It takes place after the story missions with Horley and the Marshal and you meet up at Manzanita Post to continue where you left off. It's the second part of the hanging of Tom Davies but can be read as it's own piece.
Word count: 4.7k
Tags: explicit sexual content, post-canon, semi-public sex, getting caught, fingering, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, clothed sex, age gap, it's mentioned that reader gained a bit of weight after being bust out of prison, rdo spoilers
A/N: Everyone thank @stupidgaynerd who wrote this amazing fic about Marshal Leigh Johnson! It had me buzzing with the urge to write smut the very same day I read it lmao. Picture of Marshal Davies is made by the wonderful @colterblues
Manzanita Post lies quiet as the setting sun drowns it in a rich orange that bleeds onto the green of the leaves and the earthy brown of the soil beneath your shoes. Feeling saddle sore from the ride, you almost yelp in relief as you dismount your mare. Thereâs a hitching post in the front yard with a Kentucky Saddler and a familiar Golden Dun Mustang.
Youâve visited this place only once when you were hired to retrieve Alfredo Montez together with Lee (and unfortunately accidentally wound up killing his brother), but you know that the owner of this property is a Norwegian feller. Heâs nowhere to be found as you leave your horse with the other two and wander between the stretched pelts, benches and tools.
The squeak of a door rips you out of your thoughts and your attention steers to the big house. A familiar figure steps outside and halts at the porch, gaze snapping to their right and meeting yours. Marshal Davies stands there, shoulders dropping as if a great weight has been lifted off them as he recognizes you. You smile up at him and march over while he strolls off the porch.
âSo, youâre done with whatever it was Horley needed of you?â, he asks and your body responds to his low drawl.
Only two days ago you two had been in Armadillo, confessing to something that none of you were planning to voice in the first place. The fact that he was almost hung feels somewhat surreal as if it was just a bad dream. Noting the bruises around his neck, you know better than to pin it to your wild imagination.
Some people would try to mask the mark of a noose with a hiked-up collar, but his is as neatly folded as it always is. The Marshal isnât the type to hide the traces of battle.
âIt appears so.â, you answer and recall the massacre that ensued in Blackwater.
You accompanied Mrs. LeClerk and Mr. Horley into town after there was talk about protection. You didnât think sheâd actually put a bullet into that bastard, Amos Lancing. Not that youâll be grieving over that man any time soon, given that he was the reason that you ended up behind bars with a chain and ball around your ankle in the first place.
âI heard from folks passinâ by that it was some kind of bloody business.â, he comments, earning a glance from you.
âAnd what if? Will you arrest me, Marshal?â In all honesty, the thought of him tying a rope around your wrists excites you.
âNo, Miss. That would never cross my mind.â, he says with a conviction that puts you immediately at ease. Not that you believe he would actually hand you over to the law, judging by his own unorthodox methods of exacting it. âAs I said, Iâll just turn a good, old fashioned blind eye on it.â
âHow kind of you.â, you coo, coaxing a chuckle out of him.
He nods towards the open fireplace that has been popping and crackling and he takes one of the foldable chairs, gesturing at the seat. A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as you sink down onto it and watch him pick up a few things from a nearby crafting table. A glass finds its way into your hands, scratched up from a long time of service and a rough washing cloth or two.
Marshal Davies is holding one of his own and a bottle of whisky in his other hand which he brings close to his face. Biting down onto the cork, he pulls it out with his teeth and it makes a satisfying âplopâ. As you hold out the glass, he pours a generous amount of the liquor in it, making it slosh around and a drop of it escapes over the edge.
As it runs down the milky glass and onto your thumb, you scarcely notice the dampness on your skin. You only have eyes for that cork between his teeth, nestled in there like a cigarette or a cigar and you never thought you could harbor such envy for an inanimate object.
âI thought you could use a drink.â, he slurs with that thing in his mouth.
âThanks.â, you say, snickering.
The Marshal huffs out a short laugh of his own before setting the bottle back onto the crafting table and putting the cork back on. Then he takes the seat next to you, leaning back and sprawling his legs out in front of himself. Heâs wearing his hat again and the rim sits low over his face, hiding the upper half. You can only make out the edge of his black eye-patch.
âSo, what will you do now? Or has Horley more work for you?â, he asks and the questions leave him as anything but idle chitchat. Thereâs genuine curiosity swimming in them.
âI think this is it for now. His mistress hired me for a very specific job and Iâm pretty sure that we finished it in Blackwater now.â, you explain, uncertain how much youâre allowed to reveal.
No, Marshal Davies wonât stab you in the back, but you donât know if you can or want to drop Mrs. LeClerkâs name or anyone elseâs. She has asked you for discretion after all and you also donât want to burden the Marshal with this knowledge either, in case someone starts to investigate this matter.
âThatâs good, ainât it? Means you get to go your own path again.â, he remarks and you shrug.
âI donât know. It was nice to have a goal, something to work towards. Like with Montez.â
âI understand that.â, he murmurs and takes a sip. âBut thereâll always be more bastards out there to catch. If youâre still interested to work with me.â
âOf course. I even have a bounty hunter license now, so you hiring me wonât be illegal anymore.â
He cackles, throwing his head back. âI guess I did forget to ask you about that, didnât I? But I donât think I can be blamed after Horley recommended you. I reckon he didnât think to ask either.â
âYouâre right. He didnât.â
Your entire body aches from todayâs work. It felt like Amos Lancing had expected you all along or at some point at least. Thereâs no way that all those armed men had been waiting around the corner by coincidence. Most of them werenât even in uniform or sporting a deputy badge over their chest. Hired guns then or bounty hunters. Some had even been positioned on the rooftops.
But you held your ground well. All three of you.
âMy associate suggested to start a trading company, but I donât know about that.â, you explain.
The side of your face burns as Marshal Davies looks at you. Only two days ago, the two of you kissed. The air between you is casual, loaded as ever but casual. You removed that wall that had blocked you from approaching him, but you find yourself in a different, yet similar position. Shy. Timid even.
âThat sounds like fine work.â
âIâm not much of a hunter though.â
Thereâs a pause in which you bring the glass up to your mouth. Youâre absolutely parched and it takes about everything to not sigh in ecstasy as the liquor runs down your throat surprisingly smoothly.
âYou could continue workinâ for me. You did say you got a license now.â The suggestion leaves his lips low, almost a whisper. It carries a hint of hesitancy as if he wasnât sure that he should even voice it. Is he worried that you might reject him?
âI could if you want to have me, of course.â, you answer and his gaze burns into you.
The marshalâs pale iris gleams in the light of the flames. The blue in it acts almost like a canvas and even with that gap between your chairs, you still clearly see the fire dancing and licking at the blackened wood. With his free hand, he fishes out the revolver from his holster.
Itâs polished to perfectioned, though obvious by the details that it has been used frequently over the years. The engravings arenât as visible along the barrel and some smaller parts have been replaced, judging by the slight difference in shades. But you do so admire a man who takes care of his guns.
âIf my answer to that question ever ends up being a no, I want you to take this and shoot me in the head.â, he says as grave and serious like a priest at a funeral and you clasp a hand over your mouth to mask the grin.
âOh, Marshal.â
As the bottom of your glass becomes clearer and the red from the setting sun retreats, the fire is the only source of light out here. Thereâs an oil lamp behind one of the windows in the main house and you crane your neck to peer inside. Itâs a kitchen from what you can tell and a shadow stirs inside it.
âI talked to Nils about stayinâ here. I werenât sure when youâd come back.â, Marshal Davies speaks up and points with his thumb over his shoulder. âYou can have that house there.â
Itâs a cozy looking cabin that has an elk skull hanging over the front door. Youâve been spending so much time in your camp that you entirely forgot how it feels to lay inside a bed. The hotel room in Armadillo, as grimy and dusty as it was, had felt like pure luxury. Your muscles seem to sigh at the prospect of sleeping on a mattress again.
Mr. Cripps might wonder where youâve gone off to tonight, but you told him that he shouldnât expect you. Just in case things in Blackwater wouldnât have turned out as favorable as they did.
âThatâs very kind of you.â, you answer. âAnd Nils too, of course.â
He didnât talk much when you were here last time to meet the Marshal, but Nils seemed all right. In fact, now that you think about it, he didnât even acknowledge you guys and you wonder how he may have reacted after stumbling upon that severed head that Lee just tossed into a bush. Standing up, youâre surprised that your joints arenât creaking and squeaking like unoiled hinges.
One glance and you notice that the Marshal finished his glass too by now. You wrap your fingers around it and slide it out of his grasp. He doesnât break the eye contact and when you turn around to place the glasses next to the bottle, you can practically feel his gaze traveling along your body. In Armadillo, you both were willing to cross that certain line if it only hadnât been for your damned injury.
Itâs still hurting when you apply pressure on it, but most of the time it just itches. The prospect of perhaps continuing where you left off leaves you buzzing with excitements. Almost giddy, actually. Spinning on your heels, you reach out to lazily take his hand and hold it in yours, letting your thumb brush over his knuckles.
Callouses and scars mark his skin and your gaze trails along his sleeve, wondering how the rest of him looks like. Youâve never really seen him out of his neat suits. Shirt, vest and a jacket with that kind of cut that make any posture look straight and disciplined. Even when Montezâ men tried to hang him, his clothes sat on his body in a proper manner. He looked proper that day.
Glancing at the cabin, you wonder whether the bed in there will fit the two of you. Normally thereâs only a single bed when theyâre this size. A part of you hopes that that will be the case here as well. You want to be sleeping close to the Marshal tonight.
âIâm a bit tired.â, you mumble.
Your breath hitches as he brings the back of your hand up to his lips and plants a kiss on it.
âMe too, Iâm afraid.â, he says in an equally low voice.
The oil lantern in that kitchen window has been snuffed out by now. Nils must have gone to bed then and there isnât a single soul out here for miles. Marshal Davies slowly starts to stand up from his chair and takes off his hat. You donât know when he had the time to retrieve that thing, believing it lost in Tumbleweed.
Maybe Sheriff Freeman went back and found it lying around somewhere, but you sincerely doubt that. It looks pristine and clean and not entirely brand new, but not particularly worn either. Does he just keep a bunch of those somewhere in a closet? What an amusing thought.
âToo tired for anything else?â, you ask and look at him from under your lashes.
His beard twitches as he tries to fight back a smile.
âNot yet, Miss.â
Pulling him in close, you let your hands roam over his chest and tip your head back. You donât know where his hat went, but suddenly both of his palms are on your back, burning through the blouse and into your skin. Youâre still wearing that wash skirt, not having had the time to change into the pants you usually prefer.
Though youâre happy for it now as you back up against the crafting table and feel the edge press into your rear. All the while, Marshal Davies draws closer until his body is pressed up to your breasts or perhaps it was you who shoved him close. Running your fingers through his silver hair, you run the tips along the back of his eye-patch.
âWe should move this inside.â, he murmurs, painfully close to your mouth.
His mustache tickles your face and it isnât the first time that you wonder how it would feel between your legs. Those same legs that youâre spreading right now to allow him to step into your space, which he does without second guessing.
âPerhaps we should.â
None of you move an inch towards the cabin though and instead remain rooted in place. The Marshalâs lips collide with yours with a fervor that knocks all the breath out of your lungs. Itâs being squeezed out of your body through your mouth and into his as he kisses you dizzy. Teeth scrape over lips and tongues lap at one another.
His hands run down your curves, mapping your waist and hips, thumbs brushing over the underside of your breasts. Your own hands fly up to loosen the first couple of buttons of your blouse and deepen your cleavage. The silhouette of your chest flickers from the twitching flames and the Marshalâs eye is glued to it. This close, you can watch in real-time how his pupil dilates.
Your tongue darts out to run over your lips as you watch him push the blouse aside and reveal the now bare mounts. Your nipples stand hardened from the cool breeze caressing them and when he presses one down with his thumb, you shudder. He moves it in slow, tantalizing circles, sending mild jolts through your body.
Then his mouth is on yours again, ravishing you entirely. One hand is still cupping your breast while the other hurries down to hike up your skirt. Your own get to work as well, helping him speed things along before you grab your bloomers and push them all the way down. They pool around your ankles, standing out with their cream color in the vast darkness.
The Marshal makes it a point to avoid grazing over your injury like he accidentally did last time, shuffling more into the opposite direction. You angle your hurt leg away as well to give him more room. His crotch lies against your stomach, his clothed erection pressing into the softness of your belly. It has grown a bit ever since you got bust out of prison.
Suddenly, his hand letâs go of your chest, trailing down your ribs, beyond the hem of your blouse that is tucked away beneath the wash skirt and below the skirt itself as well. It stops between your legs, hovering above your exposed cunt that flutters and clenches around nothing in painful anticipation. The tip of his index finger pushes your sopping wet folds aside and you stifle a hiss at the contact.
It feels so rough against the damp heat and leaves your head spinning. Marshal Davies presses against your clit that has swollen up slightly from arousal and you bite down onto your lower lip. When he flicks over it, your nerve endings explode like fireworks. Rocking your hips, you seek for the friction and he groans.
âLord have mercy.â, he grumbles under his breath, close to your ear. Then he slides two fingers in and you feel him tremble as if itâs his cock thatâs in you instead. âOh, good God.â
You want to speak as well. A thousand words are lying on your tongue as he pumps his fingers in and out of you, spreading them and curling them up ever so slightly, but it all drowns inside your throat. All you manage to wring out are choked back moans and mewls. You lift your good leg to allow him better access and he hooks his arm under it to help keep it in the air.
As he fingers you, the bottom half of his palm keeps rubbing over your clit, stimulating it at a delicious pace. Pressure builds up inside your lower stomach and you chase it with the desperation of a woman gone mad with greed. Your wetness soaks his hand, running down to his wrist and you feel more staining the inside of your thighs.
The drops roll down your leg that is beginning to shake from the effort of holding up your weight all by itself and they seep into the bloomers that are still lying forgotten on the ground.
âOh, Marshal.â, you cry out in pleasure and whine when his hand retreats.
A protest bubbles up in your throat that dies as he suddenly grabs you by the rear and hoists you into the air. Setting your down onto the table, he pulls you roughly towards the edge and starts unbuckling his belt. The first item to be cast away is his weapon belt and he immediately goes to work on the other one that is holding up his trousers.
The clinking and jingling of the metal feed the heat inside you and your hands join his in an attempt to unfasten his pants. They drop, joining your bloomers and you swallow a gasp at the sight of his cock. It basically springs free, bouncing heavy from its girth and length. Veins protrude along his shaft in a light blue that matches his iris. That color has always looked good on him
Holding up your skirt, your spread your legs further and allow him to get a proper view of your cunt which he knows. His breath hitches and throat bobs as he stares at it absolutely mesmerized. You donât even remember the last time you felt this little shame in front of another lover. Something about the Marshal has you toss all humility and decency into the wind.
You grab him around the shaft and pull gently on the foreskin, revealing his flushed red tip thatâs leaking pre-cum. It resembles a pearl. Your pussy weeps as you grab him by the collar and pull him close for a hungry kiss. Youâve seen him fight for his life like a man, fight for justice like a man. Now you want him to fuck like one too.
Pushing your hips slightly more over the edge, you put one palm down onto the table for support and knock over the whisky bottle with your elbow. It rolls over the wood and lands with a dull thud in the grass. Marshal Davies moves closer, pressing the tip of his cock against your entrance that sucks him right in.
Thereâs no resistance when he enters you. It leaves you impossibly full and he isnât even halfway in yet. The Marshal stops for a second and pulls out, though not fully. A pale, creamy ring of your wetness adorns his shaft and you squirm when he thrusts forward, deeper than before. Slowly, he fucks himself into you until heâs sheathed entirely.
Eyes fluttering shut, you lean your head back, exposing your neck for him to bury his face in. Both of you are glistening with sweat and none of you move, just letting his cock soak up your arousal for a hot minute.
âOh, Lord have mercy.â, he repeats breathlessly and you feel him throb inside you as if his erection has a heartbeat of its own. âYou feel so nice. Oh, youâre so tight, Miss.â
His words do your heat no favor. The ache between your legs grows and suddenly youâre beyond impatient. Yearning for some more friction, you wiggle with your hips. Rolling them and squirming from left to right and right to left. He groans into your skin, his mustache tickling and slightly scratching.
Then he pulls back a second time before driving his cock deep inside you, his tip ending up kissing your cervix. An invisible copper wire tightens in your lower stomach from that action and you grasp his shoulder with your free hand. Thighs trembling as your boots hang in the air, you grit your teeth and wonder how long you will be able to hold this position.
The Marshal seems to be in no hurry, though you can tell from the sweat along his hairline that heâs struggling himself. Whether itâs the effort or restraint, you canât tell. He starts at a slow pace, undoubtedly to get used to it as well and not cum too fast. You love the intimacy of it. The sweetness. Though itâs not sweetness that youâre craving this moment.
No, sir. You want it rough and hard. You want him to rut into you on this crafting table out in the open like youâre nothing more than those wild animals out here in the woods yourself. The smell of the forest enters your nose together with your mixed sweat and the scent of sex. It works like a drug as it penetrates your mind.
âMarshal.â, you coo encouragingly beside his face.
âMiss-â, he stammers and jerks his hips forward.
Itâs an abrupt motion that has stars dance across your vision. He fucks you in earnest now, deep and fast and the sounds are wet and obscene. The crafting table rocks along and the glasses that you drank out of clink together. You squeeze your thighs together, the pleasure outweighing the sharp pain in your still fresh wound that you scarcely even register it.
You had no idea that you even have a thing for pain during sex. It mingles together perfectly with the jolts shooting through your veins as his cock keeps brushing over your g-spot. Nerves set ablaze, your mouth hangs open as you moan different variants of his name. Sometimes itâs Tom, meanwhile other times itâs Marshal and on some occasions, a Marshal Davies slips in too.
They all spur him on further to a point where you genuinely begin to wonder where exactly he draws the stamina from. One arm is still hooked under your good leg, taking off some of the work much to your gratitude and the other inches closer to where your hips meet. With each thrust, his balls slap against your ass cheeks, low and heavy and full.
Wedging his hand between your bodies without having to pull away too much, his thumb finds your clit that is still sensitive from the attention he has given it earlier. The stimulation seems near mind breaking. Pleasure claws at you from the inside, flashing in hot waves with each slam of his cock. The wire inside you uncoils like lightning.
Your entire body convulses and trembles as Marshal Davies tears the orgasm out of you. Itâs ruthless the way it wrecks your body like a train slamming into it. Your sopping walls clench around him so tight that you canât imagine it must feel good in any way, yet pure bliss is edged into his callous features from it.
He moans your name in that typical low drawl of his and next thing you know, something hot fills you up. Ropes of cum paint your walls, pushing against them and for every drop that escapes, more leaks out of his cock. As he pulls out, you gaze down on the mess you two made and canât help but acknowledge the way the sight makes you feel.
