synopsis : after getting caught staring at arthur, he decides to tease you about it during dinner. part 1 is here!
wc : 3.2k
tags : fluff, mutual pining, teasing, reader is shy, love confession, first kiss, the trio (mary-beth, tilly, karen) is present
a/n : you have asked, and i delivered. part 2 of my first published one-shot here! it took me days to write, especially since there's a lot of dialogue and because it's longer than what i usually write on here. not sure how i feel about it but i hope you all enjoy it nonetheless!! (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)
tagging the people who requested for it : @kaitlynthea @fangfullq @qilinxingg hope you guys like it ♡
you hadn't left your tent at all for the rest of the afternoon. after quickly finishing that last batch of laundry, you found yourself particularly entranced by the dull and dirty canvas of the little home you shared with tilly.
in other words: you wanted to avoid arthur morgan at all costs. after that awkward predicament you found yourself in earlier in the day, you just couldn't bear to see him. not now, anyway. maybe until long enough passed so it would naturally slip his mind. but you knew you were being too hopeful; if arthur morgan managed to find even the most furtive bounties in the most recluse areas of the state, then you would be a piece of cake for him.
however, even if there was no point in hiding from him in the long run, you could try to do it for as long as you could before he personally sought you out.
the hardest part of it all would be dinner; which means right now. you now reluctantly have to abandon this new-found hobby of yours which consisted in making out things or faces from the dirt patches on your side of the canvas, to instead get your dinner serve and pray arthur would be too busy with other gang members to be able to strike a conversation with you. oh no, by then you would long have retreated to your tent, hoping that counting those patches would soothe your nerves and lull you to sleep.
you peak from your tent flaps to look for him throughout the camp, but he seems to have vanished. good, this meant the field was clear for you to spend a bit more time with the girls before turning out for the day.
you find mary-beth, tilly and karen all sat by one of the tables in camp. you greet them before taking a seat next to them.
after a bit of casual conversation, which mainly consisted of karen threatening to rip mrs grimshaw's head off, to which you wouldn't oppose after today, you decide to ask the question you couldn't get out of your mind.
"where's arthur?"
"out hunting with charles... i think." mary-beth raises an eyebrow. "why? you lookin' for him?"
"yeah, i think she wants to stare at him for a little longer."
"karen!" you chide.
tilly chimes in. "oh, god forbid a girl has a hobby! if there was somebody easy on the eyes out here then i'd surely do the same."
you all laugh, a comfortable silence settling on you as you eat– well try to eat, pearson's stew.
you sigh. "i asked because i'm looking to avoid him after... that."
karen drops her spoon in her plate. always so quick to react, this one.
"avoid him? why?"
"cause he'll tease me bout it!", you bury your face in your hands, "god, i'm still so embarassed that i got caught."
"it ain't so bad," mary-beth attempts. "i mean, i'm pretty sure everyone already forgot about it-"
"i didn't."
" well, everyone but karen already forgot about it, i bet."
tilly shrugs. "'sides, it's about time you two did sumthin' bout your... situation."
all the girls sigh heavily and nod, looking at you expectantly.
mary-beth shakes her head in feigned disappointement. "ain't that right... you and arthur are some of the most oblivious people i've eva' seen."
"everybody knows yer sweet on each other expect you two." karen rolls her eyes in playful teasing.
you had never really considered the possibility of arthur ever returning your feelings. you've never felt quite... adequate for him. he was the gang's enforcer, almost carrying the whole of it on his back with all the errands dutch makes him run. and rightfully so; he was good at what he did.
and with his busy agenda, you believed it left him little time to worry about romantic endeavors, and much less with you, a much quieter background gang member.
"i... is he?" you hesitate, reluctant to even believe there existed a world where he would see you as a potential romantic partner.
tilly blinks in confusion. "have you not seen how he handles it when anyone else is starin' at him like that? he ain't the type to like being scrutinized while workin'."
"well maybe he just... didn't want to frighten me-"
"girl," karen cuts you off, "just face it already. you're telling me you don't see the way he looks at you, at all?"
you did notice that; though you believed he was like that with the women in general, a way to show his respect and not scare them away with his rather large build and usual temper.
you shake your head with a pout. "i mean... why in his right mind would he even go for me?"
mary-beth puts a comforting hand on your shoulder. "oh sweetie, he has plenty of reason to. don't doubt yerself like that."
does he?
you don't have enough time to go down the spiral of self-deprecation that karen gasps and whispers, pointing behind you.
"ladies... trouble is here."
they give each other a knowing smirk, and you only understand why when you peek behind you.
arthur is back.
he was effortlessly carrying a whitetail deer slung on his back, before settling it on pearson's table for him to skin it.
lord... why did he have to look good doing anything? seeing him carry heavy loads like it was nothing at all only added to his manliness. it always made you squeeze your thighs together, wishing to be the one he was carrying like that instead. and with that sheer strength of his... he could manhandle you as he wills.
he gets a bowl of stew and scans the camp... until his eyes met yours. and you could see it; how a mischevious smirk instantly formed on his face. he then...
starts walking over?
you quickly turn around face flushed, before a gruff voice could be heard from behind you. he must be close because you could feel a body's warmth just a few inches away from you. and the vibration of his voice made a shiver run down your spine.
"evenin' ladies."
if the earth could just open to swallow you whole right now, you would have thanked it.
you try to focus on finishing off your stew as a means to distract yourself, and your flustered state makes karen's mouth curl up into a lop-sided smirk. "why good evening mister morgan, we were just talking bout ya."
arthur raises an amused brow. "you were? what's so interesting bout me that you girls would have to yap 'bout it?"
mary-beth shrugs, and if there was no teasing glint in her eyes a few moments ago, this situation was the match to light it up.
"plenty. i'm sure miss ____ would love to elaborate."
you almost spit out the food in your mouth, and give her an outraged look. this was akin to betrayal, really; and the other two didn't hesitate to stab you in the back either. karen first, obviously.
"mmm and i think our presence won't be necessary for that. after all, she was really invested in our chat. must've remembered everthing we said."
"ain't that right", tilly responds as she gets up from her chair, "either way i'm done with my bowl."
the girls all do the same and bid you farewell, leaving you with arthur who sat on the chair across from you. they really handed you over to him so easily; you didn't know what to think of that. and well, you had a bigger problem in your hands right now: arthur sitting right in front of you, with that dumbass grin plastered on his face as he tasted his food.
"so," he starts, "reckon you were talkin' bout me?"
you play with a chunk of meat in your plate, your gaze refusing to meet his persistent one. "they were, yeah."
arthur snorts, "so you weren't part of the conversation? shame. i thought you'd have plenty to tell 'em. 'specially about what happened earlier."
you huff and drop your fork. "i didn't and don't... start with that..."
"and why the hell not? you still shy? cause you didn't seem so when you were starin', sweetheart. ain't exactly polite to, y'know?"
"i... got carried away. i was lost in thought and... you just happened to be in front of me at the time."
arthur found it entertaining to see you making excuses for yourself, and he wanted to see how far you would go before caving in and blurting out the truth.
"you have a knack for..." he idly motions with his hand, "getting lost in thought around me, don'tcha think, darlin'? it ain't the first time."
your eyes widen and you dare to meet his for a split second before instantly glancing away. suddenly, the worn-out wood the table was made of was especially interesting...
