually fight properly. The horses are brought to the stables and he goes ahead and gets a paper for your mare under your name. Diablo will be faster tomorrow if he doesn’t have to carry the weight of two people. You might make it to your handler in time.
Arthur still doesn’t feel right about this whole thing. Leaving you with a man you’ve never met feels even worse knowing what happened to you today. He doesn’t think you being so calm about it all is a good thing. Shouldn’t women react?
Dutch likes to tell him women are a more sensitive breed. He’s seen some tough ones in his life, but this seems like the time to be in hysterics if there ever was one. He heads back to the hotel, planning on just leaving the change of clothes in your room.
He passes by the bath and hears an odd sound seeping through the cracks. Frowning, he presses his ear up against the door. A man passes by him, giving him a disgusted look as he goes into his room. Arthur sighs but he stays where he is.
It’s clearer now, you’re crying and it’s hard to listen to. It's the type that makes it hard to breathe. That sort of crying makes your ribs ache and bruise. It’s wrong to keep listening to such a vulnerable moment. So, he does what he planned, drops the clothes in your room, and then heads to bed himself.
Sleep comes easier than he thought it would. It’s not as restful as he’d been hoping but it draws over him faster than it normally does. He’s always been a light sleeper, though. It comes from years of having to be on guard in case some O’Driscoll is gonna try and slit his throat while he’s asleep.
When he hears the door creak his hand is already on the trigger of his revolver as he shoots up in bed. The glow of the lamps outside illuminates what’s clearly a woman’s form. But he can’t see your face until you take a step further into the room and the moonlight provides some light.
“Arthur?” You whisper his name, peering into his room. “Are you awake?”
“I am now,” he grumbles. With a sigh, he shoves the gun back under his pillow and runs a rough hand over his face. “What'd ya want?”
You let out a low breath and rock back on your heels. “I’m sorry,” you mutter. “I just, I can’t sleep. I keep thinking he’s gonna creep out of my closet or bust through the door, I-”
You cut yourself off but he can hear the emotion thickening your voice. He clenches his eyes shut in irritation, arguing with himself over what he’s about to say. “You wanna sleep in here?” He mumbles reluctantly.
You close the door immediately, practically running towards his bed. “You don’t mind?”
You’re not really giving him a choice, but he’s not going to say that to you. “No.” He grabs a pillow and blanket off the bed and rounds the end of the mattress. You frown as you watch him toss everything to the ground.
“Well, what’re you doing?”
“What’s it look like?” He snaps, angrily gesturing towards the floor. “I’m givin’ you the bed.”
You bite your lip and he feels horrible instantly because you look like you’re about to cry. He’s not trying to be rude but you woke him up in the dead of night. What’d you expect him to say?
“I was sort of hoping we could share the bed.”
His eyes widen and he glares at you in disbelief. “You mean-”
“No!” You cut him off with an aggrieved sigh. “You fool, that’s not what I mean at all. I just don’t want to be alone, alright?”
“Look,” he scoffs and shakes his head. “I don’t think I’m the man you want to bunk with for company, alright. I’m not that kind of guy.” You glare at him and snatch his pillow and blanket off the floor.
“Don’t be so damn stubborn.” You aggressively fluff the pillows, throwing the covers back and gesturing towards them, your brow set in anger.
“Right,” he huffs, “I’m stubborn.” He reluctantly crawls into bed and you follow behind him. It’s not that he minds sharing a bed with a pretty lady. He’s just not the sort of guy you should be coming to for comfort.
He doesn’t think he can provide whatever it is you need at this moment. But you seem to think otherwise as you inch towards him slowly. He lays on his back, arms under his head as he watches you out of the side of his eye. You think you’re being subtle, slowly moving into his side until you’re flush against him.
He doesn’t say anything to object and you don’t bring up the proximity. He doesn’t want to admit it but it is nice having someone else beside him. He’s so used to camping out on his own. He hasn’t had anyone beside him in a long while. He lost interest in women of leisure a long while ago. And ever since Mary, he’s given up on any sort of intimacy.
He hates to admit it, but he finds himself easing towards the warmth you provide. The second you feel him reciprocating you’re inching a tentative hand around his waist, cuddling closer to him. He recognizes it for what it is.
He’s always been looked at as someone who can protect, at least by the gang. He’s their muscle. To most others, he incites nothing but fear. It should be the same for you. But after what happened today, you just see someone who can keep the monsters in the dark away.
He doesn’t mind being used like this. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and waits until he feels you settle to ease into sleep again.
Arthur figures you should both get breakfast in town while you’re here. He reasons you should enjoy a hot meal before you’re on the road again. You don’t point out that you know he’s just trying to ease you into the day.
You appreciate it, honestly, but yesterday wasn’t your first run-in with men like that. It’s become incomprehensibly normal in day-to-day life, even for a city girl like yourself. You’d cried everything out in the bath once you’d scrubbed your skin raw.
You don’t think Arthur will ever understand just how much his presence helped you last night. If you’d been on your own, jumping every time you heard the wood creaking outside, you’d have driven yourself over the edge. He protected you, even if there was nothing to be protected from.
You don’t think he gives himself enough credit. Ignoring the situation you’re both in and what he’s taking you to do, he’s a good man. While the caliber of the men you’ve met is questionable at best, he’s one of the best ones you’ve ever known. At the end of the day, he disagrees with the whole situation, but he’s doing this for his family. That’s admirable in its own way.
But, god, does he have poor conversational skills. “So, yesterday.” You glance up from your toast, brows raised in question. He clears his throat, eyes darting between you and his food like he can’t choose what to focus on. “That man, did he…”
He trails off and you feel your hackles rise. “Don’t worry,” you hiss, a bite to your words, “I’m still pure for my husband. Your pay won’t be docked, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
His hand clenches around his fork and his eyes bore into yours, “That’s not what I meant,” he growls. “I wasn’t worried about that,” he snaps, “I was worried ‘bout you, woman.”
You take in a deep breath, actively biting your tongue from saying something spiteful. He wasn’t being rude, that’s just what you’re used to. “I’m sorry,” you concede lowly. “Nothing happened,” you repeat without the attitude.
“Well,” he huffs and goes back to his breakfast, “good,” he settles on dully.
“Good,” you agree quietly, pushing the rest of your food around. You find your appetite dulled and you push the plate away. You lean back in the booth and stare out the window. The horses seem to be getting on well enough. “Did you name her?”
Arthur gives you an odd look and you nod towards the mare hitched next to Diablo. He swallows the food he’d been chewing and takes a swig of his coffee. “No, figured you’d want to do it.”
Your brows furrow and your lips quirk in confusion. “Why?”
“She’s yours, ain’t she?” He grouses.
You shake your head, “Nope,” you tell him, popping the p. “I just took her so I’d have something to get me to town.”
“Yeah, well,” he sounds less sure of himself and he’s looking like he made a mistake. “I thought she’d be nice for you to have with you in the city. A way for you to get around without relyin’ on someone else.”
You can’t help but smile, something in your chest easing away at the kind gesture. “I appreciate it,” he lights up a little at your approval, but you crush it in an instant. “But I can’t keep her, I won’t be allowed to. I’ve tried to have my own horse before, hard to control something that can get away from you,” you tell him blankly. There’s no emotion in your voice because it’s something you’re used to.
He looks slightly horrified at how blunt you are. He can’t comprehend not having that freedom but he fails to recognize that he’s got a leash of his own. You doubt a man like Dutch would ever let his main asset just run off to wherever he wants to.
A few people walk into the saloon, the women giving you odd looks when they see the pants on your legs. You smile cheekily at them, reveling in what you know will be a short-lived experience. You’ve never been on the receiving end of a judgmental look like that.
You’ve always blended in. Been the perfect wallflower for the men in your life. You were never something to gawk at or cause trouble. It’s a relief to stick out for once, to break the mould for the first time in your life.
Arthur clocks the interaction and chuckles. “Missin’ the skirts yet?”
“Not one damn bit,” you tell him, smiling as you take a sip of your coffee. “I’m going to miss being able to run around without having to lug an extra four pounds of fabric behind me.”
“Ya know, you could just wear some pants, you’ve got a choice.”
You grin patronizingly at him, propping your head on your chin and watching him finish the rest of his breakfast. “You don’t know city men very well, do you?”
“Glad for it,” he grumbles, distaste clear in his tone.
A laugh breaks through your chest, the first real one in a while. “I’m going to be marrying one, Arthur. I won’t have a choice in much of anything anymore.” You can tell he wants to object, tell you there’s always a choice.
He’ll never truly understand what’s going to happen to you, though. You’re no longer human once you’re married. You’re cattle and property, meant to be bred and shown off. You accepted your fate a long while ago. And after you’re failed escape attempt, you’ve realized this is what you were always meant to be. There’s no point in fighting fate.
“Don’t apologize or argue,” you tell him, no spite or bitterness in your tone, just the honest truth. “I don’t mind anymore, really. What place is there for me in this world, anyway? I can’t exactly take care of myself.”
“You did a damn good job yesterday,” he snaps back quickly. He doesn’t seem too keen on the way you’re talking about yourself. But you’re not lying. Yesterday was a wake-up call. If you let yourself get screwed over by a hillbilly that quickly then how were you ever going to make it on your own? In your defense, you were raised to be dependent, you never had a chance.
“Sure, but that was a one-off incident. I’m not going to run again, Arthur. There’s no point. And there’s no point in fighting against the way things are, they’re never going to change for me.” You take in a deep breath, the easy mood ruined by your sincerity.
“I’m just gonna wait by the horses.”
You slide out of the booth, leaving Arthur to stare pensively at his plate. You’ve nearly slipped through the door when Arthur calls out, “You should name her.” You pause at the doorway, glancing back at him. He’s settling the bill at the front and you walk back out to the horses.
The mare picks her head up as you walk towards her, ears perked and tail flicking. “Hey, girl,” you run a hand over her muzzle, admiring the sleek silver of her coat. “I guess I should name you.”
You run a hand over her mane and swing yourself onto the saddle. “How ‘bout Bullet, it’s how I got you, anyway.” A dark joke, but it eases the macabre feeling hanging around you.
Arthur walks out of the saloon, tucking his money away into his bag. He lifts himself onto Diablo, glancing over at you with a knowing glint.
“Name her?”
You resent how smug he sounds. “Bullet,” you answer reluctantly.
“Bullet?” He questions, tone incredulous.
You grin at him, “It’s how I got her.” There’s a slightly stunned expression on his face before it slacks away into something more amused.
He shakes his head and nudges Diablo forward, Bullet follows alongside him eagerly. “Clever,” he mutters.
“Not really,” you snort, running a hand over her neck lovingly. “But I think it works for her.”
“Your husband’s gonna have his hands full with you,” you know he means it in jest. The lightness of the conversation turns into something heavier. Realization sinks over both of you and the smiles slowly drop away. “I-”
“How much further to Strawberry, anyway?” You effectively cut off whatever train of thought he was going to follow, distracting you both from the truth.
“Half a day,” he tells you, frowning when you refuse to meet his eye again. Half a day. That’s all you’ve got to enjoy the last bits of freedom you have. You’re gonna take your damn time getting there, that’s for sure.