Your cunt is crying with his load. It stirs a dirty kind of arousal inside you.
âIâm so sorry.â, he breathes with a hoarse voice. âLook at you, poor thing. Iâll help you get cleaned up, Miss.â
He sounds and looks so genuinely distraught that you canât help but chuckle. âNo worries, Marshal. It looks like I returned the favor.â
His cock looks equally wrecked. The thick curls around the base cling to his soaked shaft and pearls of cum have joined the veins along it. More have drooped down onto his balls and you wet your dry lips, imagining the taste as you lick it all off him. A foreign sound rips you out of your thoughts and both of you freeze.
It doesnât quite fit in with the rest of the background noise of the forest like the rustling of leaves, swaying of branches and tiny footsteps of critters. No, it reminds you of a person, of a pair of boots stepping on pebbles and dirt. Glancing at the kitchen window where you have seen the lantern earlier, you think that it could be Nils at first. The main house lies completely dark.
âWhatâs that?â, you hiss in a hushed voice.
The Marshalâs eye is wide from terror and he scrambles to pull his trousers back up. You follow suit by pushing down your skirt and hopping off the table. He doesnât concern himself with his belts and instead helps close up all the buttons of your blouse to conceal your breasts that were bouncing up and down earlier.
The fire, although it has shrunk a bit, is still burning and illuminating a pair of neat shoes. They belong to Mr. Horley, whom you see clearly now.
âHorley?â, Marshal Davies snaps and the other man looks positively startled by the sudden outrage.
âMy apologies. I didnât mean to scare you.â, he says. âI forgot that you probably have some folk out for you. I didnât consider announcing my presence.â
âItâs all right.â, you chime up, even though you donât feel that way.
Mr. Horley opens his mouth to reply when something catches his attention. Following his gaze, youâre mortified that itâs your bloomers that have caught his eyes. Theyâre sprawled out on the ground next to the Marshalâs weapon belt. Both items speak louder than any words ever could and shame prickles beneath your face.
âI see now that Iâve interrupted something.â, he mutters bashfully after clearing his throat. âI only came to let you know of another business opportunity that might interest you, but that can obviously wait. When you have the time, go speak to Mr. Cripps. Iâll leave a letter with him.â
Before anyone else can utter a single word, he takes his leave. Your cheeks still burn from the whole scene and you press both palms over them, laughing nervously to yourself.
âThat was something.â, you comment and watch Marshal Davies run a hand over his face.
âSure.â, he agrees and then quietly adds more under his breath. âI think Iâm too old to get caught like this.â
Grinning, you swat playfully at his arm and lean your head against his shoulder. His arm wraps around your torso and a delicious shiver runs down your spine as you feel the remnants of his cum leak out of you and down your leg. Your cunt aches from his size, but itâs a comfortable kind of pain. The same way your muscles are going to feel tomorrow. You reckon that you will welcome the soreness with open arms.
Clad in black | Marshal Leigh Johnson x fem!reader
Your niece goes missing and the Marshal is willing to do anything to find her for you. Even if it includes an unconventional kind of comfort.
Word count: 10.8k
Tags: explicit sexual content, before rdr1 events, widow!reader, his pov, age gap, mutual pining, first kiss, desk sex, clothed sex, oral sex (reader receiving), fingering, p in v, creampie, Leigh developes a breeding kink and power imbalance kink in real time, nipple play, praising
A/N: Thank you so much @stupidgaynerd for putting thoughts into my head and thank you @colterblues for providing the beautiful picture <333
The bleak walls of the Sheriffâs office stare back at him as Marshal Leigh Johnson leans back into his chair. Lifting his legs, the spurs jingle when he places his heels on top of his desk and crosses them. This position makes up majority of his days while he busies his hands with a newspaper if he isnât pushing his hat down onto his face to drown out New Austinâs sun and noise.
It has been surprisingly quiet in Armadillo lately aside from the usual drunkards down in the saloon, but those are manageable. After a stern word or two, they normally go their own way and steer clear from the bar for a while, knowing that the Marshal will keep them in one of the cells otherwise. A night or two, nothing too dramatic.
And they keep it quiet while in they're locked up unless Jonah or Eli (or both of them together) decide to pick on whatever poor bastard enters their line of sight first. Sighing, the Marshal pulls open one of the desk drawers, revealing a few stacked documents that have turned yellow with age and that have been rotting away in there for so long that he doesnât even remember what they say anymore.
The bureaucratic aspects of his position have never been his strongest suit. He prefers the good old-fashioned way of exacting the law which is to show up to the scene and beat those fools with a very long, very hard stick. Now he has city folk in fine suits knocking at the door, demanding for nonsense to be installed like that damned telephone. Marshal Johnson still canât seem to make that thing work or perhaps it does already and he's simply too dense to figure it out.
Reaching out, he grabs the true reason he opened that drawer which is a box of cigars and matches. An oil lamp is perched on top of the right corner of his desk, illuminating the simple interior of the Sheriffâs office. Itâs scarce, spartan even, in the way itâs decorated or rather, in the way it isnât. Those old, dusty items canât be called decoration.
With a practiced flick of his wrist, Marshal Johnson lights the match and holds it up to the cigar between his lips. His teeth sink gently into the filter to keep it in place without chewing it out too much. Smoke rises up in front of his face as the tobacco catches fire and he puffs slowly. Without removing it from his mouth, he blows the smoke out through his nose.
âItâll be a quiet night.â, he mutters to himself. He can feel it in his bones.
Suddenly, the sound of wheels rattling rips him out of his thoughts. Someone is driving a wagon through town. At this hour? Marshal Johnson keeps his gaze straight, refusing to peek through the window to his right even with curiosity gnawing at the edges of his mind. Something tells him that he will jinx it if he looks and he was just starting to enjoy his night shift.
Then the wagon comes to a halt close to the Sheriffâs office. In fact, itâs parked right in front of the building and he grumbles a curse to himself. Putting the cigar out in the ashtray, he lowers his legs onto the floor and assumes a more proper position to sit in. Canât have folk thinking that he doesnât take his job seriously. Because he does. To some degree.
Sometimes an old man just wants some peace and quiet in a land as wild and unruly as New Austin. After the previous Sheriff fled the post due to sickness and outlaws ransacking the county, Marshal Johnson had nothing but shambles to work with. Still, he managed it somehow despite the odds being stacked against him.
The door swings open and in march two young women. The one in the front has her blonde hair tied into a neat and easy bun. Bonnie MacFarlane is easily recognized and if not by her attire than by her drawl that minces no words. Following closely on her heels is a ranch hand that Marshal Johnson got acquainted with under the most unfortunate of circumstances.
He only started working here for two weeks when your husband passed away from Cholera. Of course, Marshal Johnson saw you from afar before when he paid the ranch a visit for the first time to get a layout of the land here. You and your husband had looked quite handsome together and he could tell from the gleam in both of your eyes that you were very much in love.
Although he didnât get the chance to exchange a single word with either of you, it struck him quite hard when he learned of your husbandâs passing. Too early and too bad if youâd ask him.
âLadies.â, he speaks up with a tip of his hat. âWhat brings you in here so late?â
Worry rises behind his chest when his eyes land on you. You stopped wearing black last spring and it seemed as if you were recovering well from the loss. Obviously, it has left a scar that wonât fade for the rest of your life (the Marshal is only too familiar with it), but youâve been carrying that burden with a grace that he himself had never been able to muster up.
Even at the funeral when you should have been left to mourn to your heartâs content, you kept your strong posture like a rock during a storm or a fort during a siege. As much as it shames him, he thought you beyond gorgeous then and when he took his hat off in front of you, it was in awe. Your beauty still strikes him like a lightning bolt as he regards you now.
Miss MacFarlane places a hand on your upper back in silent encouragement and you clear your throat.
âEvening, Marshal. I, uh- I'll just cut straight to the chase. I have been expecting my niece, but sheâs late. Very late. Sheâs supposed to travel by coach and last I heard from her was when she reached Blackwater. In her letter she mentioned that sheâd drive through Thieves Landing and I canât help but fear for her now.â, you explain and though your voice is as firm as iron, thereâs a tremble underneath your words.
Marshal Johnson furrows his brows. Driving through Thieves Landing is quite the detour. There are definitely better and faster roads from Blackwater to here. He canât help but admit that this rubs him the wrong way, but he canât bring himself to voice it to you. Not when youâre already frightened out of your mind.
Not that it's overly visible on you aside from your fidgeting. You've always been remarkably adept at remaining robust in times of crisis. He knew already that you werenât from around here. Your husband was born and raised in this area though, so it makes sense why you moved into this small, forgotten corner of the country. Still, it baffles the Marshal as to why you havenât returned back to your family yet. What could possibly keep a person like you here?
âThereâs no need to worry, maâam. Those coaches are late all the time. Give it a day or two and sheâll show up.â, he answers while fighting the urge to ride out to Thieves Landing and see for himself.
âItâs been over a week.â, you argue with clenched fists.
A deep crease is edged into your forehead and a flame flickers behind your eyes. Marshal Johnson is very well aware that you wonât back down from this and he doesnât want to run into the risk of you taking things into your own hands. Youâre the type of person who can handle themselves just fine, but Thieves Landing isâŠit just is.
Itâs well outside his jurisdiction. He holds no authority in that place, but when he looks at you like this, stricken with grief and fear, his heart gives in.
âIâll round up my men and weâll search the perimeter. Iâll see what I can do.â, he relents. It seemed inevitable anyways.
Both you and Miss MacFarlane visibly relax, though your posture still carries a hint of tension in it. Your shoulders are pulled up and your features are drawn. He reckons that you havenât gotten much sleep from all this fretting and that you most likely wonât catch any until your niece returns in one piece. Fishing his revolver out of its holster, he checks the bullets inside the wheel.
âI suggest you best get back home and catch some rest.â, he murmurs and tucks the gun away again. âDonât worry too much, maâam. Weâll find your niece.â
âThank you so much, Marshal.â, you breathe.
â
That same night, he basically ripped Jonah and Eli out of their beds and onto their saddles to ride along the roads around Armadillo and the MacFarlane ranch. With folk fast asleep, he didnât see the need to rouse them given the late hour. They wouldnât have given him any straight answers in their drowsy state.
Marshal Johnson feels like shit himself as he sits at his desk the next morning and rubs the exhaustion out of his eyes. Hours of riding and searching in complete darkness left him saddle sore and more tired than ever. A few years ago, he would have taken all this in stride, but his old joints do nothing but protest now. He allowed his men an hour or two of respite before he sent them out to the neighboring farms and homesteads for questioning.
Hopefully someone saw something. A stagecoach isnât easy to miss out here on the flat plains. Suddenly, the front door opens again and his head snaps up. You march in and he peeks outside, spotting the same wagon from last night, but Miss MacFarlane is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps you drove out here by yourself.
Closing the door behind you, you fidget with your hands. One look and he can tell that you havenât closed your eyes once. Youâre still wearing the same clothes as before.
âAnything?â, you ask, voice hopeful. It crushes him to deliver the bad news.
âWe couldnât find any signs last night, but that doesnât mean anything. It was too dark to see.â, he rushes to explain in a desperate attempt to put you at ease. âI sent out the boys to question folk.â
âI see.â
The disappointment oozing in your reply slices through him like a knife. The helplessness he feels at your distraught sight is close to disgusting. There should have been results by now. Anything for him to show that could soothe your nerves. Standing up, he pushes his chair over the floor and gestures for you to sit.
You donât spare him a single glance as you sink down onto it and for a split second, he catches the faint scent of perfume. It caresses his nose in a manner that he can only describe as sly. The smell isnât intense or penetrating, more so a whiff. A ripple instead of a wave as if you sprayed it on a good while ago.
Clearing his throat, he walks around you and leans back onto the edge of his desk with his arms crossed. Youâre lost in thoughts and he takes the moment to regard you this close. Guilt creeps into him at the emotions that you invoke inside him. In times like these, he really shouldnât be thinking like this, but you make it impossible not to.
Not for the first time does he struggle with the urge to reach out and touch the curve of your neck, nor will it be the last either. Itâs inappropriate.
âMy men and I will be on it during all hours, you have my word. I wonât rest until we find her.â, he promises with a conviction made out of steel.
âThatâs very kind of you, Marshal.â, you mumble with your hands in your lap.
When you meet his gaze, itâs almost devastating. The last time he felt this thrill around anyone was long before his wife passed away. Ever since, heâs been alone and preferred it that way. With no other family left, he decided to throw himself at this position as Sheriff until his retirement which waits just around the corner. He thought of moving to the coast. Face heating up, he opens a drawer and takes out a bottle and two glasses.
âI reckon you could use a drink.â, he suggests.
Never mind the fact that itâs still early in the day. The whiskey sloshes as he pours it in and puts the cork back on. As he hands over the glass, your fingertips briefly brush over his and a jolt runs through him that he tries to mask to the best of his abilities.
âMy point from last night still stands if it matters to you, maâam. These coaches are late all the time. I reckon that a wheel popped off or something.â, he says and you push out a weary sigh, not looking convinced. Though he can tell that you desperately want to believe him.
âYou might be right and I might be overreacting.â, you whisper and raise your shoulders as you breathe in deeply in an attempt to clear your head. âDo you have any children? If thatâs not too forward to ask.â
The question does catch him off-guard, but he doesnât mind it one bit. The two of you never really got beyond small-talk and idle chitchat about the weather or the state of the county.
âNo, my wife and I never really wanted any. She always said it ainât right to put any into this world during times like these and I found myself agreeing.â, he answers before taking a sip of the drink. âAnd your husband and you? Did you want any?â
âWe didnât have the chance to really consider it.â, you admit and he suddenly feels horrible for returning the question.
âIâm sorry.â
âNo, itâs all right. Itâs been a while now.â
âStill.â, he softly insists. âIt gets more bearable, but the pain never really passes, does it?â
The saddest of smiles tugs at the corners of your lips. âI guess so.â
Silence stretches on, filled with the muffled noises from the town and the occasional sloshing of liquid inside glass.
âYour niece.â, he starts up and finishes his drink entirely. âI donât think I ever met her.â
âNo, my family canât afford these long trips, but they scraped together enough coin to pay for the coach. Train tickets are still a bit too pricey, Iâm afraid.â, you answer and he smiles.
âThatâs mighty nice of them to try and see you.â
âIt is.â The smile on your face turns into a genuine one now. âWhat about yours?â
He huffs out a light laugh. âIâm alone. If thereâs any family out there, then I donât know of them.â
You tilt your head to the side as you observe him and he feels like squirming from the attention. Your lips are slightly parted as the glass rests in both your hands on your lap. The whiskey inside has almost reached the bottom.
âHave you ever thought about re-marrying?â, you blurt out and Marshal Johnson sputters for a split second.
That thought has crossed his mind several times over the years now, but he never genuinely considered it. In his eyes, heâs too much of a handful or rather two handsful. Especially after what his wifeâs death caused him.
âA handful of timesâ, he admits.
âThen why didnât you? There are plenty of lovely women in New Austin.â, you point out and he swallows his own saliva. Thereâs only one lovely woman he knows of and sheâs sitting in this very office right now.
âIt never really lined up for me, I guess. There were always other things on my mind.â
âDonât tell me youâre the type of man whoâs married to his job.â, you shoot out and it takes him a moment to recognize that you just made a joke.
He laughs. âNo, I ainât the type for that, maâam. I like my work, but not to that extend, I fear.â
â
Another sun set and rose again and still, they made no progress. Jonah and Eli have been to every homestead in the area and Marshal Johnson forces down the urge to question each of the people a second time himself. That would take up too much of their time. Wind is whipping around his face and tearing at his clothes as he rides down the road leading up to Armadillo.
Theyâve been to every corner and nook of this county, even went so far as to search Pikeâs Basin. The sun is lying low by now, painting the plains in a rich red that makes the stones and rocks look like theyâre bleeding. Jonah and Eli are already waiting at the crossroads on their own horses. Judging by their expressions, none of them had any luck either.
âGoddammit.â, Marshal Johnson barks as he comes into earshot. âWhere the hell could a stagecoach disappear around here?â
âIf it even is here, boss.â, Eli replies. âThey might be at Thieves Landing still.â
âI still donât get why they decide to go through that dump. Only idiots would go there.â, Jonah snaps, gargles and spits into the dust.
âWeâll make another round tomorrow and if nothing turns up, weâll think of something else.â, Marshal Johnson says and signals for his horse to start trotting towards town. The two younger men follow suit and catch up, riding on either side of him.
âWill we have to go to Thieves Landing?â, Eli asks. âItâs outside of our-â
âI know it is, dammit!â, Marshal Johnson bellows. âI guess we wonât have a choice. Letâs hope it wonât come to this.â
They round the corner and stop at the hitching posts in front of the office. There isnât a wagon parked anywhere in town and the Marshal canât help but feel a flicker of relief. He has no idea how on earth he would face you after yet another failure. You were laughing and joking around so sweetly yesterday and the last thing he wants to do is take that away from you.
But there is one positive in all of this doom and gloom and heâs deeply ashamed for feeling this way. Yet, if it hadnât been for your niece winding up missing, nothing would have drawn you to his office and he would have never gotten the opportunity to chat with you about more than the heat or the crops.
âCould be a gang took the widowâs niece. We got plenty in that corner.â, Jonah remarks as the Marshal pushes the door open.
âQuit calling her the widow. She has a name, boy.â, he chastises the young man.
All three startle as they clasp their eyes onto the figure in the middle of the square room. You stand there, hands wrung together and for once in a fresh pair of clothes, but still looking disheveled. Your lips are pressed into a tight, thin line and your jaw grinds as you stare them down. Though Jonah is the main target of your scorn, who audibly gulps from the raw attention.
âI am so sorry, maâam.â, Marshal Johnson says and joins your glare. Jonah shrinks under it.
âItâs perfectly fine, Marshal. The widow doesnât mind at all.â, you spit, unwavering in your anger.
With one quick and harsh swipe of his hand, he gestures his men to leave the building and they scramble to rush outside. The door falls shut behind them in one fell swoop that sends a gust of wind and dust up into the air. His eyes water a little from it and he blinks the dampness away before nodding at the bench to his right.
âWhy donât you take a seat?â, he offers to which you fiercely shake your head.
âI wonât stay for too long. Bonnie was kind enough to drive me to town, but she plans on returning back to the ranch soon. I only went to check what you found.â, you answer and he shifts his weight from one foot to another.
âWell, we paid Pikeâs Basin a visit. Outlaws usually lie low in the canyon, but itâs completely deserted.â, he explains, mentally recoiling from the way your face drops. âWe searched the roads and fields, questioned some folks, but nobody has seen a coach pass through in weeks.â
Your shoulders drop and you look so utterly defeated that he wrestles with the urge to pull you into a hug.
âI see how it is.â, you mumble under your breath and he takes a step closer. His fingers itch, wanting to reach out, but he keeps them firmly at his side the same way he roots his feet into place.