"w-what do you mean?" you stutter.
he huffs out a chuckle to see you so nervous. "can recall many times where you were jus'... distracted around me. like that time i helped you cut wood, yeah? when i was done with ya, you were so out of it that you couldn't follow my tips."
ah, yes. that time. he didn't really comment on it back then, but you were wrong to assume he really let it slide as 'normal'.
at that point, you were sure your cheeks were redder than a tomato, unsure how to respond. arthur shrugged off your silence and continued, his tone almost innocent.
how aggravating he was... pointing all this out with utter nonchalance, as if he were counting nothing but his mere mundane encounters of the day.
he sets down his fork and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "y'know, 's also weird how you happen to be distracted round me only. that never happened with anyone else in camp, if my memory serves me well."
shit. now that... you couldn't deny. because it's true: nobody managed to catch your attention like he does. nobody was remotely worth your attention like he was.
but you couldn't just straight up say that, could you? what if he takes it the wrong way? what if he just shrugs it off, like he does the advances of the many working girls with their flirtatious comments and overly tightened corsets?
arthur kept staring at you, waiting for a response, but your silence kind of worried him. did he take it a bit too far? he didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.
you were pretty shy most times; barely looked anyone in the eye when you talked to them. and it didn't help that you were a more recent member.
you take your bowl and get up, mumbling. "i'm done eating..."
you start heading down to the back of the food wagon. but you internally rolled your eyes to hear the grass crunching behind you.
you put your dish in the washbin and were about to make a beeline for your tent, but arthur had already caught up to you, blocking your way.
you back up against the wagon, and he seizes that opportunity to get closer to you, putting a hand right next to your head.
there was no escape now. you were trapped. well, arthur was trapping you. this was the closest he had ever gotten to you after that day when he taught you to chop wood.
he tips your chin up with his index. "look at me, will ya."
and just like that, your eyes were on his. it's almost like your body instinctively responded to his beck and call. so eager to please, it made arthur's smirk widen a little more.
gosh, how you wished you could just wipe that shit-eating grin off his gorgeous face...
this predicament almost made you feel vulnerable. as if your every emotion and feeling was on display for his eyes to see, rendering him free to use them as he wills; your soul striped bare of any remaining semblant of impenetrability.
"so you can gawk at me from afar with not an ounce of shame, but now that i'm right in front of ya, you can't even look at me proper?"
the teasing lilt in his voice makes you want to roll your eyes. partly because he was right.
"it's... different." you attempt after a beat of awkward silence.
"oh yeah?", he raises an eyebrow. "go on then; tell me bout it. how's it any different? ah, ah— lemme guess. yer scared of getting caught? of being confronted about it? is that why ya were dying to run away when i came back to camp, looking for you?"
you tear your gaze away from him. how were you supposed to answer that? you might aswell just confess while you're at it. damn you arthur morgan; those were the words that burned the tip of your tongue.
your lack of an answer doesn't stop his teasing though. in a surge of confidence at seeing you so silent, he leans a bit forward, just enough to overwhelm you.
"i reckon being closer's better. you get to see me from upclose, yeah? notice sum things that you wouldn't far away from me."
did he just... give you some kind of leverage? arthur hadn't realized he accidentally did; until he saw your features go from flustered to sultry in less than half a second; though it was too late.
"and what is it you want me to notice, arthur?"
damn you and your quick wit, he thought. he clears his throat.
"... nuthin'."
arthur's free hand finds itself rubbing his nape, as he always does when in awkward situations. it's endearing really, so much that your smirk doesn't fade— maybe it even grew— to arthur's apparent displeasure.
oh, how the tables have turned.
"ah, hell. do i have to spell it out for ya?"
a heavy sigh escapes him, almost as if he was carrying some massive burden invisible to you.
"'s just that... usually, when people stare at me, i don't pay 'em no mind. hell, might call 'em out for it, tell 'em to mind their own business. you though?... makes me feel hotter than lemoyne at midday."
your heart did a somersault when his words registered in your head. you hadn't thought your stare could make an otherwise impassive man so... reactive.
"that's why you're blushing right now, huh?"
"ain't blushing. yer just imagining things." he tilts his head down, hiding underneath the rim of his old leather hat.
your chuckle graces his ears, and it feels forbidden for him to hear because of your natural sweetness seeping through it.
he was a bad, bad man, and here you were, gazing at him, then his lips, then back at him again, like he were... someone to love.
to be loved, what a foreign concept to arthur's mind. but if anything, your eyes' gentle back and forth on him was almost longing; a quiet tender act where words failed. could eyes really speak? and if so, were yours repeating the word 'love' to him, over and over again? or was it simply his own mind projecting what he had hoped to hear?
you feel a tug of emotion on your heartstrings when a wistful smile forms on his lips.
his words were soft, hushed; it only happened when arthur revealed something particularly intimate.
"what is it about you, darlin'? are ya a witch? castin' some spell on me with that stare? cause whatever yer doing... it just might be workin'."
"good..." the curve of your lips matches his.
his chuckle was so faint, as though he was afraid to pop the intimate bubble surrounding the two of you during this special moment you shared.
"so you admit it? you really are a witch, ain't ya? how doomed am i?"
you stand on your tippy toes, when your lips dangerously approach his chapped ones. you remove his hat and hold it against your chest, which causes his ocean eyes to widen in surprise; you caught him off guard. it was a rare sight, for someone always so alert.
you whisper, your breath fanning his mouth.
"if love is doom for you, then ... very."
your eyes meet his one last time before you feel a warmth unfamiliar yet pleasant on your lips, and then you realize.
arthur is kissing you.
it was better than how you thought it'd be. one hand came to faintly trace your cheek,— like a collector would his precious fine china— as the other settled securely on the small of your back, steadying you against him.
you could feel the taste of tobacco on his lips; a pinch of pearson's stew as his tongue hesitantly asked your lower lip for entrance and... something else entirely him, when it danced with yours in your mouth.
you didn't want to pull away, really, but you would've died of asphyxia if you hadn't. you wouldn't mind it though: to die in the arms of the man you loved.
you couldn't help but linger near him, even as the kiss ended. your eyes were closed, and arthur's forehead came to tenderly press against yours.
the silence that settles between you is comfortable, serene; like time had come to a stand still just for you two.
arthur was at loss for words and so were you once you both backed away and looked into each other's eyes. it felt like you both didn't want to say the wrong thing, hesitating, your minds tiptoeing around what could possibly follow such a perfect moment.
you decide to break the silence with playful teasing, though your voice was softer than usual.
"you say i'm a witch, yet have you seen yourself? you too have bewitched me, mister morgan. quite skilled at it too, in that effortless way of yours that is as infuriating as it is irresistible. after all,..."
you whisper a few words in his ear, your proximity causing heat to creep up his neck, and those words... oh, they only exacerbated it.
you innocently put his hat back on his head, and quickly peck his cheek before walking away.
who knew you could make something as trivial as wood chopping to be such a sight?
arthur stood there for a good few moments processing your words, his hand caressing the spot you graced with the softness of your lips, like a teenager who just got their first kiss.
when he looked back at the path you took, you were already long gone. he slowly steps away from behind the food wagon, almost reluctantly; a part of him didn't want to leave this quiet and soft bubble you two had created right here.
he sits on his bed with a grunt, but he knew he would get no sleep tonight, not with you on his mind. and even if he did, then perhaps his dreams would speak of all the things he aches to live with you.
thank you for being patient as i cooked up this second part and until next time!!! ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜
Warnings: pinv, dirty talk, praise, degrading, secret relationship, getting caught, multiple orgasms, Idrk what else. Sorry I haven’t uploaded much, I’ll be more consistent, I promise!!