You slow down from the steady trot Arthur had led the horses into, easing Bullet into a slow walk. You’re slowly getting the hang of riding a horse. It’s easy when she’s so intuitive. By god, though, your ass is sore.
Arthur shoots you a questioning glance at the slow pace and you shrug. “Might as well take the time I’ve got left.”
“You’re actin’ like you’re on death row,” he chuckles.
“Aren’t I?” He falls silent and you don’t know what’s bothering him but you don’t have the energy to inquire.
He’s slowing you down on purpose, he knows it and you know it. Neither of you says a damn thing about it but it’s bugging him. He shouldn’t be this bothered by a job. He knows how to separate himself from what he does. He just can’t this time.
There’s something about you that glows. You’re sitting beside him on the peak of a hill, overlooking the roads below you, and laughing as you make up stories for the people that pass by. It’s a far cry from the beaten-down woman he’d seen at Crane’s house.
Even after what happened yesterday, you somehow manage to seem happier. There’s nothing about it that makes him happy. This feels like the last goodbye of someone who knows they’re going soon. The last bout of happiness before they just give in.
You’re not gaining your spark back, you’re just giving in to what you think is inevitable. But it doesn’t have to be inevitable. You could fight back you just refuse to. He’s sure growing up the way you have, you don’t think it's possible to stand up for yourself.
But you don’t have to give in like this. You don’t have to roll over and let someone else dictate your life. Which is rich, coming from him. He’s practically Dutch’s lap dog now. Even when he disagrees he still follows along behind him.
He shouldn’t even be thinking like this. He can’t criticize you for not standing up for yourself when he’s the one thing standing between you and freedom. “Not hungry?” You nod towards the uneaten meat on his knife.
He shakes his head, plucking it off the blade and passing it to you. You give him an odd look before popping it in your mouth. “Ya know,” you mutter around a full mouth. You take a moment to swallow it down before smiling over at him. “I’ve grown up with private chefs my whole life, but there’s is something infinitely more satisfying about this.”
He takes his hat off, running a hand through his hair. He snorts at your comment, “I find that hard to believe.”
“No,” you shake your head, insistent, “I mean it. Being out here, hunting the game myself, I don’t know, it’s nice.” You shrug and lean back on your hands, gazing across the way at the trees and river.
“You can always get a bow and go hunting.” He speaks to you like it's a cut-and-dry truth that you’re just not accepting. Your face screws up and you give him an annoyed glare.
“No. I can’t,” you tell him again. Where your words were patient before, he can tell you’re growing irritated at how much he’s pushing this.
“Yes, you can,” he snaps. “You don’t have to keep yourself boxed up in some manor in the city. Get out, woman, do something with your life!” His voice echoes through the air and you flinch back from it, lips pulling down into a sneer.
“You know, that’s really easy for you to say, Arthur. You have a goddamn choice. Sure, I grew up with a silver spoon in my mouth, little miss rich girl crying about being pampered.”
He lets out a rough sigh, “That’s not what I meant-”
You cut him off, getting to your feet and glaring down at him. “You got to grow up with a choice. What to do with your body, your life, your career. You get to have an education if you want it. Every goddamn door is open to you. You don’t get hated for not wanting to have a family. You get to choose. And as much as you insist I can too, you will never understand the position I am in.”
You kick dirt over the fire and head back towards Bullet. “It’s a double-edged sword, Arthur. Sure, my life might be comfortable, but it’s never really gonna be my life.” He stays there on the ground, too stunned to get up.
You glare down at him, impatiently waiting for him to get a move on. This isn’t how he wants things to end. He doesn’t want you to go off thinking he’s just some ignorant fool. But he is, much as he denies it, he’s always been a fool.
He should never have thought he could make a difference in your life. Not when he’s the one backing you into this corner. He could have helped you escape the very first night he saw you. But he was too selfish to let you go, now you’re both paying for it.
He mounts Diablo and you both head back to the roads silently. You’re moving faster now, leaving him behind if he lingers in one area for too long. You’re too pissed off to enjoy the rest of your day and he hates that he ruined it for you. You, at the very least, deserved a slower journey towards your future.
You’re in Strawberry before he’s ready, he’s sure you aren’t. “Hey, we could-”
“I think that’s him.” You cut him off before he says something stupid like spend another night in town before you go. He’ll miss you, he thinks. Odd, he’s known you such a short time but it’s been so different having someone beside him as he rides. It was nice, what he wished he and Mary could have had.
Arthur follows your gaze and lets out a tired sigh. Sure enough, some prim and proper ass is standing in front of the ticket station, foot tapping impatiently. He’s got a large bag beside him, gaze wandering around expectantly. He doesn’t doubt the man who looks like he’s got a five-foot stick up his ass is Mr. Crane’s associate. He’s got the same slimy glint.
You slide off Bullet and Arthur follows suit, taking the reigns of both horses and leading them towards the platform. The man’s eyes narrow in on you before lighting up. He calls out your name and it’s like a mask being dropped over your face.
The spark is gone once more, a subdued and demure smile resting on your face as you wave at him. “I apologize for my dress,” you tell him as you walk up the steps. “Pants were more conducive to such a long ride.”
He takes your hand, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles that makes Arthur roll his eyes. “No apologies necessary, I brought you a change of clothes. I figured you would be less than put together after such a journey. I’m only sorry I couldn’t accompany you.”
You scoff and nod along, “Okay,” you mutter, not believing a word of his bullshit. You take the bag from him and move towards the saloon to find a room to change in. They both watch you leave, though the other man with a much more devious glint in his eye.
Arthur’s hands tighten on the reigns of the horses, anything to keep him from reaching for his revolver. He’s already getting a bad feeling about this. There’s nothing trustworthy about the man in front of him.
“Mr. Finch,” he holds out his hand and Arthur gives it a distrusting look before reluctantly shaking. Finch attempts to squeeze the life out of his hand but Arthur can barely feel it. He tightens his own grip and revels in the way Finch’s face blanches.
“Arthur Morgan.”
Mr. Finch looks him up and down in the same way Crane had. He sees a commodity, not a person. “I trust,” he drawls, “nothing unsavory happened.”
Arthur feels rage bubbling in his gut. The only damn thing he cares about is whether or not you’re “pure.” Not if you were okay or injured during the journey. If he told him that he’d punched you out for talking back Finch would just ask if you were bruised.
“She’s fine,” Arthur grits out.
“Oh, good, good. Glad everything went smoothly.” Finch has a way of talking he’s found most self-important men do. He draws everything he says out, and forces you to listen to him speak. Makes you pay attention so he can pretend he has power for a moment.
His gaze darts behind Arthur and he turns just in time to see you slipping out of the saloon. The dress Finch has provided you is ridiculously large. It poofs out at the waist in a way that makes Arthur wonder how you’re going to fit into your seat.
You look beyond uncomfortable. Grimacing as you join them again. You try and plaster a smile on but it’s a struggle. You look to Arthur, a finality on your face that makes him want to throw you over his shoulder and run. He’s doing this for the others, he reminds himself. They’ll be on a boat to Tahiti in a week.
“Thank you, Mr. Morgan, for everything.” The smile you leave him with is real, if just barely. Something lurks under your words that Mr. Finch will never understand and Arthur knows it will drive him crazy.
“Let’s go,” Finch grabs your hand, looping it through his arm and tugging you towards the doors of the station.
“Wait!” Arthur calls out, feeling foolish when you both look back at him with perplexed expressions. “You’ll be wanting Bullet, won’t you?”
Mr. Finch answers for you with a condescending tone, “She won’t be needing a horse, thank you.” You give him a knowing smile, turning away and slipping through the doors of the station and onto the train.
Arthur stays rooted where he is, something crawling up in his chest and rooting around restlessly. The whistle blows and the wheels start cranking slowly forward. Arthur just barely catches a glimpse of you through a window as the train chugs past.
“Shit!” He hisses. He tugs himself up onto Diablo’s saddle and urges him after the train. He was born a fool, he’s always going to be a damn fool. But he’d have to be a complete moron to just let you go.
Mr. Finch keeps a painfully tight grip on your elbow, jerking you through the passenger cars and practically throwing you into your seat. You land with a thud, your arm bouncing against the window painfully. You keep a stoic expression, trying not to let him break you so soon.
He takes a seat beside you, straightening out his jacket and tugging on his tie. Something white flashes in his jacket pocket and you lean forward, perplexed when you realize what it is. “What is that?” You question, not quite believing your eyes. Finch glances down at the thick wad of cash in his jacket and grins.
“Oh, this? Mr. Morgan must have forgotten to collect the rest of his payment.” He sends you a condescending smile and you flinch away in disgust. “He was too enamored with my fiancee to pay much attention, I’m afraid.”
“That’s his money,” you snap, the volume of your voice catching the attention of a few other passengers. Finch sends them apologetic smiles, making you seem like a mad woman. “He earned that!” You object, eyeing the money warily.
His hand snakes out, gripping you tightly around the arm and dragging you towards him until your noses are nearly touching. You nearly gag at the smell of his cigar-infused breath. It’s not like when Arthur would smoke one, you didn’t mind that. But this was making you sick to your stomach.
“Let's get a few things clear, I will not be dealing with an obstinate wife. You can either get yourself in order or I’ll do it for you.”
Your lips pull back in disgust and you jerk yourself out of his grip. He’s not as strong as he pretends to be and you’re not going to be scared into submission again. “I’m not your wife yet. My father still has time to pay.”
He laughs at you, spittle flying from your lips and sprinkling across your cheeks. “He has time to pay, but that doesn’t mean he’ll be getting you back, sweetheart.” Your eyes widen with the realization and you want to throw yourself off the side of the train.
You never had any chance to get out of this situation. Mr. Crane was always in control of it all. To even think of having a hope of getting back home was foolish. To believe for a second that you were going to escape this had been utter idiocy.
He sees the crestfallen expression and sinks into his seat with a satisfactory look on his face. He thinks you to be subdued. But now you’re nothing more than a cornered animal with no other choice of escape. You’ve got nothing left for you, nothing to hold onto.
As much as you’d thought you’d bonded with Arthur, you were still nothing more than a job to him. You were nothing more than a commodity to be traded between men. You would never have a say over your life.
You have nothing, you doubt you ever actually had anything left for you. You glance over at the man beside you and feel a cool dread blanket itself over you. Nothing left to lose.
There’s a solid weight tucked into the bodice of your dress. Its cool metal has been warmed by your skin. Its handle curves around your ribs and it only has one bullet left. You reach down the front of your dress, fingers curling around the revolver you’d stolen from a dead man.
Finch glowers at your inappropriate behavior “What are-” You pull the gun out, turning it on him. He jumps back in shock and throws his hands in the air on instinct. “Please-” you revel in his pathetic pleading only for a moment. Pulling the trigger a second time is surprisingly easy. The screams that ring out through the train car are less enjoyable. “Shit!” He cusses, hands coming up to try and staunch the flow of blood pouring from his stomach.
You slip your hand into his blazer, stealing the money before he can object. You run out of the passenger car, leaping to the flat car with all the cargo. It will take a few minutes for them to catch onto what happened and figure out where you went.