âBut that ainât no reason to give up hope just yet. Theyâll turn up.â Itâs a pathetic attempt at comfort that falls flat in the vast sea that form your worries.
âI wish I could share your optimism.â, you say, followed by a humorless chuckle. âI really do, but I find it hard.â
âNo one blames you for worrying. Iâd do it too and be a heck more annoying with it.â, he whispers.
Sun rays bleed in through the windows, painting the jail cells with their grimy and stained walls, illuminating all filth. But when it hits you, you seem to glow. You look absolutely radiant and not for the first time does the Marshal find himself mesmerized. It shouldnât be allowed to look so breathtaking when sad.
âOh, Marshal.â, you wring out. âIâm so glad that you moved to Armadillo. If weâd still have our old Sheriff, I wouldnât feel nearly at ease as I do now.â
Stunned, he blinks and then clears his throat. âIâm happy to hear that.â
He had no idea that youâve felt even an ounce of security during all of this. You never showed it.
âBut I should get going now. Thank you for all your effort.â Even if you have nothing to show.
Although he has no way of knowing if you even think that, those words hang heavy over his head. Theyâre like a noose that is waiting to descend and be slung around his neck. As you pass him, he makes room in front of the door for you to step through, but you halt at his right. Thatâs when he catches it again. Perfume. This time, the tiniest bit more prominent than before.
He takes it as a good sign. Perhaps youâre starting to handle the situation a little better now. Not that he would ever criticize the way youâre currently handling it. A lot more folk would have been a lot more hysterical. Something stirs behind his chest then, swelling and growing and pushing against his ribcage.
He gets the sneaking suspicion that youâre giving him a cue, as if itâs his turn to act on something only you know but that he's supposed to know too. He feels like an actor that got put on stage with no script.
âI hope you know that my door is always open for you.â, he says in a low drawl.
Your eyes light up ever so briefly, making him question whether it was even real. Perhaps itâs his imagination playing tricks on him.
âIâll keep that in mind.â
The soles of your boots thump over the floor boards in a satisfying rhythm and although he hates seeing you leave, he enjoys watching you go. Itâs a dirty kind of pleasure that leaves him not only questioning his morals but also wanting to dig a hole for himself. The temperature inside the building has shot up by quite a bit and it takes every ounce of strength to tear his gaze away.
â
Armadillo lies quiet. Sleeping soundly. The music coming from the saloon has ceased some time ago. Marshal Johnson canât quite tell when that happened. Alone with his own thoughts, he decided earlier to kick back and get some shut-eye. A part of him knows very well that he should head home and get a proper night of rest, but he canât bring himself to commit.
Jonah and Eli have gone home though and someone has to man the Sheriffâs office. He wants to be that man. At any given moment, the very much anticipated stagecoach might turn up or someone who saw it and knows that theyâre looking for it. When that happens, he wants to be at the scene. Hat pulled down into his face, he dozes off.
Itâs not the first time that he slept in his chair. Not even his sore limbs and old joints can keep him away from it. Even with its drunkards and occasional trouble makers, Armadillo isnât exactly the pinnacle of excitement. Scarcely anything important happens here aside from cattle rustlers and such. He has slept in this office many times before.
Though itâs restless now, filled with the scent of perfume and hips that sway from side to side with each retreating step, of laughter that bounces off these walls and eyes with a beautiful kind of melancholy in them. He hears your whispers in his sleep and that sharp tongue that you directed at Jonah. Marshal Johnson wouldnât particularly mind being subjected to it himself, as terrifying as the prospect may be.
Dangerous, is what all of this is. He believed himself content with watching you from afar, but now that youâve gotten closer, he canât see himself rebuilding that distance in the future. An appetite has turned into an insatiable hunger and your questions from the other day swirl around inside his mind. Would he re-marry?
He canât quite believe that heâs contemplating it at his age. Retirement is inching closer with each passing day and here he is, fantasizing about the prospect of re-marrying! Especially to someone as young and vibrant as you, of all people. He could never keep up with you, he fears. But there goes his plan of moving to the coast and out of this godforsaken town. It doesnât look like you will leave anytime soon and he canât find it within himself to leave you.
A jolt shoots through his body and a pair of invisible hands grab at him, ripping him out of his unconscious state. Eyes snapping open, he pushes his hat up and blinks against the darkness in an attempt to make his eyes adjust to it. Someone is standing in front of the door. The porch squeaks under their weight: a haunting sound in such stillness.
Alarm bells ringing inside the Marshalâs mind, he kicks his feet off the desk and reaches for his gun. Judging by the sound that stranger is making, theyâre trying their utmost to remain quiet and undetected. Jaw tense and grinding, his hand hovers above the holster and he curls his fingers, running them over his gun as the door slowly opens.
Moonlight spills onto the grimy, old floor like quicksilver. A boot appears, followed by the hem of a skirt and a head peeking out from behind the wood. Itâs your face staring back at him, watchful eyes darting down to his hand and the holster. Nothing escapes your attention it seems. He relaxes at once.
âYou startled me, maâam. Forgive me, but I wasnât expecting you.â, he says with a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose.
You offer him an apologetic smile. âAm I intruding?â
âNo, not at all. I did say my doors are always open to you.â, he rushes to answer and beckons you closer. âCome in. Have a seat.â
Shutting the door behind yourself, you slump down onto the bench and he quickly follows. Hands resting on his weapon belt, he gazes at you as he fills the space to your right. Your slouched posture underlines your exhaustion and the black leather of your boots is covered in a layer of dust. Furrowing his brows, Marshal Johnson takes in the rest of your rugged appearance. Everything about you is so wind beaten and weary almost as if-
âDonât tell me walked all the way, maâam.â, he says and your eyes flash as if you got caught red handed.
âI did.â, you answer, squaring your shoulders in resistance.
A sigh pushes past his lips. âThat ainât a light journey. Itâs quite the way from the ranch to here.â
âI know that.â, you retort, though with only half the bite another person would have thrown at him. âI justâŠI had to get out and take a walk.â
âIf thatâs what you call a walk then I hate to see your idea of a hike.â, he jokes, coaxing the ghost of a smile out of you. You clasp a hand over your mouth.
The Marshal wonât, nor can lie when he says that heâs delighted to be in your company, yet he canât help but feel riddled with guilt. No doubt you came all the way down to Armadillo to hear what him and his men have found and no doubt he will disappoint you yet again. Dread pools in his guts like slick oil at the prospect and he finds it hard to even clear his throat.
âI know that you still havenât found them and thatâs not why Iâm here.â, you blurt out before he can even begin to apologize. âYou said I can always come to you and I guess, I didnât want to be alone with my thoughts. Not tonight.â
The confession leaves him befuddled, but with a warm feeling fluttering behind his chest. Looking down at his own palms, he clenches his hands into fists to get some feeling back into them. Your presence numbs him, especially when you speak this softly.
âI understand that. Feel free to stay for as long as you like.â, he clips, mortified at the loss of words when he knows that he should say or do more to comfort you.
âThank you. I appreciate your support a lot, Marshal.â, you mutter under your breath and your gaze burns into his skull. Thank the Lord for the rim of his hat hiding most of his face. Otherwise, you might spot the flush spreading across it.
âItâs the least I can do.â, he somehow manages to wring out.
âI just donât know what Iâll do if something happened to her. What will I tell my family?â, you whisper, clasping a hand over your mouth again and softly sobbing into it.
âNothing happened.â, he gently coos and draws you closer to his side.
As you lean your head onto his shoulder, your entire body seems to melt into his. Itâs a comfortable weight and he welcomes the warmth, even though heâs feeling hot enough already. The Marshal wraps an arm around you, resting his hand on your shoulder and giving it a firm squeeze. Itâs the closest youâve ever been and at once, heâs thankful that heâs sitting down.
Your perfume enters his nose and brain. The heat of your thighs seeps into his as they press together and while every ounce of self-preservation tells him to draw back, every cell inside his body yearns to stay right here. Sorrow is edged into your features and it carves right into him.
âThank you for letting me stay here.â, you murmur.
âNo need for that, maâam. Any fool would have done that.â
âIs that what you are then, Marshal? A fool?â, you ask and slowly raise your head to meet his gaze.
The temperature inside the Sheriffâs office spikes and reaches an unbearable point. His clothes cling uncomfortably to his body and suddenly, heâs all too aware of his own faults. Like the beard he hasnât trimmed in too long or the tobacco swirling in his breath. If only you had given him the chance to clean up before luring a confession out of him. Staring at you feels about the same as staring into the barrel of a shotgun.
No, youâre not luring anything out. Not without already knowing the truth inside his heart and he has made it a point to keep it hidden. The Marshal himself is to blame for being tempted by the smallest of things like those eyes peering at him from behind your lashes and- good Lord, heâs completely hung up on that perfume of yours, isnât he?
âMore times than Iâd like to admit, I reckon.â, he says, attempting a joke to ease the tension in his spine, but to no avail. It only makes you smile at him and no matter how faint the gesture, it strikes a chord within him.
âYou donât seem like one to me.â, you remark, coaxing a dry chuckle out of him. It chokes in his throat when your fingers brush over his knee so subtly that it could have easily been a gust of wind.
He feels as if he should protest, knows that he should, in fact. But he canât keep a leveled head with the way your thigh presses against his, nor with the gleam in your damp eyes. The look youâre giving him is so tender and soft, yet loaded like a gun. Marshal Johnson has no idea what possesses him when he leans forward and dips his head low to capture your lips with his, nor does he know when his hand wanders from your shoulder along your arm.
You sigh into his mouth and it carries such relief. You kiss him back, nuzzling into his side and he feels the shape of your breasts even through all those layers of fabric. Blood rushes down to his crotch in an instant at a speed he didnât know he still had in himself. Nowadays the only thrill he experiences is when he rides at top speed over the plains. Still, it doesnât compare.
Lips moving in sync, your taste passes into his mouth and each breath you push out, he sucks right into his lungs. Nerve endings ablaze and burning down like the lit fuse of a dynamite stick, he leans more into you, deepening the gesture. One hand finds the crook of your neck that heâs been dreaming to touch and the other is still around your torso.
Your head is tilted back and as his tongue darts out to brush over your lips, you immediately part them to grant him access. His trousers are tightening more with each passing second and his heart seems to be wanting to escape through his ribs. Thereâs a split second of the fog in his mind lifting and he gains a clear head.
This is so utterly wrong. He canât be sitting here and taking advantage of a grieving woman. You came to talk to someone and he offered his ear. Now he has his mouth on yours in an attempt to ravish you in the dead of night like youâre some scandalous secret. Heâs too old and youâre too respectable. At once, he breaks away from the kiss and as he gazes into your face, he almost immediately folds again.
Your lips are swollen and glistening in the dim moonlight shining through the barred windows and casting shards onto the floor and walls. One beam illuminates your eyes as if someone positioned it to try and compliment your features in the best way possible. You look positively ethereal. Suddenly, he understands those tales of sailors hurling themselves into the sea for sirens.
The proximity is mind numbing and he wills his legs to move. He stands up, abruptly so and staggers for a brief moment. Your eyes are as wide as saucers as you gape at him, still trying to comprehend what happened.
âIâm so sorry, maâam. I didnât mean to cross that line.â, he says and rests his hands on his belt in an attempt to keep them to himself.
Not even a minute has passed and heâs already itching to reach out again. He needs to feel your skin on his for a second time, needs to map out your body with his palms and feel your pulse throb against the tips of his fingers. In the next second, youâre on your feet as well and staring him down. It carries no anger or hostility. Not even a sliver of regret like he expected.
âYou didnât cross anything.â, you argue and his knees begin to feel like jelly when you take a step closer.
âNo, I clearly took advantage of your state-â
âYou did no such thing, Marshal. Have I not been obvious?â, you interrupt him and he swallows the lump in his throat.
âWith that?â
Your hand finds his chest and his blood rushes through his ears, drowning out almost all noise.
âI want this as much as you do.â, you whisper, all the grief from earlier washed out of your voice. âBut if I misread the signs, then Iâll leave right now.â
Marshal Johnson canât bring himself to do anything besides gawk at you as if a second head is sprouting out of your shoulder. Fear flashes over your face and it dawns on him that you might be as terrified of a rejection as he has been this entire time.
âDonât go.â, he mutters under his breath, palms holding you by your wrists. Itâs a gentle gesture that allows you to break free easily if you so desire it.
Your lips collide with his, unwavering and unyielding and tossing oil into the flames roaring behind his chest. Letting go of your wrists, he snakes both arms around your waist and pulls you close. Your breasts a pressed flush against his chest and his tongue slides into your mouth. The blood has never left his crotch and he doesnât doubt that you noticed it after he stood up from the bench.
Oh, you definitely noticed judging by the way you roll your hips forward to grind down onto the bulge in his trousers that strain painfully against his erection. You back up and he follows suit, not interrupting the kiss once. As your rear hits the edge of his desk, he pulls away for a second or two to swipe his arm over the table.
There isnât much sitting on top of it besides the ashtray, some papers and that damned telephone that he could never stand anyways. That thing crashes down onto the floor and the speaker flies out of its handle, rolling over the grimy wood. His ears are perked to listen in on any sounds from outside, but nobody overheard the ruckus he just caused.
Fingers digging into the tender flesh of your ass cheeks, he hoists you onto the table and spreads your legs by your knees to fill the space in between. Heat emanates through your bloomers that have grown slightly damp from the kiss. Marshal Johnson suspects that his rather forward way of clearing the table might have something to do with the state of your undergarments as well.
As you pull him in by the collar of his shirt, his hat slides right off his head and silently drops onto the floor. He couldnât care less for that thing right now. Hands moving along your body and mapping and squeezing each dip and curve, his fingers find the first button of your blouse. Theyâre small and he hisses a curse as he tries to wedge it through the narrow slit in the fabric. It becomes easier the second time around and on the third button, he has no issue whatsoever.
Itâs the strangest of things to have his hands tremble so from the anticipation as if he was a young man again and not a 51-year-old Sheriff of a whole town. He has taken off several blouses in his life. Yours is simplyâŠparticularly unruly. With your breasts now exposed, he dips his head, kissing and tasting your throat, collarbone and anything below that point. Your skin does not feel like it belongs to a ranch hand.
Cupping your chest with his hands, he fondles the hardened nipples and saliva gathers in his mouth as if heâs developing an appetite. Bending down, he flicks his tongue over one of them while still running his thumb over the other. You arch your back, shoving your tits deeper into his face and his cock throbs inside his pants.
Teeth grazing over your stiff nipple, he shudders at the moan the action elicits. His tongue darts out again, swirling around it in circles while he pinches the other between his fingers, skillfully twisting and tugging. Your response robs him of all sense and reason. Hot breath caresses his forehead as you watch him closely through hooded eyes, mouth hanging open to gasp at every twist and pinch.
His teeth find your nipple again, this time holding it between them and putting his lips around to suck. Squeezing your thighs together, you trap him in place. He letâs go of your breast with an audible pop and travels lower until he finds himself on his knees. Itâs way hotter down there on eye-level with your clothed cunt.
Marshal Johnson hikes up your skirt. What should have been slow and teasing, is now rushed as his erection pushes against his trousers. His balls feel full and heavy and he can detect the first signs of a cramp that will only grow if he doesnât take care of his situation soon. Still, he refuses to let this opportunity pass. He wants to get a proper taste, to lick you and have your legs on his ears before he takes you on this table.
"Marshal.", you whine above and further part your legs for him.
If his eyes wouldn't be so fixed on the wet spot on your bloomers, he would have responded with something clever perhaps. Though now his brain activity has been reduced to one of a peanut as if this is his very first time going down on a woman. His palms are clammy from sweat and he rubs it off on his trousers.
Fingers itching to touch, he wedges them underneath the bands of your cream colored undergarments and slowly pulls them down your legs. Like unwrapping a present of some sort, his heart-rate spikes up into the heavens. You smell absolutely dizzying and he grunts upon seeing your glistening folds. At the same time, he mentally curses out the lack of light inside the Sheriff's office.
Holding the underside of both your thighs, he let's them rest on top of his shoulders as he inches closer to your waiting cunt. Once he finds himself in a comfortable position with the hem of your skirt lying lazily over him, he runs his fingers over your soaking folds. They feel so soft and tender and it takes about every ounce of willpower not to plunge into them.
Your hands fly down to hold up your skirt and to give him more room to breathe. Not that he particularly needs it. Both Marshal Johnson and his cock would be more than delighted to die right in here in this spot if it means he gets to pass away doing what he loves. His tongue darts out to wet his dry lips while his index and middle finger part the folds of your fluttering cunt.
Even in this darkness, he can make out the way it throbs and flutters and clenches around nothing but air as if it's impatient for something. For him. The thought of it brings his blood to a delicious boil and he angles his hand in a way that allows him to press his thumb against your clit that's swollen with arousal.
Your entire body reacts to it, shuddering and quivering and you rock your hips in a silent plea for more. Marshal Johnson has never been the kind of man to deny a lady her wishes and so, he moves his thumb in slow, tantalizing circles. Every now and then he lowers it a bit to gather your wetness and smear it all over the bud.
At times, he flicks it a bit harsher just to coax a different response out of you. The hands that are holding up your skirt are balled into tight fists, that much he can see in the corner of his eyes. He can also sense that your lower back is shaking from the effort of keeping yourself straight on top of that desk.
Letting go of your clit, he keeps your hot cunt parted for him to marvel at and instead, dips his head. Inhaling the hypnotic, musky scent, a groan rumbles from deep inside his chest. Unlike some other folk in this county, you're making it a point to wash off regularly, but for once, he's overjoyed that you didn't before paying him this visit.
Something about the way your natural scent and the salty odor of sweat mingles together leaves him devastated. If he wouldn't already be down on his knees, then he'd definitely drop right about now. Your legs shake from either anticipation or the sheer effort of holding them in place. The Marshal has a quite impressive built for his age, but he isn't the broadest of men. To get some of the weight off your shoulders, he slings his free arm around your knee for support.
"Keep 'em up just a little bit longer.", he drawls against your cunt, lips only half an inch away. "Just like that, yes. That's good. You're so good."
As he mutters the praise, keeping it ever so respectful in your presence, he notices how your hips jerk forward from it. Nearly rutting your hot cunt into his face and disappointment flickers inside him for a split second over the fact that it didn't. He would have definitely enjoyed that. Very much so. Marshal Johnson makes it a mental note to remember for later that you're into those things.
"I'll try.", you breathe and even the sound of your voice strips him of the final ounce of common sense he had. You always speak in such a polite and firm tone, but nowâŠyou're hardly the same person who walked into his office mere moments ago.
Tongue darting out, he laps up the milky pearls leaking out of you and you squeeze your legs together, muffling all and any noise that reach his ears. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs as he does his utmost to compose himself. After some years, he believed that only a few earthly pleasures could excite him, such as the cigars sitting in his desk drawer or the occasional sip of a well-aged bourbon.