The moon hangs low over Valentine, a tarnished silver coin smudged by coal smoke drifting from the saloon’s chimney.
You adjust the hood of your cloak tighter around your face, the wool scratchy against your cheeks, as you slip between the shadows of the general store and the stables.
The smell of hay and horse piss clings to the air, but beneath it—leather, gunpowder, and the faintest hint of whiskey.
You’d know that scent anywhere.
A calloused hand clamps over your mouth, yanking you backward into the alley’s gloom.
Your pulse skyrockets, but the heat of his chest against your spine stills you before panic can take root.
“Ain’t exactly subtle, princess,” Arthur murmurs, lips grazing the shell of your ear. His voice is a low rasp, the kind that slithers under your skin and coils in your belly.
“Walkin’ around in broad moonlight like you want your daddy’s deputies to catch you slummin’.”
You elbow him halfheartedly, twisting in his grip until you’re face-to-face.
Even in the dark, his smirk is infuriatingly vivid—crooked, smug, framed by stubble that glints faintly gold where the moonlight catches it.
“It’s midnight,” you hiss, “and I’m not the one who left a damn map in my saddlebag. What kind of outlaw uses stationery?”
He barks a laugh, loud enough to make you flinch, but he sobers when you glare. “Careful,” you whisper, glancing toward the sheriff’s office across the street.
The lanterns inside are dim, but the silhouette of your father—broad-shouldered, hat tilted low—is unmistakable as he paces behind the gauzy curtain.
Arthur follows your gaze, his thumb brushing the hollow of your throat. “Relax. Old man’s too busy nursin’ his pride after I lifted that payroll coach.”
His fingers trail lower, skimming the lace edging of your chemise where it peeks above your corset. “Besides… you like the risk. Ain’t that why you keep sneakin’ out here?”
You swallow hard, his touch igniting a familiar ache between your thighs. “I don’t sneak. I… investigate.”
“Investigate?” He arches a brow, crowding you against the splintered wall of the stable. The wood bites into your back, but you don’t pull away.
“That what you call ridin’ out to Cumberland Falls last week? ‘Investigated’ my cock real thorough, as I recall.”
Heat floods your cheeks. “You’re vile.”
“And you’re lyin’.” His knee nudges your legs apart, the rough denim of his jeans scraping your inner thigh.
“C’mon. Admit it. You think about me when you’re sittin’ pretty in that sheriff’s parlor, sippin’ tea with your pinky out. Wonder what I’m doin’. If I’m thinkin’ ‘bout you.”
You open your mouth to retort, but his palm slams against the wall beside your head, cutting you off. “Tell me.”
The command unravels you. “Yes,” you breathe. “Every day. Every damn second.”
His grin turns feral. “Knew it.” In one motion, he hoists you up, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carries you deeper into the alley.
The brick of the jailhouse looms to your left, its barred windows dark, but the proximity to your father’s domain sends a thrill skittering down your spine.
Arthur pins you against the cold stone, his mouth crashing onto yours. The kiss is all teeth and desperation, his tongue claiming yours with a hunger that mirrors your own.
You claw at his coat, yanking it open, but he grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head. “Easy,” he growls. “We got time.”
“Do we?” You strain against his grip, arching your hips to grind against the hard line of his arousal. “What if someone sees?”
He nips at your lower lip, drawing a gasp. “Let ‘em. Let the whole town see their precious sheriff’s girl gettin’ ruined by a thief.”
His free hand slips beneath your skirts, calloused fingers skating up your stockinged thigh. “Bet they’d pay good money to watch.”
You moan, the sound swallowed by his mouth as his fingers find your soaked underwear. “Christ,” he mutters against your lips. “Drippin’ through your damn drawers. This what you wanted? Hmm? Wanted me to fuck you right here against your daddy’s jail?”
“Yes,” you whimper, bucking into his touch. “Please—Arthur—”
He tears your underwear down your thighs, the fabric ripping at the seams, and spits into his palm.
Instead of diving in, he traces your folds with a single finger, smirking when you jerk against the wall. “Easy now,” he purrs. “Wouldn’t want you coming too quick.” His finger circles your entrance, applying just enough pressure to make you whine.
When he finally pushes inside, it’s only to the first knuckle. “Fuck, look at you,” he growls, watching your face as he retreats.
“Blushin’ like a virgin but takin’ my fingers like a whore.” He adds a second finger, crooking them upward to stroke that sweet spot. “There we go—eyes rollin’ back already. Knew you’d fall apart with a little attention.”
You cry out, but he slaps his other hand over your mouth, muffling the sound. “Quiet, girl. Unless you wanna explain to Papa why you’re spread open for an outlaw.”
The humiliation burns, but it only stokes the fire in your core.
His pace quickens, then slows—maddening, calculated—as he leans close to whisper, “Bet you’d let me ruin you in your daddy’s office if I asked. Spread you over his desk while he’s out chasing shadows.”
The image sends a shockwave through you. Your cunt clenches around his fingers, but he withdraws completely, tutting.
“Uh-uh. Not yet.” He drops to his knees, hooking your leg over his shoulder. “Let’s see if you taste as sweet as you beg.”
His tongue flicks your clit once—a lightning strike—before pulling back. “Arthur!”
“What’s the magic word, princess?”
“Please! Please don’t stop—”
He rewards you with broad strokes of his tongue, lapping at your arousal while his fingers resume their assault.
You fist his hair, torn between shoving him closer and fleeing the overwhelming sensation. “That’s it,” he rasps against your thigh. “That’s my girl.”
The orgasm hits like a stagecoach crash—violent, all-consuming—your thighs clamping around his head as you quiver.
He drinks every drop, groaning like a man starved, before rising to tower over you. “Good girl,” he croons, wiping his mouth. “Now let’s see how well you take my cock.”
His belt buckle clinks as he frees himself, thick and flushed in the moonlight. “Turn around.”
You hesitate, glancing toward the sheriff’s office. The curtain twitches—a shadow moving—but Arthur grips your chin, forcing your gaze back to him. “Eyes on me, darlin’. Unless you wanna call this off.”
The challenge ignites something reckless in your blood. You spin, bracing your palms against the jailhouse wall, and hike your skirts up around your waist.
The night air bites at your exposed skin, but Arthur’s heat envelops you as he presses close, his cock nudging your entrance.
“Please,” you beg, shameless now.
He slaps your ass hard enough to leave a welt, the sting blending with the throbbing between your legs. “Beggin’ already? You’re gettin’ soft.”
He teases your slit with his tip, smearing your arousal but refusing to enter. “Tell me what you want.”
“Fuck me—please—”
With a dark chuckle, he sheathes himself halfway, pausing to let you adjust. “There’s my girl,” he murmurs, kneading your hips.
“Takining me so good.” He retreats almost completely, dragging a whimper from your throat. “Shhh… I got you.”
The next thrust buries him to the hilt, stealing your breath. “Fuck,” he groans, hips snapping forward.
“Always so tight. Like you’re tryin’ to milk me dry.” His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back. “Imagine if your daddy walked out right now. Saw his little angel takin’ my cock like a whore.”
You clench around him involuntarily, and he chuckles darkly. “Knew you’d like that. Dirty little secret’s the best part, ain’t it?”
He sets a punishing rhythm, each thrust slamming you into the wall only to retreat torturously slow.
You’re close again, so close, when he stills completely, buried deep.
“Not yet.” He grinds his hips in tight circles, the head of his cock massaging that sweet spot. “Want you to feel this tomorrow when you’re playin’ dutiful daughter.”