You don’t know what you’re going to do now. You’re stuck on a moving train, there’s nowhere for you to hide. You hadn’t thought when you’d shot him, you just wanted that smug look on his face to disappear.
“Where is she?” You hear the guards shouting out your name, flipping over crates to find you. They’re still at the front of the train, but you don’t have long until they start moving back here.
God, what have you done?
You just know, if you made it to that train station, you were never going to make it out. His men would be waiting there to transport you. You’d be watched every second of your life, you can’t do it again. You can’t be locked in a gilded cage, that’s not a life worth living.
There’s no escape for you. Nowhere left to run, nowhere to hide. You glance over the left side of the train. There’s a slight dip into a deep ravine. The crashing water looks almost peaceful from up here.
You don’t know if it would be a quick death but you know it would be merciful compared to what’s waiting for you at your last stop. You keep your eyes on the water, see yourself taking control of your life for the first time, and take a step up on the rail.
Someone shouts your name from the right side of the train and you gasp, arms circling wildly as you almost go toppling over the edge. They shout your name again, panic laced in the tone. This doesn’t sound like Finch or any of the other guards. You whip around and find Arthur riding his horse beside the train.
“What the hell are you doing, woman?”
Your brows furrow in confusion and your eyes dart between him and the ravine. “Jumping! What the hell are you doing?”
His gaze narrows and he shouts to be heard over the rumble of the train tracks. “Stopping you from being a goddamn fool. Get over here!” You hear the guards getting closer as they storm down the rest of the train.
You don’t have long to make a decision, you can already see his horse struggling to keep up with the speed of the train. There’s a bridge coming up in a moment, he won’t be able to go any further and they won’t be able to come after you.
It’s a split-second decision, one that has you pushing off the railing of the car and rushing towards him. You don’t have time to doubt yourself or plan this out further, you take a running leap off the train, towards his outstretched arms.
He barely catches you in time, jerking on the reigns of the horse and bringing him to a sudden stop before all three of you go tumbling into the water. Shots fire off on the train, but they’re gone before they can do any real damage.
Your chest heaves as you dangle from his arms, fingers digging into his shirt desperately. Your heart is pounding so hard against your chest that you almost can’t hear what he’s saying, but you get the gist of it.
“The hell were you thinking? Trying to jump off the damn train! You’re a fool, woman.” He tugs you onto the saddle the rest of the way. As much as he tries to sound angry you can feel his relief in the way he squeezes you close to him.
“Thank you,” you whisper, head sinking into his neck and breathing in the familiar scent.
He sighs, struggling between yelling at you more and just enjoying the fact that he got to you before you did something neither of you could recover from. “You’re welcome, just,” he pauses, holding you a little closer, “don’t be so damn stupid again.”
You laugh and it’s a little wet as tears start to pool in your eyes. “I’m not planning on it.” You sit up, easing away from him and glancing over your shoulder. You watch as the train grows smaller until you can only see a plume of smoke and nothing more. “What the hell are we going to do?”
He sighs and turns the horse around. You maneuver yourself around, facing forward and pushing back against him. “I don’t know. Dutch ain’t gonna be happy about you comin’ back with me.”
You bite your lip, a hundred different possibilities swirling through your head. You’ve never been able to make a choice before, faced with it, you’re overwhelmed with options. You can’t pick one so you blurt out the first coherent thought you have.
“What if we don’t go back?”
Arthur stills behind you, “What?” His tone is low and filled with something you know means he’s ready to say no.
“Just for a little while,” you rush the words out quickly, trying to fight for a chance to get him to listen. “We can send this to the camp,” you tug out the wad of cash you’d stolen from Finch and Arthur barks out a laugh. You feel his chest tremble behind you and it makes you grin.
“Did you steal his money?”
“Your money, technically,” you correct, grinning over your shoulder at him. “Besides, he doesn’t need it anymore.” He gives you a concerned look but you just wave him off. “We can send the camp some money and go off on our own for a while.”
“I don’t know, kid.”
“Don’t call me that,” you interrupt, glaring at him. “It’ll only be for a little while, Arthur. Come on, I’m free for the first time in my life, enjoy it with me.”
He looks uncertain and you know it’s an odd notion to him, putting himself first instead of the camp or Dutch. You’re sure he’s never done it before. Breaking away from them instead of going about like the loyal soldier he is.
“Just a little while?”
You nod, turning just enough to tuck the money in his pocket. “Just a little while,” you swear.
“John Marston!” You frown, turning away from the oven and glancing out the window. Arthur’s grinning by the gates of the horse pen, leaping over the wood, and walking out to greet someone. You abandon the stew, heading towards the door of your home.
Outside are two horses, one with a woman and her son, and an abandoned one. The owner is currently bringing Arthur into a brief embrace, John, you presume. Arthur’s told you about him a bit. They weren’t always close but it was getting better before Arthur went away.
Sometimes you feel bad, having dragged him away from everything he was familiar with. You meant it when you said you only wanted to be gone for a little while. You knew if you went back immediately there would be hell to pay with Dutch and you’d both be put to work.
You’d be going from one owner to another. All you’d wanted was a few weeks on the road on your own. But a few weeks turned into six months and then a year, and it was Arthur telling you he couldn’t go back. He couldn’t stand what the gang was turning into. What Dutch was turning into. All you’d given him was an excuse to finally get out before it all blew up.
You walk down the steps of the home Arthur built, wiping your hands off on your apron. You give a brief wave to the woman you assume is Abigail. She waves back, slipping off the horse and helping Jack down.
Arthur pulls away from John, turning towards you and motioning you forward. John gives you an apprehensive look. “Do I know you?”
Arthur gives him your name, throwing an arm over your shoulder and pulling you in closer. “That job Dutch got from Crane.” John’s face lights up with recognition and he smirks.
“I see,” he shakes his head and gives Arthur a knowing look. “It’s always a woman with you, isn’t it?” You snort at how aggrieved Arthur looks. “Well,” John turns towards you and smiles, “nice to finally meet the woman that got him under control.”
“Nice to meet you too,” you smile lightly at him, pulling away from Arthur. “Are you going to be joining us for dinner?”
“No, he’s not,” Arthur answers at the same time John says, “I would love to.”
Arthur and John share a look you can’t understand. You glance past John and wave Abigail forward, “Come in, please. I’d enjoy the company.”
“Forgive my obstinate husband, he tends to linger where he ain’t wanted.” She brushes past him and you lead her inside your home. Leaving Arthur and John to bicker outside. Jack stays outside, smiling up at Arthur. You know he’s missed the boy, you’re sure he’s okay entertaining them for one night.
Abigail helps you set the table while Arthur and John catch up over a bottle of whiskey. Arthur tried to pull out a cigar but you’d shut that down quick. He’d had a cough a little while ago and the doctor advised cutting down on tobacco if he wanted it to go away. You know it’s hard but you’re cracking down on how much he smokes.
“We got the money you sent,” John’s telling Arthur as they come over to join you all at the table. Jack eagerly hops into the seat beside Arthur before you can snag it and you grin. “Dutch blew it all and wouldn’t tell us on what. He kept saying we still needed another score.”
John shakes his head and the distant look in his eyes makes your stomach churn. “You’re a lucky bastard you got out when you did, Arthur, truly.”
“Hosea?” Arthur questions and you grimace at the look on John’s face. You can see Arthur deflate as John shakes his head.
“There was a bank robbery, Molly told the Pinkertons we were going to be there, he didn’t make it.”
Arthur’s hand clenches around the fork and you wish you could say something that would make him realize it’s not his fault. “I should have been there,” he mutters.
“Wouldn’t have done anything, man. Hosea had given up in the end. We all had. It was so damn divided, the family was gone.”
“Still.” Arthur insists, glaring down at his plate like it had offended him.
“No,” to your surprise it’s Abigail that snaps. “Dutch was gone and that bastard Micah just kept pushing him over the edge. The only thing you would have done is get yourself killed. You’re damn lucky Arthur Morgan.”
You’re sure he’ll still blame himself later. Reason a hundred times over that had he been there something would have been different. Even if it was him on the other end of the gun he’d be happier knowing someone else hadn’t died when it could have been him. You couldn’t stand that these self-sacrificing ideals Dutch had drilled into him were still present.
But you know Abigail and John help ease the guilt slightly. It’s on Arthur to let it go entirely, though you doubt that will happen anytime soon. John picks up on the change in mood, he’s reluctant to let the night sour so soon.
He turns towards you with a look that makes you feel like you need to prepare for trouble. “So you did all that to escape getting married. And then you marry this moron?” He motions towards Arthur and you can’t help but laugh.
“John!” Abigail snaps but he only smiles at her. You can see the way she fights the twitch of her lips and it makes you smile in turn.
You correct him, “We’re not technically married-”
“Might as well be,” Arthur argues, glaring at John. You reach across the table, taking his hand in yours and gently squeezing. You can’t help but laugh at him.
“Yeah, we might as well be,” you agree. “But it was never about not wanting to be a wife. I just wanted to have a damn choice. That’s what I got out here. I can hunt or cook. Sew or go out and make some money. And it’s a lot nicer being a wife out in the country than it is in the city, I’ll tell you that much.”
“Here’s hoping,” Abigail mutters. She glances towards Arthur, “That’s why we’re out here. We got word from a few people that you might be lurking around here. John’s thinking of getting a house, really settling down.”
Arthur sighs, leaning back in his chair and glaring at John. “That’s why you’re here? You want a handout,” he accuses.
“No!” John snaps. “Dammit, Arthur, why you always gotta assume the worst of me?”
“Because it’s usually true,” Arthur mutters. “If that’s not what you want then what is it?”
John purses his lips and lets out a spluttering breath. “A loan,” he lands on, struggling to find the right word.
Arthur barks out a laugh, slapping his hand on the table and poking a knowing finger into John’s chest. “I knew it!”
John swats his hand away and glares. “Look, Morgan, I only need a little. Just to buy some animals, get started on the house.”
“What’d ya want Marston, my whole damn house?”
Abigail lands a gentle hand on your arm and nods to the porch. “They’ll be at it for a while.” You nod and leave the table, following her to the swing out back. She settles down on it with a sigh, gazing out at the trees that line your home.
“You’ve got a nice life out here.”
You smile fondly, “I like to think so. We’re thinking about getting a few cows, maybe starting a proper ranch.”
Her face lights up at the idea and she laughs. “That’s what John wants. It’s unbelievable how similar they are, they’re too thick-headed to see it.”
You can still vaguely hear them bickering inside the house. You peer inside and see Jack sitting at the table, watching them both with an entranced expression. You can’t help but grin at the look on Arthur’s face. He’s laying into John but he looks happier than you’ve seen him in a while.
You know he’s missing everybody, has been for a long time. Maybe if Abigail and John are close by he’ll have that sense of familiarity again. “The others,” you start, turning back to Abigail. “Charles and Sadie, what happened to everyone else?”
“A few of them are living good lives, some of them aren’t. Most of them are drifting, not ready to give up the outlaw life just yet.”
“It’s hard to watch the world change while you’re still stuck in the same spot.” You brush some hair out of your eyes and smile at Abigail. “Me and Arthur are gonna help you and John. But I’d like it if you were both close by. It would be nice to have someone familiar near us, we’re pretty lonely up here.”