Perhaps it has been too long since he laid with someone and perhaps it was about time for him to do so. As he presses his tongue flat against your cunt in a desperate attempt to lap up as much of your taste as possible, he realizes that he should have done this sooner. Way sooner he should have thrown all courtesy to the wind and expressed his infatuation. It shouldn't have taken your niece's disappearance. It shouldn't have taken a tragedy.
Your wetness coats his mouth and he swallows every single drop. Removing his fingers from your folds, he slowly slides them inside instead and wants to cry out at the feeling of it. Your walls welcome the intrusion, yet at the same time, squeeze him so tight that it sends jolts from his hand down to his crotch.
Just imagining that same feeling around his erection leaves his balls twitching with the urge to empty them as soon as possible. His cock strains painfully against his trousers and he let's go of your leg for a second or two to adjust the bulge, making it ache less. It does next to nothing to ease the pressure.
His lips find your clit, flicking his tongue over it and eliciting a mewl from you. Legs clamping together around his head, you grind into his face, smearing his nose and chin and fucking yourself on his fingers. He curls them occasionally, exploring and searching for your g-spot. Your squirming makes it a tad difficult.
One hand has let go of your skirt and is now buried in his gray hair, tugging at it with every pump of his fingers and lick of his tongue. He laps at your clit, drinking up whatever you're giving him while he tries to maintain a steady rhythm. It doesn't bother him one bit that you're practically using him to chase your own pleasure. It feels like it was always meant to be this way.
"Oh, Marshal-", you choke out and seek support on the desk with the other hand, ultimately letting go of your dusty prairie skirt.
It flows down over him, cascading over his head and plunging him into darkness. Eyes squeezed shut, he welcomes the heat that he's now trapped with. As your moans gain in pitch, his cock responds to the shift. It twitches and throbs and the Marshal catches himself thrusting into the air as a reflex.
The rough fabric of his pants shifts with the movement, but it isn't enough to give him any real pleasure. Jaw tense, he tells himself that it will come soon, but that he has to take care of you first. Fingers pumping in and out in sync with his tongue lapping hungrily at your clit, he keeps the pace, chasing your orgasm together with you.
Then suddenly, your thighs trap him. Even more than before which he didn't believe possible. The pressure around his head might have hurt if it wasn't for his own blinding arousal that overpowers any other sensation. You could have ripped out chunks of his hair and he wouldn't have batted an eye.
"Leigh!", you cry out in pleasure. The first time he ever heard you call him by his first name. It sounds beautiful dropping from your lips and he's happy that it's done with such ecstasy.
Even through the skirt, he notices the way your strength leaves you. A thud echoes through the Sheriff's office and he pushes the fabric away to see what happened. Your hand had slipped and you dropped onto your elbow, clutching the edge of the desk. The orgasm left you with a heaving chest and the new position illuminates your bare breasts.
Silver light is spilled across them and Marshal Johnson scrambles back onto his feet with popping knees. The sound is deafening in the silence of he night where there's nothing but your heavy breathing. Your eyes are half closed as you peer up at him and he swallows his saliva that is laced with the musky taste of your cunt.
Roles now reversed, Marshal Johnson is the one to tower over you and desire pools inside his guts at the sight. Lowering yourself further, you're laying flat over the table now, one hand still holding onto the edge and the other wiping away the sweat lining your forehead. The air inside the building is heavy and thick, smelling of a forbidden kind of sex.
There you lie, ruined and wrecked from your orgasm. The blouse is sprawled out around your torso, hanging low on your shoulders and leaving you entirely exposed to his prying eyes. Stiff nipples are pointing upwards, still swollen from the attention he has given them earlier and your breasts move along with every pant and gasp.
One side of your skirt is falling over your right leg, hiding what's between them yet again and the Marshal runs a hand over your thigh. The inside of it is smeared and slick and he spreads it further over your skin as he reveals your weeping cunt.
"Good Lord, you're one gorgeous woman.", he mutters and you let out breathy laughter.
A dark thought crosses his mind that very moment and he grits his teeth. He shouldn't be happy that your husband passed away years ago and he also shouldn't be happy about his own spouse being gone. Nevertheless, he finds a filthy kind of satisfaction in both your situations. It would have never come to this, if it wasn't for their absence.
"What will you do now, Marshal?", you coo, almost innocently so.
A challenge swims in your words and he sinks his teeth into the inside of his cheek. What will he do? Further ravish you, fuck you on this table and ruin what decency either of you have left. What separates him from those scoundrels over at the saloon? He'd never think to compare you to the women working there, but isn't there a certain imbalance of power present right now?
After all, he's your Sheriff. He holds a certain authority. If Marshal Leigh Johnson was just a little bit more God fearing, he wouldn't unbuckle his belt this very moment. If he'd only muster up a little bit more self-restraint and respect for your grief and his professionalism, he wouldn't let his trousers drop down to his ankles. And he certainly wouldn't grasp the base of his shaft to align his tip with your entrance.
He gives his cock a good pump, smearing the pre-cum over the tip with his thumb as he pulls his foreskin back to reveal the flushed red skin. You're staring at him expectantly, spreading your legs with what little strength is left in them. Your sopping cunt practically sucks him in. It only takes one shallow thrust to enter you and as he does so, stars dance across his vision.
It's so hot and wet that it feels like he's melting. Hips inching forward some more, he's forced to take regular breaks to prevent himself from emptying his loaded balls this early on. You take him so well, so ready and oh so fucking tight. Your cunt grips him like a vice as if it's refusing to let him go ever again and he braces himself on either side of your hips.
Once he regains even a fraction of his composure, he grasps them and pulls you closer, leaving part of your rear hovering over the desk's edge. A surprised, but delighted squeak escapes you at the abrupt gesture and you clamp further down around him. He leaves his cock soaking inside you for a minute, throbbing and twitching as if it has a heartbeat of its own.
The veins along his shaft scrape over your walls as he begins to fuck you in earnest. There will be bruises left on your skin from how hard he's gripping your hips, but you don't seem to mind by your encouraging moans and gasps. Your tits bounce with every thrust and one hand flies down to grasp his wrist. Marshal Johnson's movements stutter for a brief moment, thinking that you might be trying to tell him to go easier or to stop.
"Keep going just like this.", you plead then and he realizes that you were only looking for something to brace yourself with.
Your thumb caresses him, brushing over his pulse point that is undoubtedly betraying him. There's no reality in which you don't notice its racing speed. He drives his cock in deep, sending his balls against your rear in a wet smack. It bounces along the four walls of the Sheriff's office, complimenting the obscene squelching and his own ragged groans.
You look like sin, sprawled out over his desk and taking his cock with eager enthusiasm. Pleasure shoots through his veins, so right in all the wrong ways. You sought him out for support, because the sorrow on your chest was too great to be burdened alone. A decent man in his position wouldn't have stripped you down. He wouldn't have wrung an orgasm out of you with his mouth and fingers and he certainly wouldn't be fucking you like an animal in heat.
But he's a weak man. Good Lord, he's so weak to your beguiling charm. The very moment you walked into his office, he had lost a battle he didn't even know he was fighting. Just one single brush of your fingers over his knee and he folded like a lawn-chair without even being aware of it. He's met with a soft resistance as his tip reaches your cervix. If he'd be only a tad gentler, he'd call it a kiss.
A cramp then slices through his thighs and his knees buckles ever so slightly. Chasing after outlaws and scoundrel seems like child's play now. The pleasure rolling through his body in waves is sucking all strength out of him and before he could topple down onto the floor, he presses both palms flat on either side of your head.
You whine and squirm, chasing for friction and frowning at the sudden break. Marshal Johnson leans down to capture your lips with his. It's a sloppy kiss given that both of you are greedily gasping for air. Fully mounting you, he presses you into the solid surface with his weight before continuing to rut into you in filthy desperation.
It takes some of the strain off his legs and he quite likes the new angle. Your cunt weeps, drenching not only the thick hair pooling around his base but also his balls. They're soaked entirely as they smack against your rear. That's when he feels something mighty threatening to uncoil in his lower stomach that apparently doesn't go quite unnoticed by you, somehow.
"Do it inside me, Marshal.", you coo encouragingly into his ear and he's conflicted about whether you're an angel or a devil. "Please. I want you inside."
To underline your words, you wrap both legs around his waist, successfully trapping him in place and at once, it hits him that you've been the one in control this entire time. And here he was, worried whether he's abusing his authority or not and even more worried over the fact that he's enjoying it. You've molded him to a point where he'd pull out and do cartwheels if that were something you'd request.
Oh, but he can't deny that his imbalance of power gave him a sick kick. He loves the idea of using his badge on you one day, tie you up with his lasso perhaps and have his way. That polite smile that you've been offering whenever you ran into each other in town: he'd rid you of it as he fucks your warm mouth. The coil inside him snaps and his balls tighten up.
Rope after rope leave him, filling you to the brim until he feels some of it leak out and splatter onto the floor. He moans your name in a low tone and you catch it with a kiss. Tongue sliding past his lips, it brushes over his as he rolls his hips to fuck whatever is left inside him into your ruined cunt.
Time seems to slow down and come to a complete halt as you freeze in this position. Both in a tight embrace. You throb and flutter around him as he softens between your walls. His eyes find yours and you brush a gray strand of hair out of his face. A lot of the silver has gone astray during this endeavor and he tries to smooth it all out by running his fingers through his hair.
The badge on his vest gleams in the moonlight, casting a bright circle on your cheek that he caresses with a rough thumb. You tilt your head to the side, planting a kiss on it before taking it between your lips. He has no idea how, but somehow in this short time, he can feel himself harden again.
His cock glides out of your cunt and you whimper, drawing both brows closely together. The lewd expression you're giving him has his blood rush back down to his crotch. Hell, he wants to put it right in again and pump his cum back into you until you're all round and swollen. He wants you stuffed with his semen. Digging his fingers into his breast pocket, he fishes out a handkerchief.
"I'm so sorry, ma'am.", he murmurs, uncertain what exactly he's apologizing for.
Taking advantage of your vulnerability? Smearing his cum all over your sopping cunt and legs? Now that he's trying to help clean you up, he notices that some of it has run down your rear and around the tight ring of muscle between your soft cheeks. His cock stirs at the sight and the thought of penetrating you there as well.
You prop yourself up and his gaze snaps to your face. The Marshal can't explain how or why, but you're practically glowing. The corners of your mouth are pointing up for once and there's a gleam in your eyes that he hasn't yet had the luxury of seeing ever since your husband's passing. For a moment, you don't look like the weight of the world is resting on our shoulders.
"Boss! Marshal!", someone hollers from outside and both of you peer through the window.
Jonah is sitting upright in his saddle, waving and pacing from side to side. A dark shape is behind him, looking an awful lot like-
"The stagecoach.", Marshal Johnson blurts out. "I'll be damned."
"They made it!", you yelp, voice shrill with shock, bewilderment and utter relief.
Quickly, you hop into your bloomers and fasten the buttons of your blouse while he pulls up his trousers. The two of you still look quite disheveled, but somewhat presentable. You're the first to dart out into the open, earning puzzled glances from the Marshal's men. Nobody knew or expected for you to be here at this hour.
A girl leaps out of the coach, not older than 17 or so. While she doesn't share your features, she shares your keen eyes that are wandering between the Marshal and you.
â
Marshal Johnson insisted on escorting you together with Jonah and Eli up to the MacFarlane ranch. Turns out that he was correct in assuming that a wheel popped off on their way here which resulted in it breaking. It happened right after Blackwater and in the middle of nowhere too. They had to walk the few miles on foot from their location to Thieves Landing to buy a replacement.
The coach is currently parked in front of a small cabin on the MacFarlane property. This is where you live. Jonah and Eli are currently busy carrying the very few bags inside, while you're talking to the driver and sporting a troubled expression.
"Obviously the delay comes with extra cost, ma'am. That new wheel too, I'm afraid.", the driver says, further deepening the crease on your forehead.
"Of course.", you mumble as you look at the cabin. "My savings are inside. I'll go fetch them real quick."
"No need for that.", Marshal Johnson intervenes and holds out a stack of dollar bills. "That should cover the extra costs together with the rest of the ride."
Nodding, the man runs his thumb over the cash and counts in a low voice before pocketing majority of it and handing the rest back. Then he tips his hat in farewell and drives off into the distance.
"Thank you so much. I'll repay you the money as soon as I can.", you say to which he squeezes your shoulder. It carries a lot more meaning after all that has happened earlier. The contact seeps into his palm and burns deliciously and if you were alone right now, he'd pull you in for a kiss.
"Consider it a gift. You deserve it after all that worrying and fretting for your niece.", he answers and you visibly relax.
"All bags are inside now, sir.", Eli calls out and the two men march to where their horses are hitched. Your niece is standing at the porch, watching closely. A smile is tugging at her mouth as her eyes land on his hand on your shoulder.
"I'll leave you to it then. I bet you have a lot to catch up on.", he murmurs and clears his throat.
"Thank you for everything, Marshal.", you whisper and it aches to let go of you.
"Stop by my office when you have the time."
"Would tomorrow afternoon work?", you ask and his cheeks twitch with delight.
"My door's always open for you, ma'am."
He remains where he stands, watching you walk to your niece who hooks her arm together with yours. She whispers something in your ear to which you respond by playfully swatting at her arm. The last thing he hears is giggling before the door falls shut.
Clad in black | Marshal Leigh Johnson x fem!reader
Your niece goes missing and the Marshal is willing to do anything to find her for you. Even if it includes an unconventional kind of comfort.
Word count: 10.8k
Tags: explicit sexual content, before rdr1 events, widow!reader, his pov, age gap, mutual pining, first kiss, desk sex, clothed sex, oral sex (reader receiving), fingering, p in v, creampie, Leigh developes a breeding kink and power imbalance kink in real time, nipple play, praising
A/N: Thank you so much @stupidgaynerd for putting thoughts into my head and thank you @colterblues for providing the beautiful picture <333
The bleak walls of the Sheriffâs office stare back at him as Marshal Leigh Johnson leans back into his chair. Lifting his legs, the spurs jingle when he places his heels on top of his desk and crosses them. This position makes up majority of his days while he busies his hands with a newspaper if he isnât pushing his hat down onto his face to drown out New Austinâs sun and noise.
It has been surprisingly quiet in Armadillo lately aside from the usual drunkards down in the saloon, but those are manageable. After a stern word or two, they normally go their own way and steer clear from the bar for a while, knowing that the Marshal will keep them in one of the cells otherwise. A night or two, nothing too dramatic.
And they keep it quiet while in they're locked up unless Jonah or Eli (or both of them together) decide to pick on whatever poor bastard enters their line of sight first. Sighing, the Marshal pulls open one of the desk drawers, revealing a few stacked documents that have turned yellow with age and that have been rotting away in there for so long that he doesnât even remember what they say anymore.
The bureaucratic aspects of his position have never been his strongest suit. He prefers the good old-fashioned way of exacting the law which is to show up to the scene and beat those fools with a very long, very hard stick. Now he has city folk in fine suits knocking at the door, demanding for nonsense to be installed like that damned telephone. Marshal Johnson still canât seem to make that thing work or perhaps it does already and he's simply too dense to figure it out.
Reaching out, he grabs the true reason he opened that drawer which is a box of cigars and matches. An oil lamp is perched on top of the right corner of his desk, illuminating the simple interior of the Sheriffâs office. Itâs scarce, spartan even, in the way itâs decorated or rather, in the way it isnât. Those old, dusty items canât be called decoration.
With a practiced flick of his wrist, Marshal Johnson lights the match and holds it up to the cigar between his lips. His teeth sink gently into the filter to keep it in place without chewing it out too much. Smoke rises up in front of his face as the tobacco catches fire and he puffs slowly. Without removing it from his mouth, he blows the smoke out through his nose.
âItâll be a quiet night.â, he mutters to himself. He can feel it in his bones.
Suddenly, the sound of wheels rattling rips him out of his thoughts. Someone is driving a wagon through town. At this hour? Marshal Johnson keeps his gaze straight, refusing to peek through the window to his right even with curiosity gnawing at the edges of his mind. Something tells him that he will jinx it if he looks and he was just starting to enjoy his night shift.
Then the wagon comes to a halt close to the Sheriffâs office. In fact, itâs parked right in front of the building and he grumbles a curse to himself. Putting the cigar out in the ashtray, he lowers his legs onto the floor and assumes a more proper position to sit in. Canât have folk thinking that he doesnât take his job seriously. Because he does. To some degree.
Sometimes an old man just wants some peace and quiet in a land as wild and unruly as New Austin. After the previous Sheriff fled the post due to sickness and outlaws ransacking the county, Marshal Johnson had nothing but shambles to work with. Still, he managed it somehow despite the odds being stacked against him.
The door swings open and in march two young women. The one in the front has her blonde hair tied into a neat and easy bun. Bonnie MacFarlane is easily recognized and if not by her attire than by her drawl that minces no words. Following closely on her heels is a ranch hand that Marshal Johnson got acquainted with under the most unfortunate of circumstances.
He only started working here for two weeks when your husband passed away from Cholera. Of course, Marshal Johnson saw you from afar before when he paid the ranch a visit for the first time to get a layout of the land here. You and your husband had looked quite handsome together and he could tell from the gleam in both of your eyes that you were very much in love.
Although he didnât get the chance to exchange a single word with either of you, it struck him quite hard when he learned of your husbandâs passing. Too early and too bad if youâd ask him.
âLadies.â, he speaks up with a tip of his hat. âWhat brings you in here so late?â
Worry rises behind his chest when his eyes land on you. You stopped wearing black last spring and it seemed as if you were recovering well from the loss. Obviously, it has left a scar that wonât fade for the rest of your life (the Marshal is only too familiar with it), but youâve been carrying that burden with a grace that he himself had never been able to muster up.
Even at the funeral when you should have been left to mourn to your heartâs content, you kept your strong posture like a rock during a storm or a fort during a siege. As much as it shames him, he thought you beyond gorgeous then and when he took his hat off in front of you, it was in awe. Your beauty still strikes him like a lightning bolt as he regards you now.
Miss MacFarlane places a hand on your upper back in silent encouragement and you clear your throat.
âEvening, Marshal. I, uh- I'll just cut straight to the chase. I have been expecting my niece, but sheâs late. Very late. Sheâs supposed to travel by coach and last I heard from her was when she reached Blackwater. In her letter she mentioned that sheâd drive through Thieves Landing and I canât help but fear for her now.â, you explain and though your voice is as firm as iron, thereâs a tremble underneath your words.
Marshal Johnson furrows his brows. Driving through Thieves Landing is quite the detour. There are definitely better and faster roads from Blackwater to here. He canât help but admit that this rubs him the wrong way, but he canât bring himself to voice it to you. Not when youâre already frightened out of your mind.