“Arthur—I can’t—”
“You can.” He nips your earlobe. “My good girl can take it, can’t she?” His hand slips between your legs, thumb pressing hard on your clit. “Cum. Now.”
You bite into his shoulder to stifle your scream as orgasm rips through you, violent and all-consuming.
Arthur follows with a choked groan, spilling into you just as torchlight floods the alley.
“Freeze, Morgan!”
Your father stands at the mouth of the alley, pistol raised, his face purpling with rage. Behind him, six deputies fan out, their rifles trained on Arthur.
Arthur withdraws slowly, tucking himself back into his jeans with deliberate calm. He doesn’t bother adjusting your skirts as he steps back, leaving you exposed—a deliberate provocation.
“Evenin’, Sheriff,” he drawls, tipping his hat. “Lovely night for a stroll.”
Your father’s eyes dart to you, your disheveled state, and his jaw clenches so tight you hear his teeth grind. “You filthy—”
Arthur mounts his horse in one fluid motion, gathering the reins. “Now, now. No need for name-callin’. Your girl’s plenty sweet when she’s beggin’.”
He winks at you, that infuriating smirk never fading. “Till next time, darlin’.”
He spurs his horse into a gallop, bullets kicking up dirt as the posse gives chase.
You slump against the jailhouse wall, legs trembling, his seed trickling down your thighs as your father’s roar of fury follows Arthur into the night
———————-
I hope this was good.. I’m getting back into Arthur Morgan so I’m probably gonna be doing a lot more fics like this(so please leave ideas and requests) but I’ll still do Daryl and Carl fics every now n then!! And of course, my lil helper @cranberrysaucebath helped a lot AGAIN😛😛
synopsis — as dutch begins to pull out of the relationship, you, forlorn and confused, find comfort in the arms of his prize enforcer.
warnings — infidelity(reader cheats on dutch with arthur), reader is sad and lonely and a titch of a crybaby, no use of y/n, dutch isn’t good to reader, dad bod arthur morgan(oh yeah!!), alcohol consumption, suggestive content towards the end but nothing explicit. lmk if i missed any!!
word count; 9.9k (whoops)
apologies for the extra long hiatus guys i had no motivation :(
i hope you guys enjoy this, and let me know if any of yous would be interested in a prequel with dutch and reader and their relationship??
likes, comments and reblogs always appreciated pookies <3
Being Dutch’s girl was the only thing you wanted to be. He swept you in with his charming looks and silver tongue, and you were helpless to do anything but fall head over heels for him, the silver tongued outlaw that he was— is. He consumed you wholeheartedly, invaded your waking thoughts and snuck his way into your dreams every night. Despite all you’d learned about the monsters that were gang leaders, despite what your upbringing as a lady of high society taught you, despite everything and everyone telling you otherwise, you fell for Dutch Van Der Linde. Hard. Fast. Foolish.
He welcomed you with open arms and gentle kisses. He cherished you. He loved you. He gave you his heart in a way no one else had before. His calloused hands were soft as they cradled your face, soft enough you could ignore the blood dripping from them. Falling in love with the infamous outlaw was far easier than it should have been.
And so, running away with him, abandoning everything your family had set up for you, was an easy decision. You were a lady, set to be wed, and he, a criminal gang leader, notorious and infamous; you were two people whose paths were never meant to cross. But they did. You were so entangled with the enigma that was Dutch Van Der Linde you couldn’t imagine not being by his side.
Your family never appreciated you, never truly loved you, not like Dutch did. Your friends didn’t know what was best for you, Dutch did. He was older, he knew better. Who were you to question that?
And when he asked you to leave with him, you said yes. You said yes, without fully knowing what you were agreeing to. A life on the road was a stark difference to the comfort of the life you had so easily abandoned. But with Dutch by your side, you felt unstoppable.
You felt free. Free from the shackles of your previous life. Free from the expectations to marry rich and have children.
Dutch showered you with gifts — gold necklaces you’d been weary to ask which neck had previously worn them, glimmering brooches often donned by ladies of high society, bracelets and earrings that reminded you of the ones left behind in your old jewellery box. At first, you were hesitant to wear them, knowing they were stolen. Or bought with stolen money.
Stealing was always something that was wrong. Illegal. And now you’re surrounded by a gang of thieves and robbers and killers. It was hard to unlearn what you had been taught your whole life.
But when the gifts kept coming, you swallowed the unease about their origins and wore them with as much pride as you could muster. You didn’t want to upset Dutch by thinking you were ungrateful. You weren’t.
And then came a ring. Beautiful and golden, intricately engraved with flowers and swirls. In the centre lay a beautiful ruby gemstone that shimmered in the sunlight.
You hadn’t asked what it meant. Your mouth couldn’t form the words, lodged deep in your throat. You just accepted it with a smile and let him slip it onto your left ring finger, slowly, savouring the moment like it meant something.
Dutch never mentioned marriage, or engagement. He never established what you were, and you never asked. But he kissed you like he loved you. He made love to you like you were the one. He held you at night like you were precious. He gave you gifts upon gifts, lavishing you in gems and jewels and silk shawls like you were still a lady.
You never took the ring off. You clung to it like a silent yet overt declaration of his love. Dutch would hence greet you by kissing the ring and then your lips.
You never questioned his feelings, because when he was around he made you feel like you were the only girl in the world. The way he took your hand and danced with you while the others sang around the fire to Javier’s music. The way he looked at you, whole and earnest, the way he touched you, reverent and loving, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real and you were his.
You can’t pinpoint when it started going wrong. When the thread between you and Dutch, that had once tied you together so tightly, started fraying.
You aren’t even sure if you noticed it at first. How he would be gone for longer stretches at a time. How he wouldn’t go straight to you upon his return to camp. How he would eat with others some nights. You brushed it off as meaningless, because it was. At first. Until he stopped kissing the ring all together. Until he sighed in frustration when you kissed his cheek and asked him if he wanted to retire for the night in a flirtatious voice that only meant one thing.
But again, you brushed it off, demeaning it as just tiredness after a long day. Dutch was a busy man, you reminded yourself as you lay alone in his tent, on his cot.
The ache festering within your chest grew, a hole in your heart that Dutch had carved a home into, that had once made you feel whole, now wide and gaping and sore.
He was pulling back. And you didn’t understand why. What you had done wrong.
Whenever you tried to talk about it, Dutch shut you down. Telling you he was busy, that he didn’t have time for your whinging.
Day by day, the thread thinned and thinned, stretching taut. And now, now, you cling desperately to the fraying threads in hopes that all of this wasn’t for nothing. That you didn’t leave your entire life behind for a man who doesn’t want you anymore.
—
Arthur Morgan watches you from afar. He has for a while now.
He watches you when Dutch does not. He watches when you put on your prettiest dress and do your hair all fancy just to be ignored by the one person you want to please so badly. He watches you when you disappear into your tent, hands furiously wiping at your eyes to hide your tears. He watches when your pretty lips, previously so smiley, are now almost constantly drawn into a downtrodden pout. Still so beautiful, still so kissable.
He knows it is wrong. He knows he shouldn’t let his eyes linger on your curves, accentuated by your ornate dresses. You belong to Dutch. But he cannot help it. Whenever you are in his field of view, his eyes are drawn like a moth to a flame, and his pants tighten around his thighs. He is helpless to resist the walking temptation that is you. He is still a man, after all.