She gives you a brief smile back, “I think that would be nice.”
John’s voice picks up from inside and you jump, “Oh that’s a load of bull-”
Abigail’s smile drops and she leans over your shoulder to shout, “Watch it!” at John. You laugh when you see the perturbed look on his face. She motions towards his son and Arthur gives John a smug look.
“You gonna help him?” You ask Arthur as you settle into bed later. He opens his arms, pulling you into his embrace once you’re settled under the covers.
“John?” You nod, brushing a strand of hair out of his eyes. “Yeah, ‘course I’m gonna help him. But there’s nothing wrong with jerking him around a little bit first.”
You roll your eyes and shake your head, tucking yourself under his chin. You almost think he’s asleep but then he’s speaking up again. “We should really do it.”
You pull back, brows furrowed in confusion. “Do what?”
There’s a certain look in his eyes that causes something to swirl in your stomach. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, just an excited one, “Get married.”
You give him a bewildered look, shaking your head in disbelief. Nearly five years you’ve both been living out here and he’s never once mentioned getting married. You never thought you two actually needed it. You always knew what you were to each other, how much you meant to one another.
You were each other’s salvation. There’s no telling what graves you would be laying in were it not for Dutch bringing you both together. You hadn’t thought he wanted to be married, he always told you he’d given those dreams up. “You really mean that?”
He shrugs like it’s the easiest decision in the world. “Might as well, right?”
You shake your head, but there’s no fighting the way your lips curl up. “You’re a fool, Arthur Morgan.”
He nods, dipping his head down to press a gentle kiss on your temple. He treats you so gently, it makes you want to cry. But then he goes and says something ridiculous like, “Yeah, a fool for you,” and he makes you laugh.
You tug him down, lips nearly touching his. “Yes,” you whisper, “I’ll marry you.” You were always scared of living a life like this. Being tied to one man for the rest of your time on earth. But he’s not some city man looking to make you into a pet. He lets you live, breathe, and be free. He’s a partner not a warden and that’s all you’ve ever wanted.
Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female Reader.
Summary: Seems the heat's gettin' to Arthur.
Tags: 18+ MDNI, p in v, kissing, just pure sex, sort of getting caught?, Abigail sees a glimpse of it.
Word count: 1,019.
Author's Note: This was a request for my mini prompt sprint, and surprise, I got carried away because I was excited!!!!
Ao3 Link.
Weeks upon weeks of running from the lawmen, of enduring the sweltering heat, of comforting folk, of rationing both food and patience- it had sapped every last drop of Arthur’s lifeblood. Since the gang had nestled themselves within the sun-soaked, rickety bones of Shady Belle, he had spent a lot of his time helping everyone else get settled and sneaking in the occasional nap behind a wagon. He would usually be accompanied by you, spread over him beneath the cool shadows of a swaying tree, both of your hats shielding your faces.
The warmth had brought you both to the shade of his room, your sticky bodies to his cot, and his hard girth to the lush pool of your cunt. Reduced to a mangle of grabbing hands and eager mouths, the salt of sweat and the fresh cut of rum dances amidst your lapping tongues as Arthur pinches his nails into your rear and whines.
"Yeah-"
"Yeah?" You breathe, grabbing at his shoulders, the sheeny skin making your palms slide with each bounce of you in his lap.
"Yes- that's it-"
With an excited hum into his ear, you squeeze around his length and his eyes roll back, his jaw dropping open.
"Fuck, please- do that again-"
Repeating the movement, you also arc your hips back, drawing it out and moaning at the pull of your cunt around his cock. Arthur's gaze floats over your flushed face and behind you to the ceiling, blissful.
"Oh, like that, yes- good girl," he groans, strangling through a swallow. Your response is a shaky whimper, each nudge of his cockhead quivering through your gut. His heels thump into the cot behind you, and his thighs twitch as a stream of arousal runs through to his seat, thick and hot. "Get here," he gasps, and paws his way up your back before pulling you flush to him, your skin tacking together.
Feeling his muscles flex around your waist and over your back, you mouth at his shoulder, your moans tickling his skin. When you increase the rock of your hips, Arthur cries out, his head landing back against the pillow, strands of his damp chestnut hair falling away from his forehead. One of his hands moves to hold your rear, guiding the call and response of your hips, urging his cock up into the fluttering walls of your cunt.
With each thrust, Arthur's breaths louden, and you look up to see his eyes drift shut, his mouth parted. His hand on your back rubs up and down, gripping and squeezing at your softness. Pressing his palms into your skin, he pushes and pulls, coaxing you into going faster. A long and needy moan slips from you, vibrating through him.
"Arthur!"
"Tha's it, my girl- fuck me nice, c'mon," his voice leaves him hoarse, desperate, the order resonating over the sloppy meetings of your wet cunt and his groin, syrupy with your joint arousal. Huffing, you keep pace, gripping his shoulders. The tangy scent of his shining skin coupled with the strong undulation of his abdomen against your aching clit spurs on your cupidity and your gasps tighten. He glances down at you to see the familiar pinch in your brow and feels your gentle tremors around his cock. His eyes heavy, his brow furrowing as an almost pained groan rips through him.
"Gonna come, ain'chu?" He asks, the words almost stolen by the broken moan that bursts from his throat when you grind down onto him, hard, with an affirming hum. Your hands scramble to the bedframe above his head, gripping, the metal knocking against the wall each time you rock. At the sensation of his cockhead kissing the softness of your sweet spot, pleasure flickers through Arthur's body. His lashes flutter as he shivers and strains, "Christ! I'm-"
With a string of mewling breaths, you fall over the edge, your cunt convulsing around his girth as your orgasm swims through you. Your skin boils, the stuffy summer air sucking into your lungs, your cum coating his cock as his hands clumsily move to hold your shaking body.
"Arthur, you okay in there?" Karen's tentative voice calls through the door as she raps her knuckles against it. Thoroughly in the throes of indulgence, Arthur's only focus is the coiling pressure growing amidst his rolling hips.
"Arthur, fuck- fuck-" you whimper quietly as you ride yourself through waves of pleasure.
The draw of your cunt makes Arthur grit his teeth in tandem with the tautening of his balls, growling noisily as he plunges into the delicious depths of his release, spilling warmly and thickly up into you, "Oh, shit-!"
Another voice sounds through from outside, unnoticed from within the glowing haze stripping your thoughts of all coherence. "Maybe the heat's gotten to 'im, sounds unwell." Between the slowing knocks of the bedframe into the wall and mingling laboured breaths, the door creaks open. A gentle, concerned call of Arthur's name from Abigail snaps off into a guffaw at the sight of him. Flushed, groaning, all bare and brawn as he fucks his spend up into you whilst you whine against his neck, weakly grasping at the bed frame. The door quickly shuts again. Abigail's voice sounds through the wood, giggles breaking through as she talks over Karen who is still asking whether something is wrong, "Oh, the heat's definitely gotten to 'im. Get back downstairs."
Gleaning fragments of the women's hushed gossiping as they amble back downstairs, Arthur lets out a groaning laugh as you release the bedframe and slowly slip his softening cock from your dripping cunt. Kissing your way up his neck, you give a quiet and satisfied hum.
"What're you laughin' at, Mister?" You murmur as he lazily turns you both sideways, planting a few messy kisses to your head. He trails his fingertips over your waist, admiring the shine to your skin and the glimmer of his spend saturating the dark curls between your thighs as his hand reaches your hip. His tongue runs over his lower lip, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
"Seems the heat's gettin' t'me."
Tags for my sweethearts: @thundermartini @zae-heeyyy @pinescent-and-gingerbread @dauhtrofsevnthshe @arthurmorganist @thesweetestapplepie @thoughts-of-bear @kayyqua @thedilfdiaries @mrsarthurmorgan7 @sensitivegamergirl @kieranduffysgirl - Apologies if I miss anyone, just dm me or comment below to have me tag you <3
Pathetic bbgs who are twice your age yet would fw a sweet little girl who'd listen to their every command. Be it perching prettily on their laps or sucking only their tips like a lolipop because they're so big , your little mouth couldn't fit all of them.
Who are so sweet to their little girl that they couldn't even imagine degrading you....(Liar) Softly manipulates your dumb little head, whispering insults and derogatory terms in that sickeningly honeyed voice that it feels like sweetnothings being whispered in your ear, making you all giddy and happy because you can't recognise danger for God's sake.
Wrapping yourself in the arms of the very danger your dad always warned you about, but it doesn't matter now, you can't get out—wont get out because he is never letting you go. Not his precious little girl. Never her.
Hii, I love your work especially how you write LH Arthur. I was wondering if you could write about LH Arthur punishing fem reader.
not even gonna lie, this has been in my inbox for so long its like my oldest ask... i am ashamed don't worry... anyway i made something small, i really wasn't sure where to go with this but i hope you like it!!! any and all feedback is appreciated 💓💓💓😳😳😳
Warnings: ⚠ ️NSFW 18+ only!! (i guess im just thirsty lately, somebody send a fluff request so i can stop myself), vaginal fingering, pussy slapping, blow job briefly mentioned, grumpy arthur >:(... reader being a brat, arthur is a jerk but he could be worse 👀👀
low honor arthur morgan x fem. reader
Arthur isn’t a cruel man. But he also isn’t fair. While punishment usually involves a bad action to warrant one… Arthur is more creative than that.
And you should know not to be a brat. Especially when Arthur isn’t in the damn mood to handle it. In a level headed way anyway. But he comes back to camp, back aching from riding for so long, irritated by whatever mess he had to clean up. All he wants is to come home to you, maybe you can give him some of that sweet girl treatment you give him. Where you get down on your knees and look real pretty with his cock tapping the back of your throat.
There is an argument to be made that you two haven't been together long enough for you to know his limits well, to know when not to push. Most people in camp leave well enough alone. They have their own problems and Arthur becoming one of those isn’t in their best interest. But then again, you aren’t most people.
“Arthur!” A call of his name and suddenly, you’re on him, looking him over. You’re motherly scolding grates on his nerves. It’s pretty late to be coming to camp. He knows he promised earlier but he doesn’t control all of the things that get in his way. If he were a better man, he’d apologize for keeping you waiting, promise to make it up somehow, ask you to forgive him. But he refuses to apologize for something that isn’t his fault anyway.
You really do put up a little fight, a kitten and her claws. And much like a big dog, he does grumble his warning. A ‘honey, not tonight,’ is all he's got while he's tugging his boots off but you're being just as stubborn.
“You gonna keep pushin’ this all night?”
You stutter and cross your arms. “Arthur, you promised,” and the pout and your whine really do him in. You in your little night dress, little more than a cotton slip and some bloomers. He pushes his suspenders off his shoulders.
He thinks you must do this on purpose, this provocation. The way you smile when he tells you to quit your attitude.
But it’s the prettiest thing when he’s got your knees pushed back, his handkerchief stuffed in your mouth. Only to keep you from waking up the whole camp with your whining. Beautiful with your eyes rolled back, a punishing wet slap after slap on the seam of your little pussy, puffy and glistening.
How can he not deliver what you so badly want?