Not that it's overly visible on you aside from your fidgeting. You've always been remarkably adept at remaining robust in times of crisis. He knew already that you werenât from around here. Your husband was born and raised in this area though, so it makes sense why you moved into this small, forgotten corner of the country. Still, it baffles the Marshal as to why you havenât returned back to your family yet. What could possibly keep a person like you here?
âThereâs no need to worry, maâam. Those coaches are late all the time. Give it a day or two and sheâll show up.â, he answers while fighting the urge to ride out to Thieves Landing and see for himself.
âItâs been over a week.â, you argue with clenched fists.
A deep crease is edged into your forehead and a flame flickers behind your eyes. Marshal Johnson is very well aware that you wonât back down from this and he doesnât want to run into the risk of you taking things into your own hands. Youâre the type of person who can handle themselves just fine, but Thieves Landing isâŠit just is.
Itâs well outside his jurisdiction. He holds no authority in that place, but when he looks at you like this, stricken with grief and fear, his heart gives in.
âIâll round up my men and weâll search the perimeter. Iâll see what I can do.â, he relents. It seemed inevitable anyways.
Both you and Miss MacFarlane visibly relax, though your posture still carries a hint of tension in it. Your shoulders are pulled up and your features are drawn. He reckons that you havenât gotten much sleep from all this fretting and that you most likely wonât catch any until your niece returns in one piece. Fishing his revolver out of its holster, he checks the bullets inside the wheel.
âI suggest you best get back home and catch some rest.â, he murmurs and tucks the gun away again. âDonât worry too much, maâam. Weâll find your niece.â
âThank you so much, Marshal.â, you breathe.
â
That same night, he basically ripped Jonah and Eli out of their beds and onto their saddles to ride along the roads around Armadillo and the MacFarlane ranch. With folk fast asleep, he didnât see the need to rouse them given the late hour. They wouldnât have given him any straight answers in their drowsy state.
Marshal Johnson feels like shit himself as he sits at his desk the next morning and rubs the exhaustion out of his eyes. Hours of riding and searching in complete darkness left him saddle sore and more tired than ever. A few years ago, he would have taken all this in stride, but his old joints do nothing but protest now. He allowed his men an hour or two of respite before he sent them out to the neighboring farms and homesteads for questioning.
Hopefully someone saw something. A stagecoach isnât easy to miss out here on the flat plains. Suddenly, the front door opens again and his head snaps up. You march in and he peeks outside, spotting the same wagon from last night, but Miss MacFarlane is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps you drove out here by yourself.
Closing the door behind you, you fidget with your hands. One look and he can tell that you havenât closed your eyes once. Youâre still wearing the same clothes as before.
âAnything?â, you ask, voice hopeful. It crushes him to deliver the bad news.
âWe couldnât find any signs last night, but that doesnât mean anything. It was too dark to see.â, he rushes to explain in a desperate attempt to put you at ease. âI sent out the boys to question folk.â
âI see.â
The disappointment oozing in your reply slices through him like a knife. The helplessness he feels at your distraught sight is close to disgusting. There should have been results by now. Anything for him to show that could soothe your nerves. Standing up, he pushes his chair over the floor and gestures for you to sit.
You donât spare him a single glance as you sink down onto it and for a split second, he catches the faint scent of perfume. It caresses his nose in a manner that he can only describe as sly. The smell isnât intense or penetrating, more so a whiff. A ripple instead of a wave as if you sprayed it on a good while ago.
Clearing his throat, he walks around you and leans back onto the edge of his desk with his arms crossed. Youâre lost in thoughts and he takes the moment to regard you this close. Guilt creeps into him at the emotions that you invoke inside him. In times like these, he really shouldnât be thinking like this, but you make it impossible not to.
Not for the first time does he struggle with the urge to reach out and touch the curve of your neck, nor will it be the last either. Itâs inappropriate.
âMy men and I will be on it during all hours, you have my word. I wonât rest until we find her.â, he promises with a conviction made out of steel.
âThatâs very kind of you, Marshal.â, you mumble with your hands in your lap.
When you meet his gaze, itâs almost devastating. The last time he felt this thrill around anyone was long before his wife passed away. Ever since, heâs been alone and preferred it that way. With no other family left, he decided to throw himself at this position as Sheriff until his retirement which waits just around the corner. He thought of moving to the coast. Face heating up, he opens a drawer and takes out a bottle and two glasses.
âI reckon you could use a drink.â, he suggests.
Never mind the fact that itâs still early in the day. The whiskey sloshes as he pours it in and puts the cork back on. As he hands over the glass, your fingertips briefly brush over his and a jolt runs through him that he tries to mask to the best of his abilities.
âMy point from last night still stands if it matters to you, maâam. These coaches are late all the time. I reckon that a wheel popped off or something.â, he says and you push out a weary sigh, not looking convinced. Though he can tell that you desperately want to believe him.
âYou might be right and I might be overreacting.â, you whisper and raise your shoulders as you breathe in deeply in an attempt to clear your head. âDo you have any children? If thatâs not too forward to ask.â
The question does catch him off-guard, but he doesnât mind it one bit. The two of you never really got beyond small-talk and idle chitchat about the weather or the state of the county.
âNo, my wife and I never really wanted any. She always said it ainât right to put any into this world during times like these and I found myself agreeing.â, he answers before taking a sip of the drink. âAnd your husband and you? Did you want any?â
âWe didnât have the chance to really consider it.â, you admit and he suddenly feels horrible for returning the question.
âIâm sorry.â
âNo, itâs all right. Itâs been a while now.â
âStill.â, he softly insists. âIt gets more bearable, but the pain never really passes, does it?â
The saddest of smiles tugs at the corners of your lips. âI guess so.â
Silence stretches on, filled with the muffled noises from the town and the occasional sloshing of liquid inside glass.
âYour niece.â, he starts up and finishes his drink entirely. âI donât think I ever met her.â
âNo, my family canât afford these long trips, but they scraped together enough coin to pay for the coach. Train tickets are still a bit too pricey, Iâm afraid.â, you answer and he smiles.
âThatâs mighty nice of them to try and see you.â
âIt is.â The smile on your face turns into a genuine one now. âWhat about yours?â
He huffs out a light laugh. âIâm alone. If thereâs any family out there, then I donât know of them.â
You tilt your head to the side as you observe him and he feels like squirming from the attention. Your lips are slightly parted as the glass rests in both your hands on your lap. The whiskey inside has almost reached the bottom.
âHave you ever thought about re-marrying?â, you blurt out and Marshal Johnson sputters for a split second.
That thought has crossed his mind several times over the years now, but he never genuinely considered it. In his eyes, heâs too much of a handful or rather two handsful. Especially after what his wifeâs death caused him.
âA handful of timesâ, he admits.
âThen why didnât you? There are plenty of lovely women in New Austin.â, you point out and he swallows his own saliva. Thereâs only one lovely woman he knows of and sheâs sitting in this very office right now.
âIt never really lined up for me, I guess. There were always other things on my mind.â
âDonât tell me youâre the type of man whoâs married to his job.â, you shoot out and it takes him a moment to recognize that you just made a joke.
He laughs. âNo, I ainât the type for that, maâam. I like my work, but not to that extend, I fear.â
â
Another sun set and rose again and still, they made no progress. Jonah and Eli have been to every homestead in the area and Marshal Johnson forces down the urge to question each of the people a second time himself. That would take up too much of their time. Wind is whipping around his face and tearing at his clothes as he rides down the road leading up to Armadillo.
Theyâve been to every corner and nook of this county, even went so far as to search Pikeâs Basin. The sun is lying low by now, painting the plains in a rich red that makes the stones and rocks look like theyâre bleeding. Jonah and Eli are already waiting at the crossroads on their own horses. Judging by their expressions, none of them had any luck either.
âGoddammit.â, Marshal Johnson barks as he comes into earshot. âWhere the hell could a stagecoach disappear around here?â
âIf it even is here, boss.â, Eli replies. âThey might be at Thieves Landing still.â
âI still donât get why they decide to go through that dump. Only idiots would go there.â, Jonah snaps, gargles and spits into the dust.
âWeâll make another round tomorrow and if nothing turns up, weâll think of something else.â, Marshal Johnson says and signals for his horse to start trotting towards town. The two younger men follow suit and catch up, riding on either side of him.
âWill we have to go to Thieves Landing?â, Eli asks. âItâs outside of our-â
âI know it is, dammit!â, Marshal Johnson bellows. âI guess we wonât have a choice. Letâs hope it wonât come to this.â
They round the corner and stop at the hitching posts in front of the office. There isnât a wagon parked anywhere in town and the Marshal canât help but feel a flicker of relief. He has no idea how on earth he would face you after yet another failure. You were laughing and joking around so sweetly yesterday and the last thing he wants to do is take that away from you.
But there is one positive in all of this doom and gloom and heâs deeply ashamed for feeling this way. Yet, if it hadnât been for your niece winding up missing, nothing would have drawn you to his office and he would have never gotten the opportunity to chat with you about more than the heat or the crops.
âCould be a gang took the widowâs niece. We got plenty in that corner.â, Jonah remarks as the Marshal pushes the door open.
âQuit calling her the widow. She has a name, boy.â, he chastises the young man.
All three startle as they clasp their eyes onto the figure in the middle of the square room. You stand there, hands wrung together and for once in a fresh pair of clothes, but still looking disheveled. Your lips are pressed into a tight, thin line and your jaw grinds as you stare them down. Though Jonah is the main target of your scorn, who audibly gulps from the raw attention.
âI am so sorry, maâam.â, Marshal Johnson says and joins your glare. Jonah shrinks under it.
âItâs perfectly fine, Marshal. The widow doesnât mind at all.â, you spit, unwavering in your anger.
With one quick and harsh swipe of his hand, he gestures his men to leave the building and they scramble to rush outside. The door falls shut behind them in one fell swoop that sends a gust of wind and dust up into the air. His eyes water a little from it and he blinks the dampness away before nodding at the bench to his right.
âWhy donât you take a seat?â, he offers to which you fiercely shake your head.
âI wonât stay for too long. Bonnie was kind enough to drive me to town, but she plans on returning back to the ranch soon. I only went to check what you found.â, you answer and he shifts his weight from one foot to another.
âWell, we paid Pikeâs Basin a visit. Outlaws usually lie low in the canyon, but itâs completely deserted.â, he explains, mentally recoiling from the way your face drops. âWe searched the roads and fields, questioned some folks, but nobody has seen a coach pass through in weeks.â
Your shoulders drop and you look so utterly defeated that he wrestles with the urge to pull you into a hug.
âI see how it is.â, you mumble under your breath and he takes a step closer. His fingers itch, wanting to reach out, but he keeps them firmly at his side the same way he roots his feet into place.
âBut that ainât no reason to give up hope just yet. Theyâll turn up.â Itâs a pathetic attempt at comfort that falls flat in the vast sea that form your worries.
âI wish I could share your optimism.â, you say, followed by a humorless chuckle. âI really do, but I find it hard.â
âNo one blames you for worrying. Iâd do it too and be a heck more annoying with it.â, he whispers.
Sun rays bleed in through the windows, painting the jail cells with their grimy and stained walls, illuminating all filth. But when it hits you, you seem to glow. You look absolutely radiant and not for the first time does the Marshal find himself mesmerized. It shouldnât be allowed to look so breathtaking when sad.
âOh, Marshal.â, you wring out. âIâm so glad that you moved to Armadillo. If weâd still have our old Sheriff, I wouldnât feel nearly at ease as I do now.â
Stunned, he blinks and then clears his throat. âIâm happy to hear that.â
He had no idea that youâve felt even an ounce of security during all of this. You never showed it.
âBut I should get going now. Thank you for all your effort.â Even if you have nothing to show.
Although he has no way of knowing if you even think that, those words hang heavy over his head. Theyâre like a noose that is waiting to descend and be slung around his neck. As you pass him, he makes room in front of the door for you to step through, but you halt at his right. Thatâs when he catches it again. Perfume. This time, the tiniest bit more prominent than before.
He takes it as a good sign. Perhaps youâre starting to handle the situation a little better now. Not that he would ever criticize the way youâre currently handling it. A lot more folk would have been a lot more hysterical. Something stirs behind his chest then, swelling and growing and pushing against his ribcage.
He gets the sneaking suspicion that youâre giving him a cue, as if itâs his turn to act on something only you know but that he's supposed to know too. He feels like an actor that got put on stage with no script.
âI hope you know that my door is always open for you.â, he says in a low drawl.
Your eyes light up ever so briefly, making him question whether it was even real. Perhaps itâs his imagination playing tricks on him.
âIâll keep that in mind.â
The soles of your boots thump over the floor boards in a satisfying rhythm and although he hates seeing you leave, he enjoys watching you go. Itâs a dirty kind of pleasure that leaves him not only questioning his morals but also wanting to dig a hole for himself. The temperature inside the building has shot up by quite a bit and it takes every ounce of strength to tear his gaze away.
â
Armadillo lies quiet. Sleeping soundly. The music coming from the saloon has ceased some time ago. Marshal Johnson canât quite tell when that happened. Alone with his own thoughts, he decided earlier to kick back and get some shut-eye. A part of him knows very well that he should head home and get a proper night of rest, but he canât bring himself to commit.
Jonah and Eli have gone home though and someone has to man the Sheriffâs office. He wants to be that man. At any given moment, the very much anticipated stagecoach might turn up or someone who saw it and knows that theyâre looking for it. When that happens, he wants to be at the scene. Hat pulled down into his face, he dozes off.
Itâs not the first time that he slept in his chair. Not even his sore limbs and old joints can keep him away from it. Even with its drunkards and occasional trouble makers, Armadillo isnât exactly the pinnacle of excitement. Scarcely anything important happens here aside from cattle rustlers and such. He has slept in this office many times before.
Though itâs restless now, filled with the scent of perfume and hips that sway from side to side with each retreating step, of laughter that bounces off these walls and eyes with a beautiful kind of melancholy in them. He hears your whispers in his sleep and that sharp tongue that you directed at Jonah. Marshal Johnson wouldnât particularly mind being subjected to it himself, as terrifying as the prospect may be.
Dangerous, is what all of this is. He believed himself content with watching you from afar, but now that youâve gotten closer, he canât see himself rebuilding that distance in the future. An appetite has turned into an insatiable hunger and your questions from the other day swirl around inside his mind. Would he re-marry?
He canât quite believe that heâs contemplating it at his age. Retirement is inching closer with each passing day and here he is, fantasizing about the prospect of re-marrying! Especially to someone as young and vibrant as you, of all people. He could never keep up with you, he fears. But there goes his plan of moving to the coast and out of this godforsaken town. It doesnât look like you will leave anytime soon and he canât find it within himself to leave you.
A jolt shoots through his body and a pair of invisible hands grab at him, ripping him out of his unconscious state. Eyes snapping open, he pushes his hat up and blinks against the darkness in an attempt to make his eyes adjust to it. Someone is standing in front of the door. The porch squeaks under their weight: a haunting sound in such stillness.
Alarm bells ringing inside the Marshalâs mind, he kicks his feet off the desk and reaches for his gun. Judging by the sound that stranger is making, theyâre trying their utmost to remain quiet and undetected. Jaw tense and grinding, his hand hovers above the holster and he curls his fingers, running them over his gun as the door slowly opens.
Moonlight spills onto the grimy, old floor like quicksilver. A boot appears, followed by the hem of a skirt and a head peeking out from behind the wood. Itâs your face staring back at him, watchful eyes darting down to his hand and the holster. Nothing escapes your attention it seems. He relaxes at once.
âYou startled me, maâam. Forgive me, but I wasnât expecting you.â, he says with a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose.
You offer him an apologetic smile. âAm I intruding?â
âNo, not at all. I did say my doors are always open to you.â, he rushes to answer and beckons you closer. âCome in. Have a seat.â
Shutting the door behind yourself, you slump down onto the bench and he quickly follows. Hands resting on his weapon belt, he gazes at you as he fills the space to your right. Your slouched posture underlines your exhaustion and the black leather of your boots is covered in a layer of dust. Furrowing his brows, Marshal Johnson takes in the rest of your rugged appearance. Everything about you is so wind beaten and weary almost as if-
âDonât tell me walked all the way, maâam.â, he says and your eyes flash as if you got caught red handed.
âI did.â, you answer, squaring your shoulders in resistance.
A sigh pushes past his lips. âThat ainât a light journey. Itâs quite the way from the ranch to here.â
âI know that.â, you retort, though with only half the bite another person would have thrown at him. âI justâŠI had to get out and take a walk.â
âIf thatâs what you call a walk then I hate to see your idea of a hike.â, he jokes, coaxing the ghost of a smile out of you. You clasp a hand over your mouth.
The Marshal wonât, nor can lie when he says that heâs delighted to be in your company, yet he canât help but feel riddled with guilt. No doubt you came all the way down to Armadillo to hear what him and his men have found and no doubt he will disappoint you yet again. Dread pools in his guts like slick oil at the prospect and he finds it hard to even clear his throat.
âI know that you still havenât found them and thatâs not why Iâm here.â, you blurt out before he can even begin to apologize. âYou said I can always come to you and I guess, I didnât want to be alone with my thoughts. Not tonight.â
The confession leaves him befuddled, but with a warm feeling fluttering behind his chest. Looking down at his own palms, he clenches his hands into fists to get some feeling back into them. Your presence numbs him, especially when you speak this softly.
âI understand that. Feel free to stay for as long as you like.â, he clips, mortified at the loss of words when he knows that he should say or do more to comfort you.
âThank you. I appreciate your support a lot, Marshal.â, you mutter under your breath and your gaze burns into his skull. Thank the Lord for the rim of his hat hiding most of his face. Otherwise, you might spot the flush spreading across it.
âItâs the least I can do.â, he somehow manages to wring out.
âI just donât know what Iâll do if something happened to her. What will I tell my family?â, you whisper, clasping a hand over your mouth again and softly sobbing into it.
âNothing happened.â, he gently coos and draws you closer to his side.
As you lean your head onto his shoulder, your entire body seems to melt into his. Itâs a comfortable weight and he welcomes the warmth, even though heâs feeling hot enough already. The Marshal wraps an arm around you, resting his hand on your shoulder and giving it a firm squeeze. Itâs the closest youâve ever been and at once, heâs thankful that heâs sitting down.
Your perfume enters his nose and brain. The heat of your thighs seeps into his as they press together and while every ounce of self-preservation tells him to draw back, every cell inside his body yearns to stay right here. Sorrow is edged into your features and it carves right into him.
âThank you for letting me stay here.â, you murmur.
âNo need for that, maâam. Any fool would have done that.â
âIs that what you are then, Marshal? A fool?â, you ask and slowly raise your head to meet his gaze.
The temperature inside the Sheriffâs office spikes and reaches an unbearable point. His clothes cling uncomfortably to his body and suddenly, heâs all too aware of his own faults. Like the beard he hasnât trimmed in too long or the tobacco swirling in his breath. If only you had given him the chance to clean up before luring a confession out of him. Staring at you feels about the same as staring into the barrel of a shotgun.