You have become his muse, unknowingly, unwittingly. Arthur puts pencil to paper and it is you that comes to life on the page. You, sat alone on a log at the edge of camp, lower lip pulled between your teeth, waiting for Dutch to return. You, giggling with Mary-Beth as you eat your serving of Pearsons stew. You, sitting with Jack, teaching him how to read — patient, always patient, whenever he would protest.
You drift around camp like a ghost, a lingering spirit that is not quite welcome but has no place else to haunt. The only thing tethering you to this place is Dutch, and he is nowhere to be found.
It angers him, how Dutch treats you. How he brushes you off like you aren’t the most beautiful girl in every room you enter, like you haven’t sacrificed everything for him. But no one says anything, for Dutch is their leader and you are a girl they barely know from a life they all resent.
He, like many of the others, wasn’t so sure about you, not at first. This pretty, spoiled rich girl Dutch had brought to camp to parade around on his arm. A status symbol. Another mouth to feed. But you were sweet. Oh, so sweet. Saccharine and sugary, it was no wonder Dutch chose you. It is no wonder he was quick to warm up to you. Perhaps a little too much.
He could treat you so much bett— No. He can’t allow himself to think of you as if you could someday be his. He cannot allow his heart to lead him down a path that can only end in dismay. He has learned from that mistake once before. He can’t let himself repeat it.
But Arthur Morgan has always been a fool in love.
That is why one evening, when Dutch is off somewhere with Hosea, he comes to your tent with a serving of stew. It isn’t uncommon for you to miss meals, but it was the third day in a row you haven’t eaten. Usually, it’s Abigail or Mary-Beth that comes to check on you, but Arthur has missed seeing your face around camp.
“Can I… uh.. come in?” Arthur asks, rough and gravelly as he stands outside the closed tent flap. His free hand rubs at his growing stubble while he waits. He probably ought to shave soon.
He hears a quiet sniffle and even quieter footfalls padding against the floor before the sight of your teary eyes and forlorn expression greets Arthur. You don’t say anything, but you step back to allow him to enter behind you. You don’t notice how his eyes wander down your back.
Arthur lingers in the opening for a moment, watching you take a seat on the edge of yours and Dutch’s bed. He steps inside and sets the bowl on a nearby table before shutting the tent behind him. “I.. uh.. figured you might be hungry.” He rubs the back of his neck with one hand, while the other gestures to the stew.
“Oh.. thank you, Mr. Morgan.” You mumble quietly, though you don’t look up at him, vision firmly fixed on some spot on the floor. Your hands rest in your lap, fingers fidgeting like you don’t quite know what to do with them.
“S’no problem, sweetheart,” he tells you, the term of endearment slipping smoothly from his lips as he looks down at you. Your brows furrow for a moment, before returning to their natural state, hands wringing through the skirt of your dress.
“Do you.. can you stay? if you’re not busy, that is.” You ask quietly, lifting your gaze to look him in the eyes. You look like you’re silently anticipating rejection, already embarrassed, when really Arthur’s heart is soaring at the prospect of you asking to spend time with him.
He thinks he could listen to the sweet, melodic sound of your voice forever and never grow tired of it.
Christ. Get it together, old man.
“Not busy at all.” It’s a lie. There’s a mountain of things that need to get done. But they can all wait. Because you’ve willingly agreed to spend time with him, and he can think of nothing worse than leaving right now. Oh, what a fool he is. A fool in love with a girl belonging to another — to Dutch.
This can only end in heartbreak.
But still, Arthur takes a seat on the chair next to the bed, removing his hat from his head to place on his lap.
You exhale a shaky breath and pick up the stew, taking a few hesitant bites of carrot and beef.
“Do you.. know when Dutch will be back?”
Arthur can’t say he’s surprised that you’re asking about Dutch, you’re his girl after all. He tries to ignore the pang of something he doesn’t want to name stabbing through him. He shakes his head in a no. “He didn’t say nothin’. Can’t imagine it’ll be more than a couple days, though.”
“Ok.”
You sound so forlorn, so lost, so alone it hurts Arthur’s heart.
“Say.. why don’t I take you out on a ride tomorrow? Take y’ur mind off’a things for a while.”
And the way you perk up at his offer melts Arthur’s heart. He watches your doe-like eyes widen slightly in surprise as you finally meet his gaze. But then a small frown tugs on your lips. “I— I really appreciate that, Mr. Morgan. But.. what if Dutch gets back and I’m not there? I don’t want to worry him.”
He supposed he should expect you to be so wrapped up in Dutch he’s all that goes through your head, but still, he sighs internally and takes a deep breath to curb those indecent feelings. “It would only be for a short while. I doubt he’d even notice, quite frankly. You don’t hav’ta come if you don’t wanna, just thought I’d offer, s’all.” He pauses, “and Arthur’s just fine.”
You take his words in, mulling them over in your head as you take some more small bites of the stew.
“Where.. are you going? Tomorrow, i mean.” You ask, all sweet and shy, and Arthur is forced to bite back a smile.
“Wherever you want, honey.”
“But.. where were you planning on going?” You persist, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The redness around your eyes has settled quite a lot, Arthur is glad to see.
“I was thinking about headin’ inta Valentine. Got a couple things I need to pick up from the store.” He tells you.
You nod, placing the now empty bowl of stew back onto the nightstand. “Maybe— I, um, I’ll see. In the morning, if that’s okay?”
“That’s perfectly fine, sweetheart.” Arthur assures you, standing up from the seat. “You have a good night now.” He places his hat back onto his head and tips it to you.
“You too.” You reply, offering Arthur a polite smile.
After picking up your empty bowl, he leaves your tent and shuts the flap behind him.
On the way back to his cot, he ignores the insinuating stares from the other gang members in hopes of sleeping off the feelings you brought out of him.
It’s a futile attempt, at best. He sleeps with a head full of thoughts of you.
—
When you wake, the world feels brighter. Lighter. The heaviness in your heart has waned, and it isn’t a struggle to drag yourself out of bed like it has been these past few weeks. You suppose it is because today you actually have a reason to get ready for the day.
You think about Arthur’s offer, and how excited you are to get away from camp for a few hours. You merely hope that Dutch doesn’t return in the few hours you are away, you can’t imagine that will make him like you again. You don’t know why he stopped in the first place. Was it something you did? Said? Didn’t say? Didn’t do? Has he found another girl he likes more than you? Is she prettier? Smarter?
You drive yourself to insanity with the endless questions and complete lack of answers to any of them. It makes you question every single interaction you ever had with Dutch.
You don’t even realise the blood dripping from your cuticles until a splatter hits the floor, snapping you from your spiralling thoughts. It’s a nasty habit you ought to break from, picking at the skin around your nails until it’s raw and bleeding whenever you feel anxious, or angry, or scared. You’ve been feeling a mixture of the three recently.
You take a minute to breathe and focus, before you grab a rag to wipe the blood, removing all traces from inside the tent.
As you get ready, pulling out one of your favourite blue dresses you never usually wear because Dutch prefers you in red, you try to push all the doubts that have started to creep in away, but they remain. Lingering, persisting.
About to step out of your tent, your ring glistens in the light of the rising sun. You stare at it for a moment, thinking. You had never once taken it off, and out of all the lavish gifts Dutch had spoiled you with in the earlier stages of your relationship, he had only ever given you one ring. The one you wear on your left ring finger.
You try not to think about what that means as you close the tent flap behind you.
Arthur is already saddling his horse, a great Shire as black as the night sky, when you make your way over to him. He looks a little surprised when he turns to see you, like he was half expecting you to stay in your tent all day.