“You gonna be good now, sugar?” you nod, humming and whimpering behind the black dusty handkerchief. Two of his thick fingers spread your slick opening, pressing past the soft velvet of you. He curves them just right, just how you like, finding the wet squish of that perfect spot. Your back bows off the bed, looking like an angel, even when you’re doing something so filthy for him. He kisses your cheeks after you come down from your high, panting and sticky with release between your thighs.
He doesn’t say he’s sorry for being late tonight, but you receive a kiss so sweet just behind your ear after he thinks you're asleep.
Thank you for reading!!! i hope you enjoyed : ) 😭😭🫶🫶💓💓comments and reblogs literally make my day so pls don't be afraid to rb !!
Finally wrote down an improved version of my sex dream with Arthur I had from weeks ago 🧍♀️ I am still recovering 💔 my first proper Arthur smut (and first boy smut ever????) cause you could say I got first hand experience 😋😋😋😋😋 in the dream it was more LH! ish Arthur but I’m not good at writing that so yeah (a bit shy abt this tbh *dies*)
(nasty, filthy pwp 🧍♀️ afab, f!reader, p in v, overstimulation to the point of crying 😨, delayed ejaculation, multiple orgasms, biting, I think that’s all)
divider: @aquazero / Arthur photo credits
Full.
It was all you could think about with how deep his cock is buried inside you, straining your voice and sending your body rigid as another orgasm rippled through you.
An exhale left your mouth in bits, chopped by your shaking. You thought that was the last.
But he doesn’t relent.
With a groan, Arthur lifted you off him by your ass and pierced into you again, still suspiciously hard if the stretch is any indication.
“Arthur!” You yelped, trying to push him away. He held your hips tighter, ignoring how your legs and your walls squeezed him out.
“Somethin’-” cut by an immediate set of pace, your nipples roughly rubbing against his chest hairs everytime he bounced you on him. “Somethin’ ain’t right,” you breathed out, a lilt to your voice, the three, four? Orgasms dizzying you.
Like a rabbit in heat, he’s been at it since he got back. You don’t know what possessed him. Just said he needed you and his cock hasn’t softened since.
“I know darlin’,” he rasped, lips trying to stay latched to your neck as you kept squirming. “’S why I need you to help me come,” with his wicked, calloused fingers landing on your clit, pulling a whine out of you that will surely wake up residents of nearby tents. That is, if the slick and slap of your skins haven’t done that yet.
“Won’t you, sweet girl?”
“Can’t,” you squeaked as he battered that spot inside you again and again. He chuckled. Though the way his jaw hung agape and the way his brows furrowed told you he was just as tortured. How did a Goddamn gorgeous thing like you let him use you like this?
“Just a bit more darlin’, hm?” he slurred, selfish, needing. Kisses melted into licks, softening the previous burns of his stubble all over your warm neck; a contrast to his ever bruising pace as his arm wrapped around your middle, keeping you flush against him.
“Ar-Arthur!” You hiccuped before you’re suddenly jolted by another wave of pleasure.
He gently shushed you, holding you tight as your limbs stuttered. “That’s it, that’s a good girl.”
Your body must be close to shutting down because once you’ve regained your breath, you realized he hasn’t stopped at all. Only slowed. And the friction of his cock slipping and sliding past your rim, occasionally grazing your clit, almost made you drool.
He’s still fucking hard.
“Hey,” he called. A weak whistle from him sobered you. “Still with me darlin’?” He nudged your chin up, facing you to his sweat sheened face. Blushing red with labored breaths leaving that crooked smile. A strand of hair fell over his eyes and you can’t help but push it aside.
Well. You’re still soaking wet.
Heart weakened and any remnants of a brain fucked out, you nodded.
“Atta girl,” coupled with a deep rut of his cock that spilled a scream out your lungs and tears from your eyes.
“‘S t-too much,” you sobbed, leaning away from him, fists languid against his chest as he continued splitting you open deep and slow. His grip on your hip remained, tightened, pushing you down, down, down.
But so did the one on your chin, gliding to your cheek and caressing you there.
With a plunging thrust, “‘M bein’ gentle here darlin’,” he exhaled, eyes desperate, hot breath on your lips before he captured them against his own. Thrust. “You can take it like a good girl, can’t ya?” Thrust.
You whimpered, his words only fanning a growing flame in your lower stomach. Your arms snaked around his neck as you kissed more fervently. He took this to move his hands to the underside of your thighs, pulling you even closer and picking up speed, causing you to gasp.
“Stay with me baby, c’mon,” he whispered, hoarse. A string of spit still connected him to you.
He’s pushed up to the hilt, it almost feels like he’s trying to bully into your cervix. The sounds you let out were getting louder and louder, you had to bite on his thick shoulder.
“That’s it,” he hissed. “Doin’ so good for me, I’m almost there.”
You moaned as an answer, nearing the edge yourself. He must’ve felt it, his thumb moving to rub your clit again, making you still for a split second as if shocked by his touch.
“So good for me pretty girl, ‘M so close,” he repeated, sounding strangled like a plea. And that did it for you, tensing throughout as you came.
Finally, finally, he followed soon after, still sheathed as he held you chest to chest, falling on top of you. The sounds that erupted from his throat could have made you come again.
Your eyes stayed closed, seeing sleep around the corner as your breaths returned to you. Arthur chuckled, thoroughly relieved and you felt the warmth vibrate from his chest as he rolled to your side, his softened member slipping out. Infected by his smile, you turned to face him. And then gave him a harmless smack to his chest.
He only pretended to wince, draping an arm around your waist and pulling you close as he faced you.
“Guess I deserved that,” he sighed, all smiles, content.
“Cause what’s gotten into you?” You asked, still drunk sounding as you come down from your high. He huffed, equal amounts of amused and sheepish.
“‘M sorry darlin’, I hope it won’t happen again,” a kiss to your forehead to accompany his apology, widening your smile as you dozed off.
“I wouldn’t mind if it did.” And the last thing you heard before falling asleep was the sound of his laugh.
arthur morgan loves putting you in a full nelson. truly, nothing beats it. ૮ ྀི◞͈ ˔ ◟͈ ྀིა
it’s effortless for him, the way his thick arms brace your legs against your chest, the weight of you on top of him barely a disturbance. he’d make you think it was your idea — not because he was trying to manipulate you, but because of the way he adored how you begged.
you’d been pressing him about it earlier in the week, hounding him about his sex life before he met you and what kind of ridiculous scenarios he got himself into. he had years of experience, probably sexually active before you were even born and you couldn’t help but be curious.
“well now there was this one pose, but i’m not too sure you’d like it. s’a little advanced.” he sticks his thumbs in his belt loops, leaning against the wall as he finally gives into your prodding. he thinks it’s adorable the way your brows pinch, all determined to change his mind as you rush over, standing on your toes and grabbing at him.
“oh please go on arthur. satisfy my curiosity, i beg you!” you whine and he swallows down a chuckle.
“c’mere.” he walks you to a chair and you follow without further prompting. arthur sits, before pulling you onto his lap. fully clothed, he easily lifts your legs making you gasp. calloused, weathered hands slide up the back of your legs until they were hooked under your knees, keeping them high before he mimicked the act of thrusting into you from below, jean clad crotch thudding against you softly. “a little like that. now i’m sure you can use your imagination and picture that without clothes on.” he lowers your legs and taps the side of your ass like you’re a horse. “go on now, up y’get — we got things to do today.”
as expected, you don’t forget about the conversation and demonstration, infact you’re weak in the knees for the rest of the day — clinging to his strong arm, whiny and submissive to his every calm command. you could only imagine what had got you in such a state, and arthur knew just how he’d fix it.
now in a candlelit hotel room arthur’s got you totally in the nude, holding the same leud, split open position he had you in earlier as he stuffs your cunt with his thick length.
“shh shh shh shh now.” he chides, voice warm and gravelly as he slows his thrusts to a deep and firm rhythm. “this is what you wanted, remember? begged n begged me.”
“j’st — s—so much!” you shudder, head lulling forward weakly and helplessly, glossy folds fluttering around the man who held you open.
“well you’re bein’ a very good girl. keep takin’ it, there we go.” he hums, working you toward that sweet release.
Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female Reader.
Tags: Dub-con/Non-con, kidnapping, rope bondage, vaginal fingering, kissing, Arthur is a nasty bastard, a smidgen of humping.
Word count: 3.8k.
Summary: Held at ransom by nasty men, you want to escape, to run back to your daddy. That is until Mister Morgan gives you pause, and his thick fingers.
Author's Note: This is for Kinktober Day Two: Kidnapping (Yeah, I'm slow, I'm calling it Kink-ber at this point). I love Low Honour Arthur Morgan xx Enjoy! <3 (First time writing this sort of stuff so lmk if there are any tags I missed, but do it politely)
Ao3 Link.
Prickles of pain spear up through the red and tender skin of your knees as you shuck yourself forward, burns weaving around your ropen limbs, taut and paired behind you, smarting as you wriggle. With a grunt, you flop forward over a hay bale and push in an attempt to stand. A nearby horse steps sideways, its head tilting as it glances at your tangled form with a wary sigh. Casting a glower up toward the beast, you puff out a frustrated breath, spitting. "And jus' whaddya think you're lookin' at?"
Your knees lift, peppered with the wet crust of dirt and gravel, your bare feet mucked with filth. The groan that grinds in your chest dies beneath the low creak from across the room which alerts the rest of the horses into a chorus of trots and sighs. A waft of crisp air floods the space, shaking a shiver from you. The low bark of your name and the sludge of boots storming through the puddle-ridden barn soon follows. Dread pinches your innards but still, you push, breath catching on the words, "Leave me alone, Mister Morgan," face reddening as your feet slip in the mud and failure broils your lungs. Get up, for Christ's sake.
The heavy drape of his body over you makes you hiss, your limbs tensing at the press of heat to your rear and the wrap of his large hands over your heaving ribcage. A violent tug of your body brings you back onto your knees and against his stomach with a whimper. Writhing, you grimace at the drawing back of your shoulders, the press of your wrists further into your rear streaking pain through your tired muscles. One hand walks its way down your stomach to grasp the skirt of your chemise, and you're reminded of how he had ragged you from your bed, through the halls of your empty house, and out into the drizzly night, throwing you through the open door of a stagecoach.
"Get off," you snap, giving a swift kick of your bound and twisted feet into the floor. The crown of your head knocks into his teeth and he groans. He pinches you through the cotton chidingly, earning a soft cry. "I said let go o'me—" You cut off in a yelp when you're hoisted up, feet leaving the floor, your body aching at the pressure of his arm around your middle.
"You're gonna hurt yourself squirmin' like that." He grits, his words warm and brandy-laden against your neck. You recall the softness that graced his tone before this night. The glitter of chivalry in his bright eyes when he greeted you and your father before politely requesting a tour of the gardens surrounding your home while another man hawked business through the bite of a cigar. His voice had been like warm cream, and you, the lonely little pet you are, had eagerly begun lapping. The sneaking brushes of his knuckles at your back had steadily knocked your mind askew and your father's plans to spend the night in town on business bumbled from your lips, receiving a raise of his brow.