No, youâre not luring anything out. Not without already knowing the truth inside his heart and he has made it a point to keep it hidden. The Marshal himself is to blame for being tempted by the smallest of things like those eyes peering at him from behind your lashes and- good Lord, heâs completely hung up on that perfume of yours, isnât he?
âMore times than Iâd like to admit, I reckon.â, he says, attempting a joke to ease the tension in his spine, but to no avail. It only makes you smile at him and no matter how faint the gesture, it strikes a chord within him.
âYou donât seem like one to me.â, you remark, coaxing a dry chuckle out of him. It chokes in his throat when your fingers brush over his knee so subtly that it could have easily been a gust of wind.
He feels as if he should protest, knows that he should, in fact. But he canât keep a leveled head with the way your thigh presses against his, nor with the gleam in your damp eyes. The look youâre giving him is so tender and soft, yet loaded like a gun. Marshal Johnson has no idea what possesses him when he leans forward and dips his head low to capture your lips with his, nor does he know when his hand wanders from your shoulder along your arm.
You sigh into his mouth and it carries such relief. You kiss him back, nuzzling into his side and he feels the shape of your breasts even through all those layers of fabric. Blood rushes down to his crotch in an instant at a speed he didnât know he still had in himself. Nowadays the only thrill he experiences is when he rides at top speed over the plains. Still, it doesnât compare.
Lips moving in sync, your taste passes into his mouth and each breath you push out, he sucks right into his lungs. Nerve endings ablaze and burning down like the lit fuse of a dynamite stick, he leans more into you, deepening the gesture. One hand finds the crook of your neck that heâs been dreaming to touch and the other is still around your torso.
Your head is tilted back and as his tongue darts out to brush over your lips, you immediately part them to grant him access. His trousers are tightening more with each passing second and his heart seems to be wanting to escape through his ribs. Thereâs a split second of the fog in his mind lifting and he gains a clear head.
This is so utterly wrong. He canât be sitting here and taking advantage of a grieving woman. You came to talk to someone and he offered his ear. Now he has his mouth on yours in an attempt to ravish you in the dead of night like youâre some scandalous secret. Heâs too old and youâre too respectable. At once, he breaks away from the kiss and as he gazes into your face, he almost immediately folds again.
Your lips are swollen and glistening in the dim moonlight shining through the barred windows and casting shards onto the floor and walls. One beam illuminates your eyes as if someone positioned it to try and compliment your features in the best way possible. You look positively ethereal. Suddenly, he understands those tales of sailors hurling themselves into the sea for sirens.
The proximity is mind numbing and he wills his legs to move. He stands up, abruptly so and staggers for a brief moment. Your eyes are as wide as saucers as you gape at him, still trying to comprehend what happened.
âIâm so sorry, maâam. I didnât mean to cross that line.â, he says and rests his hands on his belt in an attempt to keep them to himself.
Not even a minute has passed and heâs already itching to reach out again. He needs to feel your skin on his for a second time, needs to map out your body with his palms and feel your pulse throb against the tips of his fingers. In the next second, youâre on your feet as well and staring him down. It carries no anger or hostility. Not even a sliver of regret like he expected.
âYou didnât cross anything.â, you argue and his knees begin to feel like jelly when you take a step closer.
âNo, I clearly took advantage of your state-â
âYou did no such thing, Marshal. Have I not been obvious?â, you interrupt him and he swallows the lump in his throat.
âWith that?â
Your hand finds his chest and his blood rushes through his ears, drowning out almost all noise.
âI want this as much as you do.â, you whisper, all the grief from earlier washed out of your voice. âBut if I misread the signs, then Iâll leave right now.â
Marshal Johnson canât bring himself to do anything besides gawk at you as if a second head is sprouting out of your shoulder. Fear flashes over your face and it dawns on him that you might be as terrified of a rejection as he has been this entire time.
âDonât go.â, he mutters under his breath, palms holding you by your wrists. Itâs a gentle gesture that allows you to break free easily if you so desire it.
Your lips collide with his, unwavering and unyielding and tossing oil into the flames roaring behind his chest. Letting go of your wrists, he snakes both arms around your waist and pulls you close. Your breasts a pressed flush against his chest and his tongue slides into your mouth. The blood has never left his crotch and he doesnât doubt that you noticed it after he stood up from the bench.
Oh, you definitely noticed judging by the way you roll your hips forward to grind down onto the bulge in his trousers that strain painfully against his erection. You back up and he follows suit, not interrupting the kiss once. As your rear hits the edge of his desk, he pulls away for a second or two to swipe his arm over the table.
There isnât much sitting on top of it besides the ashtray, some papers and that damned telephone that he could never stand anyways. That thing crashes down onto the floor and the speaker flies out of its handle, rolling over the grimy wood. His ears are perked to listen in on any sounds from outside, but nobody overheard the ruckus he just caused.
Fingers digging into the tender flesh of your ass cheeks, he hoists you onto the table and spreads your legs by your knees to fill the space in between. Heat emanates through your bloomers that have grown slightly damp from the kiss. Marshal Johnson suspects that his rather forward way of clearing the table might have something to do with the state of your undergarments as well.
As you pull him in by the collar of his shirt, his hat slides right off his head and silently drops onto the floor. He couldnât care less for that thing right now. Hands moving along your body and mapping and squeezing each dip and curve, his fingers find the first button of your blouse. Theyâre small and he hisses a curse as he tries to wedge it through the narrow slit in the fabric. It becomes easier the second time around and on the third button, he has no issue whatsoever.
Itâs the strangest of things to have his hands tremble so from the anticipation as if he was a young man again and not a 51-year-old Sheriff of a whole town. He has taken off several blouses in his life. Yours is simplyâŠparticularly unruly. With your breasts now exposed, he dips his head, kissing and tasting your throat, collarbone and anything below that point. Your skin does not feel like it belongs to a ranch hand.
Cupping your chest with his hands, he fondles the hardened nipples and saliva gathers in his mouth as if heâs developing an appetite. Bending down, he flicks his tongue over one of them while still running his thumb over the other. You arch your back, shoving your tits deeper into his face and his cock throbs inside his pants.
Teeth grazing over your stiff nipple, he shudders at the moan the action elicits. His tongue darts out again, swirling around it in circles while he pinches the other between his fingers, skillfully twisting and tugging. Your response robs him of all sense and reason. Hot breath caresses his forehead as you watch him closely through hooded eyes, mouth hanging open to gasp at every twist and pinch.
His teeth find your nipple again, this time holding it between them and putting his lips around to suck. Squeezing your thighs together, you trap him in place. He letâs go of your breast with an audible pop and travels lower until he finds himself on his knees. Itâs way hotter down there on eye-level with your clothed cunt.
Marshal Johnson hikes up your skirt. What should have been slow and teasing, is now rushed as his erection pushes against his trousers. His balls feel full and heavy and he can detect the first signs of a cramp that will only grow if he doesnât take care of his situation soon. Still, he refuses to let this opportunity pass. He wants to get a proper taste, to lick you and have your legs on his ears before he takes you on this table.
"Marshal.", you whine above and further part your legs for him.
If his eyes wouldn't be so fixed on the wet spot on your bloomers, he would have responded with something clever perhaps. Though now his brain activity has been reduced to one of a peanut as if this is his very first time going down on a woman. His palms are clammy from sweat and he rubs it off on his trousers.
Fingers itching to touch, he wedges them underneath the bands of your cream colored undergarments and slowly pulls them down your legs. Like unwrapping a present of some sort, his heart-rate spikes up into the heavens. You smell absolutely dizzying and he grunts upon seeing your glistening folds. At the same time, he mentally curses out the lack of light inside the Sheriff's office.
Holding the underside of both your thighs, he let's them rest on top of his shoulders as he inches closer to your waiting cunt. Once he finds himself in a comfortable position with the hem of your skirt lying lazily over him, he runs his fingers over your soaking folds. They feel so soft and tender and it takes about every ounce of willpower not to plunge into them.
Your hands fly down to hold up your skirt and to give him more room to breathe. Not that he particularly needs it. Both Marshal Johnson and his cock would be more than delighted to die right in here in this spot if it means he gets to pass away doing what he loves. His tongue darts out to wet his dry lips while his index and middle finger part the folds of your fluttering cunt.
Even in this darkness, he can make out the way it throbs and flutters and clenches around nothing but air as if it's impatient for something. For him. The thought of it brings his blood to a delicious boil and he angles his hand in a way that allows him to press his thumb against your clit that's swollen with arousal.
Your entire body reacts to it, shuddering and quivering and you rock your hips in a silent plea for more. Marshal Johnson has never been the kind of man to deny a lady her wishes and so, he moves his thumb in slow, tantalizing circles. Every now and then he lowers it a bit to gather your wetness and smear it all over the bud.
At times, he flicks it a bit harsher just to coax a different response out of you. The hands that are holding up your skirt are balled into tight fists, that much he can see in the corner of his eyes. He can also sense that your lower back is shaking from the effort of keeping yourself straight on top of that desk.
Letting go of your clit, he keeps your hot cunt parted for him to marvel at and instead, dips his head. Inhaling the hypnotic, musky scent, a groan rumbles from deep inside his chest. Unlike some other folk in this county, you're making it a point to wash off regularly, but for once, he's overjoyed that you didn't before paying him this visit.
Something about the way your natural scent and the salty odor of sweat mingles together leaves him devastated. If he wouldn't already be down on his knees, then he'd definitely drop right about now. Your legs shake from either anticipation or the sheer effort of holding them in place. The Marshal has a quite impressive built for his age, but he isn't the broadest of men. To get some of the weight off your shoulders, he slings his free arm around your knee for support.
"Keep 'em up just a little bit longer.", he drawls against your cunt, lips only half an inch away. "Just like that, yes. That's good. You're so good."
As he mutters the praise, keeping it ever so respectful in your presence, he notices how your hips jerk forward from it. Nearly rutting your hot cunt into his face and disappointment flickers inside him for a split second over the fact that it didn't. He would have definitely enjoyed that. Very much so. Marshal Johnson makes it a mental note to remember for later that you're into those things.
"I'll try.", you breathe and even the sound of your voice strips him of the final ounce of common sense he had. You always speak in such a polite and firm tone, but nowâŠyou're hardly the same person who walked into his office mere moments ago.
Tongue darting out, he laps up the milky pearls leaking out of you and you squeeze your legs together, muffling all and any noise that reach his ears. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs as he does his utmost to compose himself. After some years, he believed that only a few earthly pleasures could excite him, such as the cigars sitting in his desk drawer or the occasional sip of a well-aged bourbon.
Perhaps it has been too long since he laid with someone and perhaps it was about time for him to do so. As he presses his tongue flat against your cunt in a desperate attempt to lap up as much of your taste as possible, he realizes that he should have done this sooner. Way sooner he should have thrown all courtesy to the wind and expressed his infatuation. It shouldn't have taken your niece's disappearance. It shouldn't have taken a tragedy.
Your wetness coats his mouth and he swallows every single drop. Removing his fingers from your folds, he slowly slides them inside instead and wants to cry out at the feeling of it. Your walls welcome the intrusion, yet at the same time, squeeze him so tight that it sends jolts from his hand down to his crotch.
Just imagining that same feeling around his erection leaves his balls twitching with the urge to empty them as soon as possible. His cock strains painfully against his trousers and he let's go of your leg for a second or two to adjust the bulge, making it ache less. It does next to nothing to ease the pressure.
His lips find your clit, flicking his tongue over it and eliciting a mewl from you. Legs clamping together around his head, you grind into his face, smearing his nose and chin and fucking yourself on his fingers. He curls them occasionally, exploring and searching for your g-spot. Your squirming makes it a tad difficult.
One hand has let go of your skirt and is now buried in his gray hair, tugging at it with every pump of his fingers and lick of his tongue. He laps at your clit, drinking up whatever you're giving him while he tries to maintain a steady rhythm. It doesn't bother him one bit that you're practically using him to chase your own pleasure. It feels like it was always meant to be this way.
"Oh, Marshal-", you choke out and seek support on the desk with the other hand, ultimately letting go of your dusty prairie skirt.
It flows down over him, cascading over his head and plunging him into darkness. Eyes squeezed shut, he welcomes the heat that he's now trapped with. As your moans gain in pitch, his cock responds to the shift. It twitches and throbs and the Marshal catches himself thrusting into the air as a reflex.
The rough fabric of his pants shifts with the movement, but it isn't enough to give him any real pleasure. Jaw tense, he tells himself that it will come soon, but that he has to take care of you first. Fingers pumping in and out in sync with his tongue lapping hungrily at your clit, he keeps the pace, chasing your orgasm together with you.
Then suddenly, your thighs trap him. Even more than before which he didn't believe possible. The pressure around his head might have hurt if it wasn't for his own blinding arousal that overpowers any other sensation. You could have ripped out chunks of his hair and he wouldn't have batted an eye.
"Leigh!", you cry out in pleasure. The first time he ever heard you call him by his first name. It sounds beautiful dropping from your lips and he's happy that it's done with such ecstasy.
Even through the skirt, he notices the way your strength leaves you. A thud echoes through the Sheriff's office and he pushes the fabric away to see what happened. Your hand had slipped and you dropped onto your elbow, clutching the edge of the desk. The orgasm left you with a heaving chest and the new position illuminates your bare breasts.
Silver light is spilled across them and Marshal Johnson scrambles back onto his feet with popping knees. The sound is deafening in the silence of he night where there's nothing but your heavy breathing. Your eyes are half closed as you peer up at him and he swallows his saliva that is laced with the musky taste of your cunt.
Roles now reversed, Marshal Johnson is the one to tower over you and desire pools inside his guts at the sight. Lowering yourself further, you're laying flat over the table now, one hand still holding onto the edge and the other wiping away the sweat lining your forehead. The air inside the building is heavy and thick, smelling of a forbidden kind of sex.
There you lie, ruined and wrecked from your orgasm. The blouse is sprawled out around your torso, hanging low on your shoulders and leaving you entirely exposed to his prying eyes. Stiff nipples are pointing upwards, still swollen from the attention he has given them earlier and your breasts move along with every pant and gasp.
One side of your skirt is falling over your right leg, hiding what's between them yet again and the Marshal runs a hand over your thigh. The inside of it is smeared and slick and he spreads it further over your skin as he reveals your weeping cunt.
"Good Lord, you're one gorgeous woman.", he mutters and you let out breathy laughter.
A dark thought crosses his mind that very moment and he grits his teeth. He shouldn't be happy that your husband passed away years ago and he also shouldn't be happy about his own spouse being gone. Nevertheless, he finds a filthy kind of satisfaction in both your situations. It would have never come to this, if it wasn't for their absence.
"What will you do now, Marshal?", you coo, almost innocently so.
A challenge swims in your words and he sinks his teeth into the inside of his cheek. What will he do? Further ravish you, fuck you on this table and ruin what decency either of you have left. What separates him from those scoundrels over at the saloon? He'd never think to compare you to the women working there, but isn't there a certain imbalance of power present right now?
After all, he's your Sheriff. He holds a certain authority. If Marshal Leigh Johnson was just a little bit more God fearing, he wouldn't unbuckle his belt this very moment. If he'd only muster up a little bit more self-restraint and respect for your grief and his professionalism, he wouldn't let his trousers drop down to his ankles. And he certainly wouldn't grasp the base of his shaft to align his tip with your entrance.
He gives his cock a good pump, smearing the pre-cum over the tip with his thumb as he pulls his foreskin back to reveal the flushed red skin. You're staring at him expectantly, spreading your legs with what little strength is left in them. Your sopping cunt practically sucks him in. It only takes one shallow thrust to enter you and as he does so, stars dance across his vision.
It's so hot and wet that it feels like he's melting. Hips inching forward some more, he's forced to take regular breaks to prevent himself from emptying his loaded balls this early on. You take him so well, so ready and oh so fucking tight. Your cunt grips him like a vice as if it's refusing to let him go ever again and he braces himself on either side of your hips.
Once he regains even a fraction of his composure, he grasps them and pulls you closer, leaving part of your rear hovering over the desk's edge. A surprised, but delighted squeak escapes you at the abrupt gesture and you clamp further down around him. He leaves his cock soaking inside you for a minute, throbbing and twitching as if it has a heartbeat of its own.
The veins along his shaft scrape over your walls as he begins to fuck you in earnest. There will be bruises left on your skin from how hard he's gripping your hips, but you don't seem to mind by your encouraging moans and gasps. Your tits bounce with every thrust and one hand flies down to grasp his wrist. Marshal Johnson's movements stutter for a brief moment, thinking that you might be trying to tell him to go easier or to stop.
"Keep going just like this.", you plead then and he realizes that you were only looking for something to brace yourself with.
Your thumb caresses him, brushing over his pulse point that is undoubtedly betraying him. There's no reality in which you don't notice its racing speed. He drives his cock in deep, sending his balls against your rear in a wet smack. It bounces along the four walls of the Sheriff's office, complimenting the obscene squelching and his own ragged groans.
You look like sin, sprawled out over his desk and taking his cock with eager enthusiasm. Pleasure shoots through his veins, so right in all the wrong ways. You sought him out for support, because the sorrow on your chest was too great to be burdened alone. A decent man in his position wouldn't have stripped you down. He wouldn't have wrung an orgasm out of you with his mouth and fingers and he certainly wouldn't be fucking you like an animal in heat.
But he's a weak man. Good Lord, he's so weak to your beguiling charm. The very moment you walked into his office, he had lost a battle he didn't even know he was fighting. Just one single brush of your fingers over his knee and he folded like a lawn-chair without even being aware of it. He's met with a soft resistance as his tip reaches your cervix. If he'd be only a tad gentler, he'd call it a kiss.
A cramp then slices through his thighs and his knees buckles ever so slightly. Chasing after outlaws and scoundrel seems like child's play now. The pleasure rolling through his body in waves is sucking all strength out of him and before he could topple down onto the floor, he presses both palms flat on either side of your head.
You whine and squirm, chasing for friction and frowning at the sudden break. Marshal Johnson leans down to capture your lips with his. It's a sloppy kiss given that both of you are greedily gasping for air. Fully mounting you, he presses you into the solid surface with his weight before continuing to rut into you in filthy desperation.
It takes some of the strain off his legs and he quite likes the new angle. Your cunt weeps, drenching not only the thick hair pooling around his base but also his balls. They're soaked entirely as they smack against your rear. That's when he feels something mighty threatening to uncoil in his lower stomach that apparently doesn't go quite unnoticed by you, somehow.
"Do it inside me, Marshal.", you coo encouragingly into his ear and he's conflicted about whether you're an angel or a devil. "Please. I want you inside."