Before yesterday evening, your interactions with Arthur were few and far between. You’d occasionally see him talking business with some of the other guys, or talking to his horse in that low, gravelly drawl that makes your stomach swoop in ways it shouldn’t. You’d catch him looking at you sometimes, but he would always divert his eyes elsewhere when he noticed you’d caught on. You take the time it takes to walk to the edge of camp to get a proper look at him.
His hat sits atop his hair, which is long and rugged and curls in around his nape, hiding his expression from your view. His arms are strong and muscular, bigger than Dutch’s. You suppose that makes sense — he is one of the enforcers, after all. His chest is toned and strong, but yesterday you’d noticed a sort of softness forming around his waistline, the beginnings of a beer belly. A softness that made you— stop it.
Stop thinking so much about him.
“I’d, um, like you take you up on that offer.” you brush a strand of hair behind your ear, blushing awkwardly, like you hadn’t just been staring at him. “If it still stands.”
“‘Course it still stands, sweetheart.” He tells you with a grin in that low, gravelly timbre that sends your traitorous heart fluttering in your chest. “You ready?”
Sweetheart. You like the way it sounds when it spills from his lips. Like a secret meant for your ears alone.
“Mhm,” you affirm with a nod, rocking backwards onto your heels slightly.
You watch as Arthur swings himself onto the saddle of is large mount, which is even more magnificent up close. “C’mon,” he ushers, holding a hand out. You take it within yours. It’s hard and calloused from years of hard work. His other arm wraps around your waist to hoist you up onto the back of the Shire.
Once you’ve settled into a comfortable position, Arthur sets out away from camp, spurring Brutus, as you’ve learned the horse is called, into a trot.
You’re still unused to the feeling of horseback, as whenever you traveled, you would always be in the wagon, courtesy of Dutch wanting to keep his pampered girl safe and sound. You tighten your grip around Arthur’s waist, and you feel him huff out a laugh. “Y’alright back there, sweetheart?” He calls, keeping the horses pace slow as to not spook you further.
“Yeah..” you say, not loosening your grip.
“I ain’t gonna let you fall, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
His confident assurance works to relieve some of your worries, and as the ride progresses, you find yourself enjoying it much more than you expected. You aren’t hiding in Arthur’s back anymore, and instead take in the view of New Hangover as you ride into Valentine.
The journey is mostly quiet, aside from the occasional praise from Arthur to Brutus. The notion that Arthur cares so much about his horse sends a warm feeling through you, strange yet not entirely unwelcome.
The buildings of the small livestock come creep closer and closer as you approach. It’s a quaint town, Valentine. Much unlike the estate you grew up in. But it has a homey feeling you have scarcely found elsewhere.
Arthur hitches Brutus up outside the general store, and helps you down after getting off himself. His hands linger on your waist a second too long, but you don’t feel the urge to push him off like you imagine you should.
You choose not to dwell on it. Instead, you give Brutus a pat, stroking his dark mane, before following Arthur inside the store.
You have no money yourself, so you look around aimlessly, pretending to think about buying something while you wait for Arthur to get what he needs.
“D’you want anythin’?” He asks you, deep voice sounding in your ear. You turn around to find him standing before you, holding a few cans of provisions.
You shake your head, “I’m okay, thank you though.” But you find yourself eyeing a peach on one of the shelves, ripe and juicy. Oh well, you think, you don’t need it.
So, you follow Arthur out of the store empty handed, waiting patiently as he puts the cans into his satchel. You wonder how that thing can carry so much.
A tap on the shoulder snaps you from your thoughts. You turn and to see Arthur holding out the very peach you had been eyeing up just minutes ago.
Your brows furrow in confusion. When did he get this?
He must see your perplexed expression as he lets out a chuckle and places the peach into your palm.
“You didn’t..”
“Relax. I didn’t steal it.” He waves you off with a grin.
“You didn’t have to.”
Your fingers tighten around the fruit, staring at it for a moment, before your gaze lifts to meet Arthurs.
“It was nothin’,” he waves it off easily, shrugging his shoulders like it really was nothing when to you, it was everything.
You hadn’t even needed to say anything, and he still noticed what you wanted. Your chest aches. Tears burn in your eyes. You don’t let them fall. You can’t cry. Not now. Not in front of Arthur.
Why are you getting so emotional over a stupid peach? Calm down. Calm down.
“Hey.. hey.. what’s wrong?” Arthur asks, voice low and gentle and coaxing and the urge to cry grows even stronger. He places a hand on your shoulder, it’s supposed to be comforting. It is. But you can’t handle it. It’s all too much.
You rub your eyes and force yourself to calm down, taking deep breaths. “I’m— I don’t know— I don’t know.” Is all you can stammer, breathless, still holding the stupid peach.
“That’s okay, that’s alright, sweetheart.” He looks confused, unsure why you’re crying. But he doesn’t laugh at you. He doesn’t tell you you’re being sensitive, a baby. He pulls you closer, gentle enough that you can still pull away if you choose to, but you don’t. You tumble into his arms, sniffles turning into quiet sobs, wetting his shirt with your tears.
He holds you tightly, whispering soft, sweet words into your hear. Not shushing, but calming. A big hand rubs up and down your back, the other holding you impossibly close to him, like if he holds you tight enough, all of your pain will transfer to him instead.
After a while, you manage to get breath back into your lungs and the tears subside. You take a step back, and Arthur’s arms linger for a moment before falling back to his sides. He watches you carefully.
“I’m sorry.. I don’t know— I don’t know why that happened.” You say quietly, wiping the remaining wetness from around your eyes, cheeks burning in embarrassment, unable to look at him.
“Got nuthin’ at all to apologise for, sweetheart. You sure you’re okay?” His concern for you makes your heart hurt, as you’re reminded of Dutch once again, and how little he asks after you now. It stings more than you want to admit.
You nod, worrying your lower lip between your teeth for a moment.
“You wanna head back?”
You shake your head.
He waits, making sure you don’t change your mind before he accepts your answer.
Arthur finishes up the rest of his errands, picking up a few tonics from the doctor and some more ammo from the gunsmith. All the while, you stick close to him, following him around like a lost puppy, munching on the peach. He lets you, keeping a closer eye on you now, never more than a breath away.
He finishes quicker than you expected, and you find yourself reluctant to go back to camp just yet. You don’t know why.
Arthur seems to have a sixth sense when it comes to you, and so when he falls into step beside you as you walk down the main street in Valentine, he asks, “Fancy a drink before we head back?”
You think for a moment, before nodding in agreement, “a drink sounds good.”
Perhaps a drink is what you’ve been needing. Something to ease your restless mind, something to distract you from thoughts about Dutch and how everything is going all wrong.
And so, you and Arthur make your way into the saloon and head over to the bar. You watch as Arthur flags down the bartender to get two shots of whiskey. You’d told him you would have whatever he had, too nervous to order for yourself and ask what else they sell.
Arthur clinks his glass against your own and downs it in one. You stare at yours like you don’t know what to do with it.
You’d had whiskey before, and can recall the burn it left you with. But with Arthur’s gaze searing into the side of your face, you pick up the shot and down it in one.
The regret is instantaneous.
The burn is immediate. Intense. Your throat is on fire and your entire being with it. You cough, eyes squeezing shut as you grit your teeth.
Somewhere beside you, Arthur laughs, deep and hearty. He pats you on the shoulder. “Easy, darlin’. Take it slow.”
A little late now.
You cough once more, hand over your mouth. Arthur hands you a glass of water he seemed to just materialise out of nowhere. You mutter a thanks before drinking it to drown out the burn.