"You hurt me already," you strain. Turning your head, you glimpse the roll of his eyes before your world rushes into a blur of brown and grey. He swiftly turns and takes a seat on the hay bale. Shoving his knee between your legs, he slots you onto his thigh with a grunt, a hand coming to hold your nape and guiding you back like a troublesome dog.
"Ain't what I said, is it?" He snarls, beard scratching your soft cheek and pulling a wince from you, "now be good."
"You- y'know-" When you force your hips forward, he firmly clutches the pulp of your inner thigh until you squeal and pulls you back. "Daddy's gonna kill you! An' Mister Van Der Linde! Daddy's got men—"
"Daddy's got men," He echoes over you, sardonicism slating further the grit of his voice, "so you've said, sweetheart, but all we care about is your daddy's got money."
"You ain't gonna live to see it," you retort. You're unsure whether poking the beast will benefit you, but your fright wiggles out in streams regardless. Clumsily shuffling your bound feet to rest atop his boot, you push into it hard, lifting yourself off of his lap. His hand at your nape moves up and into your hair, fingers splaying over the back of your skull like a thick spider before grasping roughly and tugging you down again. Your face contorts, a yell buzzing through your clenched teeth.
"If you don't settle down," he growls, giving you a bounce on his thigh, the muscle thumping up between your legs, hard as a horse's back and making your groin ache. A warbling moan flutters in your throat, a trying sound that doesn't quite stabilise enough to form words but your head rattles with the thought to go, go, get out. You attempt to slide down. Your spine rubs along his knee, an awful soreness sparking along it like a train screeching to a halt. Sighing loudly, he grasps under your arms and thrusts you upward. You choke on a breath, regret boiling your blood as he brings you back down, pushing his legs between your own and prying them open when you land in his lap. Your chemise catches on his belt and you yelp when it hikes up around your waist, the cool air kissing your cunt through your drawers. It takes a long moment of your mind reeling with the exposed nature of the position before you glance down, blinking. One of his hands slaps to your jaw, bringing you back against him as he glares widely down at you. "What did I just say?"
Adjusting his weight, he rests his back to the wall, your back still flush to his chest, arms squeezed between you both and making you whine. You arch your back in attempt to alleviate the pain stretching over your shoulders, and your fists are greeted by a firm, doughy warmth as they dip into his stomach. He huffs through his nose.
"Seems you need tirin' out, little girl."
"No, I—" Do you? The break of your voice makes him hum, a sound of debate, the falseness of it apparent in the drag of his palm down your stomach. Your insides start to fizz. "Stop. Please—" Your next protest melts in your throat as he shushes you, parted lips grazing your neck. The first time he touched you, a tender hold of your hand and a chaste press of his lips to your knuckles in parting, ghosts over your vision. You can't let him do this. You should kick, bite his hands, thrust your fists down into his balls. Daddy always says to scream your throat raw if ever a strange man starts pawing at you, but the flit of this man's largening pupils back to yours drowns your mouth and cunt with slick. He looks ravenous. Like a dog that willingly starves himself so as to lose himself fully when the time comes to eat. You try to swallow it down but it worsens at the realisation that his eyes have harboured this look since he first tipped his hat to you, this hunger that you'd mistakenly credited to the shadow of his hat brim. When he clicks his tongue as though you were an unruly mare, tickling you with his breath, you shiver and curse the raising of the soft hairs on your skin.
"I don't think you want me to." His thick fingers push between the slit in your drawers, driving through the thatch of curls cloaking your cunt. When he strokes his fingertips up through your folds, you shriek, hips bucking. "Oh, tha's pretty," He sighs as he starts to mouth along your shoulder, tongue flicking occasionally, "Tha's real pretty."
"Mister Mor—" you start, voice sharp, whining, but he quiets you, dipping his middle and ring fingers into your open mouth. He hooks them over your lower teeth, wetting them beneath your tongue, your jaw bracketed by his hand. The gentle tap of his fingers prying apart your folds ripples through your being, and you find your wide eyes drifting up to his, confusion cutting fear. Curiosity. It tickles the base of your spine, coaxing. He glances down momentarily, sucking his tongue to his front teeth before looking back to you, and applying a sweet pressure to your clit, circling. When you howl around his fingers, his features break into something praiseful, mouth half-grinning, half-open and huffing.
"Y'know, I came here t'give you that blanket there," you dazedly follow his nod toward a blanket in a lump on the floor nearby as your clit jumps beneath his touch, "but I think this'll warm you up jus' fine. Wha'd you think, girly?" His circling turns firmer and a shudder climbs your body, your feet tensing and trying to kick as you moan. "Yeah," he coos, pushing his fingers deeper until your tongue meets the webbing of his fingers, "I think it'll be enough."
You swallow thickly, taking in the tang and faintest grit of dirt on his skin. Words fail to leave as more than a garble, though you're not quite sure what you want to come out. You're walking a tightrope, swaying between want and disgust, unclear about anything other than the fat fingers drawing your cunt to drip and the nasty mouth opening around the curve of your throat. He feels how you thought he would; coarse, heavy-handed, unforgiving, something your father has always shielded you from. Something his precious, darling girl toys with in her daydreams; your chin in your hands, back arched, cunt crushed into your chair through your skirts as you peeked at workmen in the streets. Heaving and wiping their brows, their shirts darkened with sweat, just like the man spreading you open across his lap and sinking his teeth into you. Enough to make you gasp, and then enough to have you gasp louder, as though the first time wasn't good enough. It wasn't good enough for you, either. He groans and you wiggle, feeling his gun belt cut into you as you grab at it in want to steady your racing head.
When he sucks, you stutter out a moan, and he slips his fingers from your mouth, letting your voice fill the barn. Your eyes flutter shut as he skates his soaked, hot fingers down your chest and over your chemise until you feel them press to the rim of your cunt. When you jolt, his mouth leaves you with a pop, a burgundy rosette of teeth and bruised skin left in its wake. Your legs try to close but are unable to around his which move to spread you further, until you whimper, as though you're a book whose spine he seeks to crack.
"Settle down," he rasps, rubbing his nose against the back of your ear, "easy, pretty girl." His fingers breach, languorous as they stretch your cunt. You keen until his knuckles brush your skin, pushing yourself up in his lap to try and quell the burn, but all it does is make him swirl his fingers against your clit quicker, working you up and open in his hands.
"Mister— Oh—!" You yelp, feeling him chuckle at your back, and feeling the meaty bulge of his cock press to the cleft of your ass through his pants. A desperate groan rattles in your chest when he tucks his chin into the crook of your shoulder and pushes you down onto his fingers before starting to thrust them. It stings, the calloused knuckles snagging against your tender tissue, and yet your cunt flutters and stops him from pulling out too far. You spot the flash of his grin in your aimless gaze as his chest fills the arch in your back with each heavy breath. He curls his fingers within you and starts to stroke in tandem with his fingers on your clit. You suck in a breath and hold it, cheeks flaming as you hear the sluice of your arousal sticking and splitting between his fingers. When he scissors them, his face fades into fuzzy shapes and your eyes roll back, a throaty cry distorting your voice.
"Oh, there you are," he gives a breathless laugh and pinches his teeth around your ear lobe, "tryna hide but I ain't lettin' you." A hiccup bubbles in your tight chest, and he messily sucks and kisses his way to your jaw. You pulse around his fingers, head falling back against his shoulder, a soft rock of your hips sheathing his fingers further into your syrupy cunt. His mouth opens against your jaw in a moan, breath spiced and clamming your skin. "You think you were bein' courtly, bendin' over t'pick one'a your daddy's orchids, givin' me an eyeful?"
Wonder what your daddy'd say if he knew I was pluckin' at the petals of his prized flower, hm?"
"My… Daddy?" The words slaver from your lax mouth, their pitch heightening as your control rapidly wanes. Oh, daddy would want this dissolute man hanged for soiling his sweet girl. His peach who is being squeezed of her glittering juices by awful, stout fingers, and naively opens herself for more. "Mister— Don't—" Lord, is that all you can say?
"Don't?" He goads, thrusting his hips and bouncing you in his lap, the cream of your pleasure dribbling down his hand. Your body lurches upwards, but he follows, quick to bring an arm around your neck and angling his hand between your legs to thumb at your solid clit.
"D— don't stop!" You gasp, tension snaking through your thighs, clenching, releasing, settling in the heat of your abdomen.
"Like I was gonna," he rasps, smacking his lips, loudly swallowing before leaning up and mouthing at your slack and drooling maw, "ain't quittin' 'til you bloom, pretty thing." He envelops your mouth with his, snaking his hot tongue about your teeth and playing with your own, grunting when you start to pant. Gentle moans quiver in your throat with each desperate exhale which turn into little hiccups as you start to spasm in his arms. "Little more, a little more," he garbles into your mouth, his eyes trained on your own as they start to water and glaze over.
"M— more," you echo feebly, and cry into his mouth, almost biting his tongue when he thrusts his fingers as deep as he can, tapping a hard rhythm into the sponge of your cunt and forcing your vision kaleidoscopic, "Oh!" Your release fires within you, curling up through your toes, rolling its way about your hips, arcing through your back and yanking your head back against his shoulder. He tightens his grip, controlling the pace, watching intently. His breath shudders in tandem with the trembling of your muscles, his arm pulsing around your throat as your cunt suckles greedily at his wet fingers. Your body throbs, sore and spent as you go limp.
"Mister… Mor—"
"Arthur." He corrects.
"…Arthur." It slips from you weakly, barely a breath. A soft name for such a brutish man. He gives a quiet grunt.
Each thud of your heart muddies your senses, keeps you verging on numb. Through the fuzzy wake of your release, you spy his bold eyes following the stray tear you feel tickling the curve of your jaw. He mouths at it with a hum, soft and slow. Almost affectionate. You choke out a whimper when he draws his fingers from you, and without hesitation, sucks them into his mouth, pressing his length up into your rear as his lashes flutter. He laps at the webbing between his fingers before pulling them from his mouth with a smack, raising a brow at your dewy, wide eyes.
"That what you wanted?" He rasps, a desirous groan still working its way through his throat as he speaks.
Was it? You had wanted him to touch you. You'd hoped he'd visit this night, that perhaps he would offer to court you, bring you flowers, maybe steal a kiss and—
"I don't know," you breathe, swallowing, "was hopin' you'd be a gentleman. Like this mornin'." He sighs softly, his chin falling to your shoulder.
"Well, I ain't a gentleman, Miss." He falls to a whisper against your neck, "an' I think you know that." Your cunt threatens to clench as he drags his lips up and over your cheek, languidly licking a flat, upward stripe. "You like it." A gasp leaves you, your cunt molten with the lingering sting of his fingers and the spot of fresh arousal. You find yourself whining when he shuts his legs, shutting yours in turn. He groans whilst turning you in his lap and gets to his feet, hoisting you up. The flicker of excitement in your belly is snuffed out by him readying to put you on the floor. He peers down at your flushed face, at the pout trying to twist your mouth, both shame and frustration tightening your jaw. He frowns in return.
"You can't jus' do—"
"Oh, I can."