To underline your words, you wrap both legs around his waist, successfully trapping him in place and at once, it hits him that you've been the one in control this entire time. And here he was, worried whether he's abusing his authority or not and even more worried over the fact that he's enjoying it. You've molded him to a point where he'd pull out and do cartwheels if that were something you'd request.
Oh, but he can't deny that his imbalance of power gave him a sick kick. He loves the idea of using his badge on you one day, tie you up with his lasso perhaps and have his way. That polite smile that you've been offering whenever you ran into each other in town: he'd rid you of it as he fucks your warm mouth. The coil inside him snaps and his balls tighten up.
Rope after rope leave him, filling you to the brim until he feels some of it leak out and splatter onto the floor. He moans your name in a low tone and you catch it with a kiss. Tongue sliding past his lips, it brushes over his as he rolls his hips to fuck whatever is left inside him into your ruined cunt.
Time seems to slow down and come to a complete halt as you freeze in this position. Both in a tight embrace. You throb and flutter around him as he softens between your walls. His eyes find yours and you brush a gray strand of hair out of his face. A lot of the silver has gone astray during this endeavor and he tries to smooth it all out by running his fingers through his hair.
The badge on his vest gleams in the moonlight, casting a bright circle on your cheek that he caresses with a rough thumb. You tilt your head to the side, planting a kiss on it before taking it between your lips. He has no idea how, but somehow in this short time, he can feel himself harden again.
His cock glides out of your cunt and you whimper, drawing both brows closely together. The lewd expression you're giving him has his blood rush back down to his crotch. Hell, he wants to put it right in again and pump his cum back into you until you're all round and swollen. He wants you stuffed with his semen. Digging his fingers into his breast pocket, he fishes out a handkerchief.
"I'm so sorry, ma'am.", he murmurs, uncertain what exactly he's apologizing for.
Taking advantage of your vulnerability? Smearing his cum all over your sopping cunt and legs? Now that he's trying to help clean you up, he notices that some of it has run down your rear and around the tight ring of muscle between your soft cheeks. His cock stirs at the sight and the thought of penetrating you there as well.
You prop yourself up and his gaze snaps to your face. The Marshal can't explain how or why, but you're practically glowing. The corners of your mouth are pointing up for once and there's a gleam in your eyes that he hasn't yet had the luxury of seeing ever since your husband's passing. For a moment, you don't look like the weight of the world is resting on our shoulders.
"Boss! Marshal!", someone hollers from outside and both of you peer through the window.
Jonah is sitting upright in his saddle, waving and pacing from side to side. A dark shape is behind him, looking an awful lot like-
"The stagecoach.", Marshal Johnson blurts out. "I'll be damned."
"They made it!", you yelp, voice shrill with shock, bewilderment and utter relief.
Quickly, you hop into your bloomers and fasten the buttons of your blouse while he pulls up his trousers. The two of you still look quite disheveled, but somewhat presentable. You're the first to dart out into the open, earning puzzled glances from the Marshal's men. Nobody knew or expected for you to be here at this hour.
A girl leaps out of the coach, not older than 17 or so. While she doesn't share your features, she shares your keen eyes that are wandering between the Marshal and you.
â
Marshal Johnson insisted on escorting you together with Jonah and Eli up to the MacFarlane ranch. Turns out that he was correct in assuming that a wheel popped off on their way here which resulted in it breaking. It happened right after Blackwater and in the middle of nowhere too. They had to walk the few miles on foot from their location to Thieves Landing to buy a replacement.
The coach is currently parked in front of a small cabin on the MacFarlane property. This is where you live. Jonah and Eli are currently busy carrying the very few bags inside, while you're talking to the driver and sporting a troubled expression.
"Obviously the delay comes with extra cost, ma'am. That new wheel too, I'm afraid.", the driver says, further deepening the crease on your forehead.
"Of course.", you mumble as you look at the cabin. "My savings are inside. I'll go fetch them real quick."
"No need for that.", Marshal Johnson intervenes and holds out a stack of dollar bills. "That should cover the extra costs together with the rest of the ride."
Nodding, the man runs his thumb over the cash and counts in a low voice before pocketing majority of it and handing the rest back. Then he tips his hat in farewell and drives off into the distance.
"Thank you so much. I'll repay you the money as soon as I can.", you say to which he squeezes your shoulder. It carries a lot more meaning after all that has happened earlier. The contact seeps into his palm and burns deliciously and if you were alone right now, he'd pull you in for a kiss.
"Consider it a gift. You deserve it after all that worrying and fretting for your niece.", he answers and you visibly relax.
"All bags are inside now, sir.", Eli calls out and the two men march to where their horses are hitched. Your niece is standing at the porch, watching closely. A smile is tugging at her mouth as her eyes land on his hand on your shoulder.
"I'll leave you to it then. I bet you have a lot to catch up on.", he murmurs and clears his throat.
"Thank you for everything, Marshal.", you whisper and it aches to let go of you.
"Stop by my office when you have the time."
"Would tomorrow afternoon work?", you ask and his cheeks twitch with delight.
"My door's always open for you, ma'am."
He remains where he stands, watching you walk to your niece who hooks her arm together with yours. She whispers something in your ear to which you respond by playfully swatting at her arm. The last thing he hears is giggling before the door falls shut.
I've realised every single millisecond Javier appears in any cutscene my eyes can lock in on him like I'm some kind of perverted homing missile. Even if he's a few paces in the background trust I WILL clock his ass. It's like my brain is wired to just pick him out in anything, subconsciously looking for pookie.
While visiting your friend, you accidentally manage to go back in time and find yourself stranded on a mountain with a group of outlaws. As you make your name known in the history books for your friend to find you, you try to navigate through the sudden change in your life, all the new dangers and your blooming feelings for a certain outlaw.
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Word count: 5.8k
Tags: spoilers for rdr2, graphic depiction of violence, fem!reader, modern!reader, low honor Arthur to high honor, slow burn, time travel, eventual smut, explicit sexual content, angst, sexual harassment, smoking, drinking, period-typical sexism, canon-typical violence, Arthur has no TB
New life has been breathed into Shady Belle. Where people had been previously moping about, nursing hangovers and grieve isolated and scattered across the moldy nooks of the place, it is now buzzing with activity. The air is electrified and the Van Der Linde spirit is as high as it was back in Horseshoe and after the successful hit on the Cornwall train.
Losses have been stacking up high lately, accompanied by botched robberies and one failure after another. Hosea has drummed up everybody, organizing as many hands on deck as he possibly could. The Lemoyne National Bank is a huge target, larger than anything youâve seen the gang aim for before and thus, it requires man- and gunpower.
The rifles that Lenny and Arthur got from robbing this place when it was still being occupied by the Lemoyne Raiders are being tossed around from one pair of hands to another until everyone is armed to their very teeth. Men are donning their finest suits, fitting for that corner of the city, meanwhile Abigail and you are holed up in her room upstairs to slip into your respective disguises.
Hosea asked the two of you to join him when he goes to light the explosives. Abigail is going to enter the warehouse with him while youâre the look-out. Adrenaline tingles at you nerve endings and youâre unable to stand still even for a second. She hisses a reprimand your way when your body refuses to still, so that she can close the buttons on the back of your dress.
Itâs the same one you wore back when you robbed the bank in Valentine. Wearing it now feels vastly different, less stifling and more so like a second skin. A belt is strapped tightly around your waist that youâre going to tuck your Cattleman in and hide it under a light coat. Sporting your thick gun belt with its big and heavy holster might draw attention otherwise.
âWill ya stand still already?â, she scolds in the same exasperated tone that she reserves for Jack when he talks about wanting to become a famous gunslinger one day.
âIâm trying.â, you whine and you truly are.
But itâs like youâve sat down on an ant hill and now hundreds of these tiny creatures are crawling around your body and up your ass. At least you wonât have to struggle with that wretched corset this time. Thereâs no need to adhere to any beauty standards in the factory district and no reason to shine amongst coal dust.
If anything, then youâre going to stand out with your clean clothes and clear skin, free of any filth and dirt.
âAbout time that we go out together, huh?â, you say, breaking the silence, because youâre feeling as if youâre going to burst otherwise.
Abigails snickers and pats the fabric on your back when she finally closes up the last button. Itâs a great relief for the both of you and you immediately straighten up a little, relaxing over the fact that you can resume your squirming.
âJust donât go thinkinâ this is going to be a regular thing now.â, she drawls with amusement lacing her words.
âOf course not.â
And you wonât expect her to. Itâs evident in the twinkle in her blue eyes and the waves of excitement wafting off her that sheâs thrilled to taste some action, but she dislikes the idea of risking her neck too much and too often. For if something would happen to her, nobody would watch over Jack the same way she does.
And it doesnât matter whether John finally got his act together or not. Youâve seen him interact with the kid after his abductions and how haplessly he stumbles through each attempt to rekindle the lost years. Is it appreciated? Absolutely. Would you still call him a responsible father? No way.
Abigail is a constant pillar of strength, refusing to crack under any pressure that would have most crumble in an instant. Hell, youâre quite certain that youâre one of these people even. There is simply no way that your nerves come anywhere close to hers. Where she is steel, you feel more like jelly and where her patience runs deep as a river, yours resembles more a rain puddle on the side of a road.
God knows that you would have thrown hands with John a long, long time ago.
âAre you nervous?â, she asks as she ties her hair up into a neat bun.
You quite like the way her black strands cascade down her back, but she isnât fond of leaving them open.
âAlways, but not as much as I used to be. I trust Hosea with this.â, you admit.
Picking up your revolver, you flick your wrist for the wheel to flip out and you count the bullets. You havenât really used the gun at all these past few days, but the intense urge to check if itâs loaded doesnât fade. Itâs like whenever you used to go on a trip and youâd zip open your bag to make sure that your passport is there and hasnât mysteriously vanished into thin air.
You checked it five seconds ago, people would say, but a lot can happen in five seconds!
âAnd I guess we donât really have that much to do.â, she agrees and fixes her collar in the mirror. âNot as much as Dutch and the others anyway.â
That is true. Your job is going to be a walk in the park in comparison. Just a quick slip into the warehouse, a curt light of a match and then youâre out again. Like ghosts.
âExactly.â, you murmur.
âHey, Iâve been meaning to ask you something.â, she suddenly says, instantly grabbing your attention.
Anxiety never fails to churn in your stomach whenever someone wants to talk to you about something, especially when their expressions is as serious as Abigailâs is right now. Daunting.
âYeah, what is it?â, you respond and try to sound casual.
Itâs a miracle that your voice doesnât break while you speak, but it seems like youâre more in control of your own body than you believed yourself to be.
âSo, itâs been a while since we last talked about you and Arthur.â
Thatâs true. Last you remember having spoken to her about him was back in Clemens Point, right after his abduction. The memory is carved into your mind as if it only happened last week or so. You recall the way the wind had caressed your cheeks and the smell of smoke from the nearby fireplace. Back then, you had opened yourself up to her, voicing your growing feelings for the outlaw for the very first time.
Swallowing a lump in your throat, you marvel over the fact that you managed to stay quiet about that topic for so long. Now that she opened up that can of worms, you feel like exploding again. All you want to do is either close the lid as quickly as possible or let it all out at once. Something about the sudden confrontation tells you itâs going to be the latter of the two.
âI just want to let you know that you can talk to me about anything, right? Something clearly happened between you two.â, she continues and you run a hand over your face, careful not to smudge the subtle brushstrokes of make-up that you worked so hard on earlier.
âYou have to be a bit more specific, Abigail. A lot has happened between us.â, you point out and huff out a bitter laugh.
Her shoulders slump down and recognition flashes behind her eyes. Is it possible that your situation reminds her of her and John? Oh, you must be in some deep shit then.
âI know that you two fight a lot.â
Theatrically, you clutch the non-existent pearls around your neck. It reminds you of the beautiful necklace that you wore to the ferry and that is now lying at the bottom of the Grand Korrigan. The memory sends an ice-cold shiver down your spine, properly rattling every piece of vertebrae on its way.
âWhat? And here I thought we were hiding it so well.â, you gasp, sarcasm oozing from your voice.
Her lips are pressed into a thin line as she stares at you, sizing you up. No doubt sheâs trying to find a hint that might reveal your true emotions that are bubbling behind the façade that you oh so meticulously built up.
âDo you still have feelings for him?â, she asks, completely ignoring your poor attempt at a joke and directly cutting to the chase.
Thatâs something you cherish about her. Nothing is minced with Abigail Roberts. Her and Sadie are alike in that aspect.
âI donât want to talk about my feelings for him.â, you spit and immediately reel back. âSorry.â
She doesnât deserve your anger.
âI understand what youâre going through. Trust me with that.â
âOh, I trust you entirely. Donât you worry about that.â, you huff out and chuckle. âSometimes I feel like you, Molly and I should start a therapy group.â
And youâd call it something along the lines of: The wreckage of the Van Der Linde men.
âIs it really that bad between you and Arthur?â, she asks, somehow surprised by your situation.
Well, what on earth did she expect? Arthur may be older than her John, but wisdom doesnât necessarily come with age.
âWhat does it look like? He refuses to let me in and I honestly donât know if I want him to. Just the other night, we ran into one of hisâŠvictims. You know, those poor people that Herr Strauss keeps ripping off? Yes, well, Arthur beat her sick husband to death and now sheâs selling her body on the streets.â
The words donât seem to stop. They blurt out of you in an endless stream like an old pipe that has finally cracked under pressure and is now spewing water all over the place.
âNow you tell me, Abigail. Is that a man I should be in love with?â, you end your tirade of fury, growing increasingly more frustrated with yourself over falling for Arthur.
Recalling Mary, you wonder if she felt anything similar when she came to that conclusion as well or if she was somehow able to remain blissfully ignorant of it all. Something tells you that she was bothered by it, given how it ended between the two of them. Then again, you donât think she ever returned the engagement ring.
And the lingering fondness for the outlaw is as clear as day. You could see it in the looks she threw his way and how her voice would soften whenever she spoke of him. It still haunts her, you can tell. Like a goddamn curse, this man, or more so a pest. You canât quite decide.
âThere are many things we shouldnât be feeling or doing, but we canât control what the heart wants. I know that better than anyone.â, she speaks. Calmly. âBut things can get better. Thereâs always a chance.â
âAnd what did it take for John to get better?â, you ask and instantly regret it the moment the words leave your lips.
Itâs a low blow that sends waves of shame searing through your veins. Abigail flinches for a brief moment, but thankfully she isnât angry at your callousness. On the contrary, your jab seems to sober her up.
âIt takes a lot for some folks to see clearly. Especially for men like John or Arthur. I ainât saying that theyâre good men, but theyâre not incapable of change either.â, she argues without a hint of indignation towards you.
You expected her to hold your tactless comment against you, like you might have done, yet she shows nothing but empathy. Proof of her admirable patience as you mentioned earlier.
âIâm so sorry for what I said earlier-â, you start, but she cuts you off.
âNo, donât be. You were right in a way and I know Iâm a fool for wanting what I want, but it doesnât make it less real. Your own feelings arenât less real just because you disagree with them.â
âShit, Abigail.â, you breathe out.
A whirlwind of strange emotions rampages behind your ribcage, reaching from relief to have this off your chest to reluctance to fully face your feelings. Sheâs right with every single thing she said, yet a very small, very stubborn part of your soul simply refuses to give in. It desperately clings to your last remaining shred of false dignity.
It feels like a betrayal to embrace your love for the man who leaves nothing but destruction in his path. He didnât blink when he collected the debt, nor did he blink when he shot up both Valentine and Rhodes to all hell. What exactly it is that draws you so much to him, is still a mystery, considering that you had no ounce of sympathy for him when you first met.
He had been nothing but an unmovable force that prevented you from escape back in Colter and a raging storm in Horseshoe that seemed almost adamant on countering you at every given opportunity. When have you started painting him in a brighter light? When his praises shone down on you like the sun after you helped getting Sean back?
Was it when his fingers were wrapped around your ankle and his care at seeped into your bones? Or perhaps was it after he went out of his way to reign your panic attack during the bank robbery in Valentine? It dawns on you that it wasnât one singular experience or moment with the outlaw, but a slow and creeping process.
Every gentle touch, softening of his hard eyes and intimate moment had gradually contributed, including each stroke of your ire, every firm grip, every nasty drawl. You love it when he handles you with care just as much as you love it when he bares his teeth. You want him soft as much as you want him rough.
Suddenly, a knock rips you out of your thoughts and you whip around on your heels.
âAre you ladies decent?â, a raspy voice penetrates the closed door.
After Abigail utters a confirmation, Johnâs head peeks through the slim crack as he opens the door. His eyes flicker briefly over you before they halt on the other woman entirely. The gleam in his eyes tightens your throat and for a short moment, you wonder if you maybe put on the corset after all and forgot about it.
âHosea sent me. Weâre all ready to go.â, he says and you nod.
âWeâll be down in a second.â, Abigail answers and the man vanishes as quickly as he had arrived.
Glancing back at her over your shoulder, you notice that sheâs beaming all over her face. Itâs a glow similar to Johnâs and a hole yawns in the pit of your stomach. An unknown force tugs at your strings and it takes a while for you to identify the sinking sensation as envy. You crave to be looked at the same way as John had looked at Abigail.
Hooking her arm into yours, she rips you out of your thoughts and your body jerks awake, instantly washing away the shadows.
âLetâs go then.â, she says with a wide smile and you somehow find it within yourself to return it.
Wagons and horses are standing at the ready in front of the manor and Hosea waves at the two of you from the far front. Abigail lets go of you and subtly nods to your right.
âHow about you talk to him before we leave?â, she suggests and before you can think of a smart reply, she struts off already.
Following to where she pointed at before, you spot Arthur only a couple feet away. Heâs sporting the same suit he wore on the ferry, triggering a chain of images to flash before your inner eye. You feel his body beneath you as if youâre sprawled out over his lap this very moment. You remember the hardness of his muscles and his heat rolling into you.
Inhaling, you can still smell the cologne he wore that evening. Tilting your head, you wonder how the suit didnât end up ruined by the river, but then again, he didnât have to rip the clothes off him like you had to. Or rather, like he had to rip them off you. You catch yourself disappointed at the fact that it didnât happen under happier circumstances where you didnât fear for your life and swallowed gallons of filthy city water.
As if heâs sensing your gaze on him, his head turns in your direction and his eyes find yours. That single interaction is enough to scrub your nerves raw and your legs are itching with the urge to flee. Both of you remain rooted in place as if invisible chains are holding you down and keeping either of you from making the first step.
Shit.
Finally, Arthur stirs and makes his way to you in long, deliberate strides. The holster on his side droops low and your eyes follow the tilt, catching the way the fabric of his pants stretches over his thighs. As much as Josiah tried to find him a fitting match, you doubt that there are many clothes out there to fit his size.
Looking up, you note the way he keeps his head dipped and it confuses you for a brief moment until you notice how his hat is lacking. Right now, the rim would have covered a good portion of his face and you figure that this must be a reflex for him by now. He says your name as a greeting and you canât lie: the way each syllable rolls of his tongue, leaves you wanting to hear more of it.