You sip the next two shots of whiskey.
The alcohol has dulled your senses, muting your thoughts as a pleasant hum drums in your veins.
You’re at that stage where you feel all floaty, barely tethered to reality, though still conscious enough to know your surroundings. You can’t remember how much you’ve had in between laughing at Arthur’s awful jokes and even worse impressions.
You’d laughed the hardest at his egregious Irish accent, tears trickling down your cheeks for a second time in one day.
You hadn’t expected him — this broody, dark outlaw, to be so unbelievably hilarious.
Some time has passed since then, rays of orange spill through the windows overlooking the main street of Valentine as the sun sets beyond the horizon.
And somewhere beside you, Arthur is speaking. You can see his lips moving but you can’t hear him over the static in your mind and the heightened sounds of the saloon around you. He has a crooked grin on his face, and you can’t help but smile back.
“What?” You ask after not catching a word, brow furrowed as you lean in closer to try to understand what he’s saying.
He repeats it, louder, clearer. But you aren’t listening.
Something has caught your eye.
A man steps into the saloon, exuding an aura of charm, decorated in gold and wearing a black pork-pie fedora.
Dutch? Oh no.
Your eyes widen in shock. What is he doing here? Your heart races in your chest, and your breath stops. You aren’t even doing anything remotely ‘wrong,’ but all you want to do is hide and pray he doesn’t notice you.
Arthur looks over his shoulder, following your gaze.
But then he steps closer, and you see tufts of blonde hair poking from underneath his hat. Not Dutch.
You finally exhale. It’s a sigh of relief.
It’s been days since you’ve seen him last. You miss him. But you don’t want to see him right now. Not when you’re having such fun with Arthur.
Does that make you a bad person?
You take a deep breath, thoughts riddled with the man you’d given up everything for. You’d hoped alcohol would rid your mind of thoughts of Dutch, at least for a little while, but now you’re reminded of him, it— He is all you can think about.
You’re conflicted. One on hand, Dutch is your everything. You love him with your whole heart, your entire being. He’s the charming, silver tongued fox who’d swept you off your feet and made you feel everything none of your suitors could make you feel. But, recently, he’s been pulling out. Spending more time out of camp than in your arms. And when he is around, he’s not there. Not present in the moment with you. Not really. Not like he used to.
Your bed talk, which used to be dirty flirtations and soft declarations of love, has dissipated into nothingness. He says he is focusing on the gang, on getting everyone out of the tight spot somewhere far away and foreign, but you can’t help but feel like he doesn’t love you as much anymore.
A comforting hand pats your back. You look up to see Arthur’s steely blue eyes examining you like he can see into your very soul.
“I’m— I’m okay.” You lie. Arthur doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t press you on the matter.
He nods, “you wanna go outside? Get some air?”
“There’s air everywhere.” You find it in you to retort back, and his countenance softens, worry edging into amusement.
He pats you on the shoulder and stands up, offering you a hand. You take it. “You know what I mean, girl.” But his tone is more teasing than scolding. You grin back at him, feeling the ache in your chest ease slightly.
You loop your arm into Arthur’s and he leads you out of the saloon. The fresh air sobers your mind slightly, the effects of the alcohol swirling in your belly subsiding.
The two of you sit on the steps outside the saloon, closer than you ought to, given that you’re with another man. Neither of you make an effort to move apart.
“Has, um” —you begin, voice uneven— “did Dutch ever say anything to you? About me?”
Arthur says nothing for a while, sipping on the beer he brought outside with him. He elbows rest on his knees and he looks out at the skyline where a sliver of light peeks out from beyond the horizon.
After a pregnant silence, he answers with a shake of the head, “nah. Never said much. Not to me.”
“Oh.. okay.”
It’s not the answer you wanted, with you still left in the dark about everything. Your lips pull into a pout, mind swirling.
“Look… whatever it is, it’ll all work out in the end.” His gruff attempts to ease your mind make you feel a little better, though you don’t even think he believes the words coming out of his mouth.
Dutch isn’t the same as he was. You don’t know how to fix it.
“He— I don’t know what I did wrong. He won’t tell me. He— He barely even speaks to me anymore.” You say, voice small and cracking. Your eyes squeeze shut as you bare your truth to Dutch’s most loyal companion.
Arthur doesn’t say anything, letting you get everything you’ve had bottled up come pouring out on a sunny evening sat on dirty saloon steps.
“I— I gave him everything. I gave up.. everything. For him.” Your voice is little more than a broken whisper, splintering and cracked. You don’t even know if Arthur can hear you. Your vision is fixed on a patch of mud in front of your feet, eyes burning for the third time.
You’re snapped back when a hand grabs your own. You look down to see your cuticles, picked red and raw like they had been that morning. Though they aren’t bleeding. Arthur noticed before you could draw blood.
He says nothing, but keeps your hand encased in his, thumb methodically brushing back and forth to keep you tethered to reality.
You swallow thickly, breaths shaky and uneven. Gaze flickering from your hand in his calloused one, to his eyes. They’re so bright and blue you think you may drown in the intensity.
“Do you think he still loves me?”
Poor, sad, lonely little girl grasping at straws so she didn’t give up everything for nothing.
He squeezes your hand.
“He’d be a damn fool not to.”
—
You wake up the next morning tired and grotty, memories from the night before appearing in flashes of fragments, unpieced puzzle pieces hiding the full story.
Rubbing the sleep from your tired eyes groggily, you spot the bright rays from the afternoon sun peeking through the gaps between the tent and the floor. What time is it?
With more effort than it ought to take, you drag yourself out of bed as memories from last night come to light, bit by bit.
The whiskey that burned your throat. Arthur’s gruff laugh that followed.
Sitting outside the saloon, Arthur’s hand in yours.
Almost falling asleep on his back during the ride back to camp.
Each memory sends your traitorous heart fluttering within your chest, followed swiftly by a sharp pang of guilt. You shouldn’t be thinking like this about a man that isn’t Dutch.
It reminds you of the whirlwind you felt when you first met Dutch. When you first fell for him. It shouldn’t. You haven’t—can’t feel like that about Arthur. You can’t.
So, you elect to avoid him. Push those faithless feelings down, bury them somewhere deep inside you and pray they stay there. Hidden. Never to resurface. You ignore how much it pains you to act like he doesn’t exist.
You catch him looking at you, with that intense, steely stare that weakens your knees. He smiles a little, when he thinks you will look back at him. You don’t. You can’t. His smile drops. He gets the message. He leaves you alone.
You suppose you should appreciate that. That he isn’t pushing, isn’t demanding. But it only serves to make your heart hurt and your gut churn in discomfort.
You feel like a terrible person.
Are you?
It’s increasingly hard to tell these days.
Dutch came back, a day or so after your trip with Arthur.
You didn’t get a chance to talk to him until that night, hours after he returned to camp. Trying to get his attention felt like pulling teeth, when before his eyes found you instantaneously. He doesn’t kiss you. He doesn’t hug you. You barely even get a tip of the hat.
Two weeks had passed since your trip into Valentine, and your interactions with Dutch had been few and far between. He’s been distant, only speaking to you when he has to, when you corner him and give him no choice. But he has consistently managed to slip away before you could bring up your relationship and how it’s cracking at the very seams.
Today, in the late hours of the afternoon, you try once more. The camp is mostly empty, many away on a mission or another to earn funds for the gang. So, you decide it is now or never.
Maybe it would have been best to pick never.
“Dutch.. can i talk to you?” You say, bordering on pleading. A hand tugs his sleeve to prevent him from slipping away.