You shriek when he drops you the rest of the way, a freezing puddle seeping into the rumpled mess of your chemise and drawers, biting at the skin beneath. "Arthur!" You feel maddened, alight under his touch, seeking it yet sick at it all the same. Stupid girl, that's what you are.
His eyes flash white as they roll. "Shouldn'a taught you that." He gripes, tugging at his half-hard cock in his pants as he walks to the balled up blanket nearby and uses his free hand to throw it into your lap.
"I can't wrap it 'round me, you dullard." The snark in your voice crumbles into nothing on your tongue when he grabs your shoulders, leaning in close, teeth bared, breath tart with your slick. A shaky breath escapes you, mortified at your urge to further probe him. To provoke him into touching you again, kissing you, fucking you even. If the skill of his hands is anything to go by, he'd tear you in two with those uneven teeth if you angered him enough.
"Keep on givin' me trouble, little lady," he growls, forcing you back until your spine and head knock against a beam and snatching up the length of rope you'd wriggled free from earlier. Winding the rope around your middle, he unceremoniously knots it. You whimper and your lips part to speak but he snaps before you can. "Keep on runnin' that mouth. I'm dyin' to put it to good use."
Your eyes go wide like saucers, flashes of how big his cock felt between your cheeks turns your head to soup and drips down, filling your mouth with spit as you stare up at him. The tip could probably kiss your throat, stop you breathing, silence your sobbing moans. His eyes briefly narrow, and you watch him chew at the inside of his lip before he drops his arms, straightening up and puffing out a deep sigh. His hand ghosts over his groin, then lifts to give a single, lazy tap to your chin before he walks toward the barn entrance.
"I'll have Mary-beth bring you some food." He calls out as he opens the door and rounds the corner, a cold breeze flowing through the space that fails to soothe your steaming skin.
"Mister Morgan!" You bark, your innards muddled with too many feelings to count, tearing up, one part of you bleeding and begging, the other shrivelling up with discomfiture. "Arthur!" His name fractures into hiccups. Allowing your head to loll back and letting the rope take your weight, you bite your lip, smothering the sob wanting to burst out. The wetness still tacking your thighs together taunts you as does the brandy flavouring your spit. It all leaves you shivering, uneasy, wet in the throat as you weep and yet quietly swill bits of your saliva around your mouth to savour his taste. Perhaps you are the pliant, vacuous little girl daddy treats you as. Or perhaps you're the mewling harlot Arthur had teased into florescence. Prized flower or not, your withering petals yearn to bloom again.
Tags for my sweethearts: @thundermartini @zae-heeyyy @pinescent-and-gingerbread @dauhtrofsevnthshe @arthurmorganist @thesweetestapplepie @thoughts-of-bear @kayyqua @thedilfdiaries @mrsarthurmorgan7 @sensitivegamergirl @kieranduffysgirl @reddedmiller @everlongingheart @stupidgaynerd @pressgforgoodgirl @photo1030 - Apologies if I miss anyone, just dm me or comment below to have me tag you <3
more controversially young (gf) reader and lh! arthur except its so obvious she has a thing for him like hes just so fine i would never not look at that fine man if i was apart of the gang😍😝
Ok, thank you for this wonderful message 💖💖💖💓💓. I totally apologize for being away but i was so happy to get back into writing that i pumped this out in like 3 days. i probably made it way too long so sorry but i really hope you like it!! 💖💖😭😭
Warnings: LIGHT NSFW. 18+ only thanks...Arthur is a meanie, but mostly hes kind of just hot to me. smoking and arthur teaching you how to do it : ) nudity dub con and groping. ugh hate him . 😖 this is tagged as low honor but can also be interpreted as medium honor. hes kind of a perv lowkey. Pervert Arthur ig. reader is very young and naive. innocent! reader i suppose. 🥴🥴 reader is NOT underage. 19-24 range perhaps as arthur is 36. ❣️❣️❣️
Arthur teaches you how to smoke.
low honor Arthur Morgan x fem. younger reader
You are a fool. At least, that’s what the other girls say. Karen sneers at the very mention of his name and Tilly rolls her eyes. She grew up with him; was here before any of you. Practically his younger sister.
“‘Neath all of that tough burly man act, I think he may have a heart. Might be the size of a grape but…” You and Mary-Beth giggle at the notion. The evening wind pulls your hair from where you have it tied back neatly, your fingers trying vainly to tuck it back in the pins. Dusky shades of plum and mandarin have the sunset glowing at a perfect golden hour. You can smell the grass on the wind from the plains miles away. Most everyone is back from some job or another, but you know the men don’t listen too much to your ‘gossip’. So you talk freely. The only person you really have to watch out for is Miss Grimshaw.
“Maybe, if you could call that rock in his chest a heart. Sides’ lookin’ at young girls ain’t exactly havin’ a heart. No better than Micah or god forbid, Uncle,” Karen shudders in disgust.
“It ain’t just him doin’ the lookin’,” Mary-Beth snorts a quiet laugh as the devil you speak of appears.
And she isn’t wrong. Arthur always looks so broad, shouldering people about with little more than a gruff and muttered ‘outta the way,’. His jacket barely keeps the width of him contained as he drops some poor game animal onto Pearson’s table. You stare after him, already tuning Karen half-way out. His eyes are the most brilliant shade of blue as they rove over every detail. He has hair in an almost golden shade of brown and no part of his face is bad to look at. He looks far too handsome, leaning against a wagon, one leg propped up on his thigh for a second so he can use the sole of his boot to strike a match. He holds it up to the tip of his cigarette, hand cupping the flame. You wish he’d hold your cheek like that, the way he shelters the flicker of light.
Effortless, really. How he looks the way he does, how he draws you in. Some days, you wish it were him who ran this gang instead of Dutch. That way you could see him all day and have some other mope out enforcing for him. And you know he’d look so good. At least Arthur wouldn’t have to leave. But you know Arthur would never use any flimsy old excuse to stay in camp. He’d wanna be out looking for tips and marks too.
“He ain’t that old and I’m not all that young…” You complain halfheartedly. He may be quite a few years your senior. But young men here and in town just don’t compare. You fiddle with your nails and cuticles. “I can’t be the only one thinks he’s cute,”
“CUTE?!” Tilly sputters and guffaws in deep bellied laughter. You feel your face turn hot. You hadn’t given too much thought to what you were saying but you wish you hadn’t have said anything. Karen snickers as well, reveling in your embarrassment.
“Well, jus’ don’t let him hear you callin’ him that,” the girls all practically roll over in laughter. You huff and stand. Even as they call you back with sorries choked out between more laughter, you walk away. You turn back to stick your tongue out at them but you bump into the very man you had spent the last few minutes looking at. All you can do for a moment is stare dumbly while he looks on, half amused, half irritated.
“A-Arthur-Hello… Good evening, how are you?” you barely manage between what’s almost a whimper. He looks down at you and you can’t help but feel like he’s taking in every detail, the way he always does. But being so close does give the privilege of seeing under the darkened brim of his hat. His features, though weathered by the elements, still hold strong.
“Fine. You?” He puffs on his cigarette. You feel your stomach roll around like it’s caught in a wagon wheel. Your heart speeds up just a fraction. He’s asking after you. You swallow the spit which wells up in your mouth.
“Just fine, I think,” you notice how most everyone is more towards the center of camp, listening to Miss Grimshaw complain about how you and the girls don’t work hard enough. He nods in acknowledgment. You’re surprised he doesn’t stride off like he usually does after some sort of awkward greeting from anyone really.
“Out hunting today?” You ask, nervous. Arthur isn’t usually so cordial. Your smile wobbles but eventually straightens when he answers.
“Yep,” his one word answers are what some might call blunt and dismissive. But you’ve seen Arthur when he wants to be left alone. A wolf's maw, lips peeled back to growl, fangs bared.
Now he seems almost… shy. As if searching for something interesting to say to capture your attention but he hardly knows he always has your attention. Whether he should want it, or not. You nod in a polite gesture.
You wish you could summon a seductive smirk, drag your hand down his chest. Some seductress you are, standing dumbly and picking at loose threads on the cuff of your sleeve. You aren’t sure if someone like Arthur would appreciate that. You’ve never seen him as the romantic type, always a little gruff and mean. But even if you couldn’t scrape the courage together to do such a wild thing, you could dream of him sweeping you up, letting you sit on his lap to sing songs with Pearson and Javier. As nice as some of the other men could be, you still preferred Arthur, even if others would call him old or sour.
He blows out a misty stream of smoke and you think of Sadie and Molly or even Miss Grimshaw. How they looked so mature in the mornings, seated with cigarettes, contemplating the world around them.
“Do you think- Do you think I could try?”
You regret saying it the second you do. Arthur looks at the cigarette and then to you, his hat blocks the look on his eye but you catch a smile as he looks down and shakes his head.
“How old did you say you was again?” It's not as sharp as some of his other cutting words he throws around at camp. Calling people sorry sons of bitches when he comes riding in to them drunk and laying around while he worked all day. But you can feel the warm roll of embarrassment in your belly.
“WH-that hardly matters, I just haven’t been able to-I just wanna try it,” you lean one shoulder against the wood of the wagon he was leaning on, listening to the wind flap against the canvas tents lining the camp. Why was everyone pestering you about your age? It’s not like you’re Jack's age. At least then, maybe you could play toy soldiers with him instead of all the washing needs done.
Even though he raises a brow at you, you put a hand on your hip. “I’m old enough to try it. Please, Arthur?” you think you may sound too whiny. But his eyes glint, his smile falls just a little. Like you called his mother an awful thing or something, his humor drops down to almost nothing. Then with some levity and a crinkle in his brow, he pulls another drag. A slow exhale, just polite enough to keep it from blowing all over your face, he looks away a little. Then he nods.
“Like that. Go ahead and- y’know,” he holds it up for you, held delicately between his fingers for you, unlit end to your lips. You glance up at him but he just stares at your mouth. He makes no effort to get a new one from his satchel or to offer you one brand new from the pack. And all you want is to impress him. Have him think you’re as tough as Sadie or as mystifying as Molly.
You lean forward, listening as he instructs you. He practically can’t look at you but you’re too busy trying to do this well that you don’t look away. You put your lips around the crisp white paper. You suck slowly, taking in the bitter smoke. “Get it in your mouth first, it’s hot,” you do but you aren’t sure for how long. “Goes in your chest, like you're breathin’. There ya go,” you try to breathe it in like you would air, slow at first, You nearly beam at his somewhat praise. And perhaps you're too excited at having done this right.
“Don’t go too fast-” you sputter and cough at the burn, immediately it sears your throat like you’ve swallowed a glowing coal. You try to keep it to a minimum but it hurts so much more than you thought it would. Your eyes water and you try to swallow around the pain, hoping to make it disappear. But you just swallow that horrible taste. “Or you’ll hurt your damn self. Christ, girl, y’alright?”
His hand is on your back and a different part of your burns at the contact.You heave for air, still unsettled by your own misstep. But his soothing strokes on your back make up for it. You can’t tell if you’re embarrassed or just tingling at the fact that Arthur Morgan, who doesn’t seem all that touchy with anybody, is petting your back to help you feel better.
“Oh, Arthur, why didn’t you say it was gonna hurt?” you whine, wiping tears away while he laughs a little. You made him laugh.