âArthur.â, you clip.
A few seconds of awkward silence pass by and you shift your weight from one foot onto another. Fortunately, you decided to make some changes on your footwear as well and leaving the heels like the corset. It will be much easier to run now should it come so far, which you doubt. Hosea has worked day and night on this plan, refining every detail. Itâs positively fool proof.
âHeard youâll be security.â, Arthur murmurs and you blink at him.
Pushing your coat aside, you reveal the revolver tucked into the leather of your belt. The hard metal pokes into your side and its presence relaxes you. His eyes follow your movement and you watch them trace the delicate engravings.
âYup.â, you say. âYou know, Hosea wants to get it right.â
âOf course.â, he muses and huffs out a sincere laugh.
Nodding towards the wagon at the far front, he falls into a slow walk. Realizing that he wants to accompany you, you follow silently next to him. Your short back and forth banter has eased the tension a bit, but itâs still crackling between you like sparks hungry to light a fuse.
âAre you nervous?â, you ask after some heartbeats.
âMe? Nah, thisâll be childâs play.â
Youâre not sure whether heâs putting on a tough face or if heâs genuinely calm about this. You, on the other hand, could throw up your heart with how desperately itâs trying to leap out through your throat the more you think about it. It will be a first to go out on a job without Arthur to back you up. All calmness that you felt when getting ready with Abigail has left you.
âEven without me to make sure youâre not getting into trouble?â, you ask and cock a brow.
He catches your glance with a curl of his lips.
âHow do you think I survived all these years before you joined us?â
âIâm wondering the same thing.â
The two of you arrive at the wagon way sooner than you would have liked. Hosea and Abigail are already sitting in the front seat and youâre supposed to climb onto the back, hiding behind the beige canvas. There are some more dynamite sticks stored in there, in case some at the warehouse need to be replaced.
They will check the explosives before setting them off and youâre to guard the wagon aside from making sure that nobody is sticking their nose into your business. Arthur extends a hand out to you and instinctively, you accept it. Your palm is clammy from the humid swamp air and you pray that he either doesnât notice or mind.
He helps you onto the back, but doesnât let go right away. No, his hand remains in yours and you fight the urge to let your thumb trail over his scarred and calloused knuckles. The contact is loaded with unspoken words, just like the air surrounding you. When you meet his gaze, you almost choke on the intensity of it.
âRemember what I told you yesterday.â, he says. A statement and not a question. âBe careful.â
âYou too.â Thatâs about all you manage to muster up.
Suddenly, he pulls away from your grasp and taking the warmth and comfort with him. You would have loved nothing more than to reach out and grab it again, holding it close to your chest to prevent him from slipping through your fingers a second time. Somehow you refrain yourself from doing just that.
Before he can turn around and march back to his horse, you quickly call out for him. He stops dead in his tracks and glances over his shoulder at you.
âYes?â, he asks and your throat dries up.
All words die on your tongue and youâre rendered speechless. How have you not thought this far ahead? What did you even want to say?
I love you, please letâs give this a chance.
Instead, you settle with something else. A bit more pathetic. âHappy robbing.â
His face drops and bewilderment creeps into his features.
âHappy robbinââ, he simply repeats, slightly deflated and you watch him walk away.
Your hand inches towards your gun with the urge to put yourself out of this embarrassing misery and shoot yourself in the head. Closing the flaps shut, you hide away from the shame and simmer under the thick canvas. The sun beats down on it, heating up the space to a nigh unbearable temperature and you wonder how the dynamite sticks havenât blown up yet.
---
Finally, the wagon comes to a complete stop and you quickly scramble to climb out of this sauna. Once you push your way through the flaps, you greedily gasp for air and wipe the many pearls of sweat from your face. Youâre positively drenched and can bid farewell to the make-up that you put on earlier this morning.
âAbigail and I are going to head over to the warehouse now. You, stay put until we come back.â, Hosea tells you and you give him a curt nod.
They parked the wagon in an empty back alley, away and shielded from curious passersby. As you watch them disappear around the corner, you lean against the wagon and let your eyes wander over your surroundings. Puddles of something youâd rather not name are pooling in some of the pot holes and grime stretches across the brick walls.
Thereâs dripping to be heard somewhere in the background and you part your lips to breathe through your mouth. A sour smell has attached itself to the walls of your nostrils, but now you can detect a faint taste on your tongue as well. Wrinkling your nose, you close your mouth shut, admitting defeat.
Pushing one of the flaps aside with your finger, you peek inside at the crates filled with red sticks. You should probably feel a bit uneasy standing so close to that many explosives, but youâve been sleeping under the same roof as them for too long now to actually care. Itâs fascinating (and slightly concerning) how numb youâve grown to a lot of things.
You recall how your stomach had turned upside down at the sight of some of the menâs unwashed union suits. They still leave you with a sense of nausea, but Miss Grimshaw made you wash off so much unspeakable filth that it doesnât bother you as much anymore. Unless an intoxicated Reverend Swanson flashes everyone by the campfire again.
The sound of hasty footsteps rips you out of your thoughts and you raise both eyebrows when you spot Hosea and Abigail re-appear. Has it really been that long already? Some days, your hand still twitches towards your pockets as a reflex to grab your phone, but it has been happening less lately.
Youâve become incredibly adept at waiting with no sort of entertainment to make time pass by faster. Who could have thought that youâd be able to rid yourself of the addiction of doomscrolling for hours on end? Not you, but alas! Here you are now, content with staring at dirty specks on a wall and assigning them names and backstories.
âAll good?â, you ask them as soon as theyâre within earshot.
âYes, I just got to set up the detonator.â, Hosea answers and a great weight lifts from your shoulders.
With how flawless itâs been going so far, you wouldnât be too surprised to later hear that the men were able to simply waltz into the bank and get the money handed on a silver platter. Nobody has glanced your way yet and the humidity of the run-down warehouse hasnât damaged the dynamite either.
âIâll keep a look-out on the street then.â, you inform them.
âTry to not run into any trouble. I know how much of a professional you and Arthur are at that.â, Hosea calls out over his shoulder and you roll your eyes.
As long as there is no large river that you have to swim in while having several, elaborate skirts dragging you down, you will be doing just fine. Skipping over the many puddles, you make your way to the end of the alley and let your gaze sweep over the street. Itâs currently working hours, so itâs not too busy yet.
Most people are in the neighboring factories and the ones that are outside donât spare you a single glance. Everyone is engrossed in their own day-to-day life right now, either hurrying to their shift or to some other important appointment. Besides, who would want to cut into this alley that reeks of piss and shit?
Standing out here, right next to the main road, your lungs are sighing in relief and so is your nose. Though the stench has imprinted itself into the walls of your nostrils and you can still taste something sour on the back of your tongue. Running it over your dry lips, a sudden flash of red flickers in the corner of your eyes.
When you turn your head in that direction, you see nothing but an empty sidewalk. Itâs swept of all life. Nobody is walking along it and so, you shrug it off, but as you shift your attention back to the street in front of you, you notice how quiet it has gotten. More so than before. You hear muffled thumping noises and buzzing of the machines inside the other buildings, but no drumming of feet or hooves.
Gone are the voices that mixed up into one jumbled stream of sound as it does so often when a lot of people at the same place have different conversations with one another. It all bleeds into a ball of incomprehensible noise. A strange sensation swells in your gut, accompanied by a sneaking suspicion that something is extremely wrong.
It reminds you of a forest that quiets down instantaneously and a deeply buried instinct kicking it. Like how animals flee moments before disaster strikes. As you struggle to come to terms with that looming, invisible threat of danger, your hand reaches to your holster. Before your fingers can even graze over the handle, something cold is pressed against your temple.
Not daring to turn your head, already knowing that itâs a gun, you freeze mid-motion. Your heart leaps up into your throat that is closing up almost entirely. If it wasnât for Sheriff Leigh Gray and his armada of cousins that held you at gunpoint that one time, you maybe would have wondered which idiot is pressing an iron bar against the side of your face. Now youâre all to familiar with the shape.
âHands in the air. Slowly.â, the man whoâs holding the weapon hisses.
He keeps his voice low and you figure itâs to avoid alerting Abigail and Hosea in that alley. Gritting your teeth, you do exactly as he says, because who would want to end up with a bullet in their head on such a fine day? The helplessness from feeling this powerless is sickening. You might as well have waltzed into the police station and let yourself into one of the cells.
Fingers itching to do something, anything, you repeatedly clench your hands into fists. Your nails dig painfully into the calloused skin of your palms, sobering you right up. Mind clouded with fury, you figure that you should keep yourself grounded somehow. Having watched Arthur handle situations like this, you started feeling icarian.
In a way, your head may or may not have convinced itself that you would be able to mimic his strength and skill, solely from seeing it so often. You recall what happened in that OâDriscoll camp back when he got abducted by them and how you handled that whole mess. It had lacked all the competence of a seasoned outlaw and youâre still far from one.
By the time you shove the barrel on your temple away, someone else could gun you down. Theyâre all making it a point to stay out of your sight to mask their numbers. The sound of footsteps is the only indicator that thereâs more than just this one bastard. Their shoes land on the cobblestones with quiet thuds, like war drums in the far distance announcing doom.
More red appears on the edges of your vision, making it look like an entire army is pouring onto the street from all sides. Ice cold sweat breaks out on your forehead, rolling down the sides of your face and hair line. The man hasnât spoken again after ordering you to raise your hands and by now it feels like an eternity has passed.
You note their whispers and hushed voices from somewhere you canât see as if theyâre some kind of ghosts or phantoms summoned to haunt you. Abigail and Hosea are right there, just a few feet away and most likely oblivious to the creeping danger. Closing your eyes shut, you contemplate your options here.
You never thought that you would find yourself at this crossroad of looking either after yourself or these outlaws. Youâve always tended to measure your life above theirs with your moral superiority and so on and so forth. Exactly as Arthur had always held against you in your countless arguments. Now, suddenly, you catch yourself hesitating to save your own skin.
After all, itâs Abigail and Hosea youâre talking about. A woman, who has singlehandedly dragged you out of deathâs clutches and if one would ask you right now if you think she would put herself in danger for your sake, then the answer is simple.
âRun!â, you scream from the top of your lungs, startling the man holding the gun just enough to keep him from pulling the trigger.
Vowing to make use of the split second of distraction, you swing your arm down, knocking the pistol out of his grasp and willing your legs to jump into action. Clumsily skidding over the wet cobblestones, you hold onto the brick wall and look into the alley. Abigail glances over her shoulder, bewilderment written all over her face when she meets your panicked grimace.
âThe Pinkertons-â
Unfortunately, you donât get far.
You warning gets cut off by a blast so violent, that it shakes the earth beneath your feet. Rubble and debris fly through the air and you instinctively duck. Hosea triggered the explosion and it has kicked up a thick cloud of dust that is currently rolling over the district. It approaches you at a high pace, resembling an avalanche.
Several hands grab you by your arms and shoulders, yanking you backwards so abruptly that you for a brief moment fear your shoulders are going to pop out of their sockets. Hot pain slices down your arms and spine, stroking your ire. As anger boils your blood and sears through your veins, you thrash in an attempt to break free.
One arm miraculously does slip out and you ball your hand into a fist. Punching blindly, your knuckles collide with a jaw, leaving your hand aching. People are cursing and yelling, ordering for you to finally be restrained and then something kicks you in the back of your knees. In an instant, your legs fold and you drop down onto the dirty ground.
A mix of brown and grey seeps into the skirt of your dress and you wrinkle your nose in disgust. As both arms are being twisted behind your back, you yelp from the odd angle these men are forcing your limbs into. The dust still refuses to settle, hanging in the air like a thick veil. You watch several people scurrying around, but donât catch any faces.
Until they drag someone from out of the alley and your heart drops. Hosea is being held at gunpoint and flanked by several agents, while someone else ties a rope around your wrists. The comforting weight on the side of your hips vanishes and with dread, you realize that theyâve taken your Cattleman.
Youâre being hauled back onto your feet and you wince as the motion twists your arms further to a point where you donât even think about the shit and piss on your dress anymore. The throbbing pain in your wrists from the rope cutting into them is only distant as well.
âIâm so sorry. I tried to warn you.â, you plead, eyes stinging with the threat of tears.
The look Hosea gives you is devastatingly tender like a father gazing down at his daughter who accidentally spilled some milk.
âYou tried, dear. I know you did.â, he says and your throat turns sore from the sheer effort of not weeping like a baby right now.
âAnd Abigail?â
âShe made it out just in time thanks to you.â
You could have cried out in relief and actually begin to tremble if it wasnât for a familiar pair of faces staring at you from the top of their noses. Both Milton and Ross are judging you silently, yet so openly that it drowns out all the noises around you.
I have read ALL your charles fics⊠and so far i can tell you are a WONDERFUL writer!! I cant wait to see what else you deliver!! Now i have to read your arthur fics!
Thank you so much!!! My writing style has changed quite a bit since my last Charles fic so I feel like I should write something for him again. I have an idea already that I want to write down once I have all these Marshals out of my system lmao nobody mention the bullets and claws spin off in my drafts
so apparently some people feel like itâs annoying when someone engages with a lot of stuff from the same person, like going through their ship tag and liking all the content there.Â
hearing about this, i was immediately paranoid about reblogging literally anything from anyone i donât talk to on a regular basis.
so to save others from the same paranoia, iâm gonna say that if you like every single post on my goddamn blog it is okay. i might be kind of concerned about your level of time management, going through 23,000 posts, but it wouldnât bother me.Â
Van Horn feels like the miserable end of something. The boards groan underfoot as if the town itself is tired of holding its shape, and the wind coming off the water smells like rust and muck and water rot. You step into the run-down saloon with Arthur at your shoulder, skirts brushing your calves. Oil lamps hiss and drunken men mumble over cheap whiskey.
You choose a table that unfortunately wobbles. Arthur steadies it with two fingers and doesnât look at you while he does. He never quite looks at you latelyânot long enough, not eye to eye. The awkwardness sits between you like a dirty third glass.
The whiskey burns clean and hot. You cradle it with both hands because it gives them something to do. Arthurâs hat shadows his eyes, and when he tips it back to drink, you watch his throat work and then look away, startled by the heat that pools low in your belly. This is the part that feels dangerousâthe not-looking. The careful space. The way every small thing feels charged.
You donât know when it started, this strangeness between the two of you. Maybe before Blackwater?
âYou ever notice,â he says, voice rough as the table, âhow this town feels like itâs about to tip into the water?â
You snicker. âItâs leaning,â you say. âLike itâs a sad old drunk.â
He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound tucked into his chest. âYeah. Thatâs one way of puttinâ it.â
You drink again. The room sways a little, or maybe itâs just you. You think of the camp waiting west, high above the Dakota, the steady comfort of easing back into routine. You think of the long road back and how it might feel to leave this place behind, its splinters and smoke. You think of Arthurâs knee under the table, close enough to feel the warmth, not close enough to be intimate.
âWe should head back,â you say, too quickly. Or maybe he says it first and youâre just echoing him; itâs hard to tell where your thoughts end and his begin lately. âHorseshoe Overlookâs home for now.â
Arthur nods, slowly. âBeen thinkinâ that myself.â He glances at the door, then back to his glass. âAinât much here for us right now.â
Us. The word lands both soft and heavy at the same time. You donât comment on it. You both know better than to reach for something you donât yet have the nerve to name.
The piano stutters to a stop. Someone curses. Chairs scrape. Arthur pushes his glass away and stands, tall and sudden, and for a heartbeat youâre aware of the shape of himâbroad shoulders, a steadiness that comes naturally. He offers you his hand, not as a flourish, just a fact. You take it, and feel a spark you pretend not to as you rise.
Outside, the air is cooler. The docks creak, and the water slaps wood insistantly. Evening has turned the sky to a bruised violet. Arthurâs horse waits where he left her, head low, tail swishing. The buttermilk Kentucky Saddler mare lifts her ears when she sees him, a soft sound in her throat.
âRhiannon,â he murmurs, and thereâs something gentle in his voice you donât often hear, reserved for his sweethearts. Your chest constricts a little.
He checks the cinch with practiced hands, the leather stretching. You smooth your dress without thinking, tugging it into place. Arthur swings up easy, settling into the saddle with a creak of leather and bone. He reaches down without looking, palm open, and you step close.
For a second, you hesitate. Itâs sillyâyouâve ridden together plenty beforeâbut tonight the space feels narrower, the moment sharper. You place your foot where he guides it and let him take your weight. His hand is firm at your waist, fingers splayed, and the lift is quick, controlled. You find yourself seated behind him, skirts gathered, thighs braced against the curve of the saddle, your chest inches from his back.
The world narrows to the feel of him. The warmth through his coat. The solid line of his spine. You tell yourself to keep your hands polite, resting light at his hips, but the horse shifts and you slide forward, just a touch, until your breath ghosts the nape of his neck. Arthur clears his throat. The mare steps off, hooves ringing hollow against the planks as you leave the lamplight behind.
Van Horn falls awayâthe saloonâs glow, the mutter of voices, the smell of whiskey and brine. The road rises and the night opens up, crickets stitching sound into the dark. Arthur sets a steady pace, not too fast, as if he knows exactly how much jostling you can stand. You count the sway of the horse, the rhythm of it, like a metronome for your thoughts.
You want to lean in. You want to rest your cheek between his shoulder blades and let the wanting go slack. You donât. Instead, you look at the stars coming out, and think of the campfire waiting far to the west. You think of the morning light at Horseshoe Overlook, how it spills like honey over the cliffs, and how maybe these next days will be easier.
Arthur speaks without turning. âYou alright back there?â
âYes,â you say, and itâs true in the small way that matters. âJust thinking.â
âDangerous habit,â he says, but thereâs no bite to it. His shoulders relax a fraction. âWeâll make camp before it gets too dark. Rhiannonâs got good sense.â
She does. She carries you sure-footed through the rise and fall of the road, ears flicking back to catch the murmur of Arthurâs voice, the quiet of your breathing. The wind lifts your hair and tangles it, and you tuck it back, fingers brushing his coat by accident. Or maybe not. He doesnât comment, but his hand comes back, steadying you at the knee as the path dips.
It would be easy, you think. Too easy. To let this turn into something it isnât yet. To read meaning into every touch and breath. You donât want easy. You want sure.
The moon edges up. The land stretches vast and empty. You ride on, the town behind you and the camp far ahead, suspended in that space where nothing has happened yet and everything might.
Omg I can't believe I haven't read this sooner. Just finished this chapter and I could practically feel everything in here. Your descriptions are absolutely amazing and I saw myself in every single word!!! When we sat behind him in the saddle, I could feel the warmth of his body on mine if that makes any sense???
I hate that I don't have the time to read the rest this very instance (dinner is calling) but I'll jump on the rest the very moment I have time <333