“I take it you didn’t like it,” he chuckles, hand over your shoulder, squeezing. You pout at him. “Aw, no poutin’, sweetheart… You asked,” he takes another pull, holding it back up to his own mouth. He leans casually again. You wonder if he does look at you the way the girls say he does. Like a dog and a hanging slab of cow at the butcher’s stand.
“I don’t-I don’t understand how people do that..smokin’, I mean. It don’t feel good at all,”
“Yeah, well…It starts feelin’ good at some point. Plenty of things start feelin’ good eventually,” you think he has a private meaning. You’re afraid to ask but you know that you have to. You want to hear Arthur keep talking. You love to hear him talk.
“Like what?”
He drops the cigarette, grinding it down to nothing but a stub under the heel of his worn down boot. Heat rises to your face the way he turns to you, how he makes you feel half his size, even if you aren’t quite that tiny.
“I could show ya, doubt you’d like it any more than that cigarette,” You’ve gotten this far by pushing your boundaries with Arthur. And you’d like to see what happens if you push them even further. What he’d do if you gave him that chance. What if he likes you as much as you like him? That would be something, wouldn’t it? You shake your head, determined.
“I wanna see,” you mutter, biting your lip.
He’s crowding you against the wooden planks and storage boxes on the side, acting as a wall between you and everyone else. They fade into the background, you know nobody bothers after Arthur. You really hope the girls don’t come looking.
Otherwise they might see you tugging your own blouse down for Arthur. Might see how you bare your chest at his command, letting his praise guide you into showing him your bare chest. You’re ready to squeal when he says “that’s my girl,” in that voice, nearly a strained growl now. If this is what it takes to be Arthur Morgan’s girl, you’d do it happily.
You glance nervously, heart beating faster. Your eyes search for interlopers among the trees but you can’t anymore, a little squeak when you feel what he’s doing. He pinches at the soft peak of your nipple, looking over your features. He might act unaffected but you can see his eyes get so dark, none of that blazing blue seems to remain.
“Am I hurtin’ you, sweetheart?” you look at his fingers, pinching you quite roughly. And it does send little shocks down your spine. Pain isn’t what comes to mind though, even as you whimper at his roughness. He pulls at it a little. You can feel heat gathering between your legs. If Arthur asked you to pull your skirt up, you just might. Instead, you bunch your fingers into the part of your blouse you pulled down.
“No, Arthur,” you hazily answer, watching as he squeezes and jiggles your breast before pinching at the other side. He cusses lowly, you’re all too proud as he adjusts himself.
“Like havin’ your tits played with more than the smoke?” You bite your lip and nod. He watches the way your breast bounces when he pulls at your nipple and lets it go. He utters a quiet ‘goddamn’ that makes you giggle.
“Hell, darlin’, if I could do this instead every time I wanted a smoke, think I would,” You smile. You know you would let him. All he would have to do is ask.
Author's Note: I wrote these to help with my writing, trying to figure out what Arthur's like, and I really liked these so I thought I'd share 'em! Go wild!
Tags: 18+ smut, sex, oral, the whole shebang.
Word count: 1.1k.
Low Honour Version x
Ao3 Link.
⟡ He's actually a bit of a challenge to turn on. He may be a bit touch-starved but he's controlled. He loves a bit of PDA and showing you off, but he isn't one to get hard instantly. He can deal with sultry glances and smirks from you, if anything it makes him chuckle to himself and shake his head.
⟡ In order to get a more pronounced reaction from him, you have to tease your underclothes or brush your ass against his hips as you make your way past him in camp. He's a lot more receptive to physicality. And sound, if you run up behind him, wrap your arms around his midriff, yank him down a bit and whisper in his ear, he's gone.
⟡ He tends to end up smothering you if you're smaller. Sometimes by accident, sometimes not.
⟡ He starts off more reserved but as he grows hotter, his language and sounds start to slip. A "Jesus..." here and a "Shit..." there. He'll start groaning, his nose scrunching, baring his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. The majority of his sounds are heavy breaths, grunts, groans, the occasional growl. When he comes, he'll sometimes let out stuttering "Oh-"'s that get louder before melting into laboured panting.
⟡ But he'll also murmur silly, cheesy things in your ear through his ragged breaths. "You make me believe in Heaven." "I musta done somethin' right in life to have you fall in my lap."
⟡ He sweats like a pig. Post-orgasm, he's huffing and grabbing his shirt from where he threw it to wipe his face and neck.
⟡ He loves pleasuring his partner, and looooves eating women out. Kissing, sucking, lapping, making you squeal and whimper. He savours your sounds, wanting more and more. He'll keep at it until you're overstimulated and batting at his head, or until he has to come up for air, beard soaked. He'd happily drown in you.
⟡ And when you give him head? He's a little nervous having the focus be on him but once you start, he's sucking in shaky breaths, eyes fluttering shut, jaw slack, in heaven. He'll grab at the air a little, fingers twitching before he paws at your head gently. He'll cradle your face in his palms and moan when your dreamy gaze meets his whilst you lap at the underside of his cock. He'll thrust into your mouth nice and slow, his veins flooding with arousal and his muscles tingling with utter disbelief that he's lucked out so highly with you.
⟡ He's an ass man, but just loves your body in general. He loves gettin' a handful of you; Ass, hips, waist, thighs, breasts, all of you. "You're a first-rate stunner." He'll growl softly, a smirk curling his lips, his thick fingers dipping into your warm flesh, "My girl."
⟡ If he needs you to be quiet during sex, he'll shove his neckerchief in your mouth out of necessity. "Sh, shh, shhh, darlin'. Can't be wakin' up the whole camp with those pretty sounds of yours. Here now, open up."
⟡ If he's sans neckerchief, he lets you bite his shoulders or have you suck on his fingers. "You gotta keep quiet, sweetheart." He'll whisper against your skin as he cups the back of your head and brings your mouth to his shoulder or pushes two thick fingers into your mouth.
⟡ He'll instinctively support you; holding your hips, wrapping his arms around your waist, grabbing your shoulders to stabilise you. He loves being pressed against you, feeling your heart against his chest or back, relishing the connection.
⟡ He's also always checking that you're enjoying yourself, whether it be by asking you outright or watching you for signs of discomfort. "That feel good?" "Y'alright, darlin'?" "Looks like that feels good, hm?" "Yeah? Like that?"
⟡ He gets unsure about leaving marks on you via biting, sucking, spanking, not wanting to hurt you too much or mar your skin. You have to convince him you want it. He feels a bit guilty until he sees how much you enjoy it. And he can't deny the way the sounds you make when he does it strikes lightning through his loins. "You really are a little hellcat, ain'chya?"
⟡ He doesn't mind being marked himself though, not at all, doesn't matter. He's marked all over anyway, what's one more mark? Especially from you.
⟡ He love love loves kisses. All over him, all over you. If you pepper kisses about his face and chest, he'll very quickly flush a gorgeous crimson and look at you, dazed. He'll pull you into his lap and kiss you all over until you're laughing loudly.
⟡ He'll click his tongue at you gently like click click click "Sh, shh, shhh. Easy, girl, easy."
⟡ He'll also tut at you if you're being bratty or feeling overwhelmed. Tut, tut, "Now now, girly. Don't get shrewish with me." or tut, tut, "Oh, sweetheart. I know, I know, c'mon, sweetheart. Keep going, just a little longer."
⟡ He's a soft dom/switch mostly, but if you can get him aroused enough, he relaxes into being a little more dominating.
⟡ He occasionally enjoys being dominated but more so enjoys either a relatively equal sexual dynamic or he naturally falls into a soft dom, caring, cooing role.
⟡ He's not immune to losing himself in the moment, though. He'll breathlessly mutter a "God..." or his breath will hitch like he's been winded before his movements will become rougher, more desperate, like this blissful feeling will slip through his fingers if he doesn't grab you. "C'mere." "Gimme more, girly." "Un-unh, don'chu move now."
⟡ He naturally praises you, not giving it much thought other than wanting you to feel incredible. "That's it, darlin'." "Lookatchu." "Good girl." "Atta girl." "Ain'tchu a picture." "Pretty lady, takin' it all." "That's it, girly, keep on, keep on." "Yeah, more'a'that, baby. Oh, you're so good."
⟡ And when you praise him? Most of the time, he'll duck his head down and wince. "Naw, shut up." "Quit all that." Before trying to divert the focus back onto you by squeezing your ass or rubbing your waist.
⟡ But if he's lost in pleasure? It'll drive him mad. His grip will tighten on you and he'll hiss and huff. He won't respond to the praise verbally but he'll flush red and let out soft "Oh"'s as he holds onto you for dear life.
⟡ If you put his hat on, he will automatically want to have you ride him (But not before barking out a laugh). "Y'think y'can be a cowgirl without ridin', hm?" He'll say before spreading his legs and patting his thighs, "Giddy up, girly." He'll say with a sarcastic lilt, his eyes aflame with excitement.
⟡ If he's particularly tired, you can ride him hard enough to draw a whine from him. His head will fall back, his hands falling from you, his hips jerking into you messily. "Oh, darlin'."
Joel Miller's the 'turn on your side' kind of guy and not the 'I didn't want to wake you.'
Masterlist
Him waking up in the middle of the night half-hard and desperate for his pretty wife. He pulls you closer, one arm tucked under your head and palming your breast, and the other shakily stroking drawing up and down your thigh to wake you up. He’s already pressing kisses down your neck, nipping at the pressure points and rocking his hips into your ass. “Wake up f’me, baby,” his voice is low from sleep, the grumble vibrating your back.
You hum, half-groggy and half-turned on, pushing your ass back in time with each roll of his hips. His skin is warm against your back, his boxers doing nothing to disguise the hard length of him rubbing against you.
He groans, hand tightening against your breast, cupping and pulling. You lift your thigh, helping him to place it back over his own legs, opening you up to him. “Fuck, always so easy for me,” his hand dips into your panties, fingers brushing against your clit in a way that has you mewling and arching back into him. “Just gotta get her ready f’me.”
He plays with you, fingers circling the best they can before he’s hungrily sliding your panties down your legs to give himself room. “That’s my girl,” he continues his shallow thrusts against your back, two fingers rubbing at your clit before dipping inside you.
Your breath hitches as he pumps, soft whines escaping into the pillows. “Please, Joel. S’not enough.”
He slides his fingers out, bringing them to your lips to clean up. You take them, sucking down the digits with the amount of eagerness you know will go straight to your husband’s cock. He pulls back enough to slip down his own boxers, and in one sharp thrust he’s filling you completely.
You moan, squeezing around him as he starts to fuck you from behind. Soft groans fill the dark room, joining the rhythmic creak of the bed from beneath you. His hand leaves your breast, wrapping around your throat and squeezing some of the air out, just the way you like it. His pace quickens, fucking you hard enough that your body’s bouncing with each merciless thrust, your head grazing the headboard each time. “Sweet girl taking her husband so well,” he mumbles, pulling one of your hands down to your lower stomach and holding it there. “Can feel ‘im bulging through.”
Joel Miller tag list: @pleurspetal
(comment to be added to the tag list for all Joel Miller fics <3)