He doesn’t look at you, gaze fixed at some point far in the distance. “Not now.” He tells you sharply, lip curled under his thick moustache. “I’m busy. I don’t have time for this.” ‘I don’t have time for you’ is what goes unsaid.
Your face falls at his harshness. “Please, Dutch. I need—“
“Oh,” he laughs. Loud. Mocking. Humiliation burns through you. “You need? You need what?” He’s looking at you now, cold and harsh in a way you’ve never seen before.
The way he talks to you is awfully akin to the way he spoke to one of your suitors, all that time ago. He loathed that man.
You can feel multiple pairs of eyes on you, but you’re frozen in place, staring at the man who loved you so fiercely and a stranger stares back.
“I have a camp to run. Money that doesn’t earn itself.” He insists, his tone dripping with dismissal. “We’ll talk later.”
You know now that really means never.
And with that, he tugs his sleeve out of your loosening grip and storms off somewhere. You don’t follow him. You don’t think you would will your feet to move even if you wanted to.
Through the blur of tears shining in your glassy stare, you catch Abigail’s sympathetic glance. Only if she were in your situation, she’d have the guts to stand up for herself.
Your hands shake where they hang limply by your sides, out of rage, or shame, or guilt, or fear, you don’t know.
The world feels like it’s closing in on you. Air won’t reach your lungs. Your heart beats sporadically. The ground beneath feet shrinks further and further away.
What have I done?
Why is this happening?
Why doesn’t he love me anymore?
I love him. I love him. Can he not see that anymore?
You don’t know what happens in the hours that follow. You don’t remember sitting outside for hours, back against one of the oak tress surrounding Horseshoe Overlook. You don’t remember watching the sun set behind Citadel Rock through blurry eyes and blotchy tears. You don’t remember staring at the shimmering Ruby that used to bring you so much joy but now only causes you so much agony. Still, you don’t take it off.
Dutch doesn’t check on you. You didn’t think he would. Bitterness tastes sour on your tongue.
You sit alone for a while, legs tucked up to your chest, chin on your knees.
Kieran comes, a little while later— one of the only men left in camp while the others rob a train. He doesn’t say anything when he sits beside you. You don’t say anything either. But you are grateful for the company.
You feel a little less alone in your grief, and a little more hopeful for something better.
He hands you a cigarette. You take it, welcoming the familiar buzz of nicotine.
The two of you sit for a while, a blanket of silence draped over you as you watch the setting sun together.
He asks if you’re okay, once. You don’t reply. You don’t trust yourself to say anything without bursting into tears. He doesn’t push. Your glossy eyes are clue enough into how you’re feeling.
Hours later, when the moon has replaced the sun in the sky, you drag yourself onto two unsteady feet and pad back to your tent, feet dragging beneath you.
Kieran went to bed a little while ago. He told you that you were welcome to sit in silence with him anytime you wanted. You smiled a little at that.
It feels nice to have a friend.
By the time you get to your tent, Dutch is fast asleep in the cot you share. It hurts to look at him when you slip in beside him once in your nightwear.
Sleep evades you. You suspected it would. You stare at the ceiling for hours, body limp with a restless mind. Dutch’s snores fill your ears, once that used to make you giggle. Now, now, you don’t know what to feel.
You love him. You do. But he hurts you more than he heals you.
You think about the beginning of your relationship with Dutch. The stolen kisses in the garden of your estate under the cover of darkness. Dressing him in a suit to sneak him into one of your family’s parties, only to leave halfway through, hand in hand, grinning from ear to ear. The nights where the two of you would talk for hours, about everything and nothing all at once, where you spilled your deepest secrets and he made you feel seen.
Now, you’ve never felt more invisible. Or maybe you wish you were invisible, so no one would bear witness to your life. Your woes.
—
Arthur comes back from a week long hunting trip, tired and exhausted and thinking of you. These days, you are all that he thinks of.
He told himself he went away to provide for the camp, bring back plentiful game so everyone would eat well, but in reality, he did it to get away from you.
Not because he doesn’t like you. No. He likes you far too much. Far more than he should.
Whenever he is around you, he risks doing something incredibly foolish. So he left, just for a little while. But nothing worked. Not even being buried between the thighs of another woman. All he could imagine was that the woman was you.
The deer reminded him of you, your doe like eyes and skittish nature, and how he couldn’t have you, no matter how his heart yearned.
The sun sets reminded him of the one the two of you shared on the dirty saloon steps in Valentine those weeks ago.
You haunt him, no matter how many miles he put between you. You are everywhere yet nowhere all at once.
He cannot bring himself to deny it anymore.
He loves you. Fully. Wholeheartedly.
Yet, he will do nothing. For there is nothing he can do but wait for the feelings to pass. Because you cannot feel the same. Not about a man like Arthur, even if you weren’t with Dutch.
Like always, when he returns, his gaze instinctively sets out in search for you. Yet you are nowhere to be found.
And then his attention is drawn from you to helping Charles craft some arrows, to talking business with Dutch and Hosea, to a multitude of other things when all he wants to do is find you.
He does, some hours later. He finds you hidden behind a tree on the edge of camp, sat with your back against the bark, nose buried in a book.
One of his hands rests on his belt, the other scratching the back of his neck. You haven’t noticed him yet, and he doesn’t know how to make his appearance known. He doesn’t even know if he should be here.
After all, you’d made a great effort to avoid him like the plague after your outing in Valentine.
He doesn’t want to scare you off again.
“Uh.. what’re ya readin’?” He asks eventually, after standing there like a bumbling fool for an unreasonable, embarrassing amount of time.
Your gaze snaps up from the page in a flash, wide eyes focused on him. You stare at him for a moment, mouth parted. You look like you might bolt at any second. Thankfully, you don’t.
You shut your book, holding it close to your chest. “It’s actually a.. um, a play. Shakespeare.”
“Who?”
“He was this English play writer from a while ago. This one is, um, Romeo and Juliet.”
He takes a seat next to you, one elbow resting on his raised knee. “What’s it about?”
You seem to perk up, talking about something you’re interested in, describing the plot of the play with incredible detail. Arthur can’t help but smile.
“Ah, so a love story, then?”
You shake your head.
Arthur’s brow furrows under his hat.
“It’s a tragedy.”
“Oh.. right.”
You laugh a little, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah, you should read it sometime. You can borrow my copy, if you’d like?”
He turns his head to look at you, lips twisting into a small grin, “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks, honey.”
You sit in an awkward sort of silence for a few moments, before you speak up. “So, um, why’d you come over? Any reason, or..?”
Arthur hesitates for a moment, before sighing softly. He takes his hat off, before looking at you, the tips of his ears blushing pink. “I heard some complainin’ about you, uh, contributing to camp.” He begins, trailing off at the end.
You worry your lower lip between your teeth. Miss Grimshaw had given you an earful a few days ago about being lazy and doing nothing for the camp, Arthur heard it loud and clear— matter of fact, everyone did. She’d done it before, only this time Dutch wasn’t there to defend you.
Arthur notes your silence and carries on, “I was thinkin’, well, I could teach ya how to hunt, if you want.” He huffs out a chuckle, “hell, we always need more food.”
You stare at Arthur like he’s grown another head. “I don’t think hunting is what Miss Grimshaw has in mind, exactly.” You tell Arthur quietly, eyebrows raised.
“Maybe not, but it’ll stop her complainin’.” He reasons.
You jerk your head in a nod, “I suppose you’re right. I could do with.. getting out of camp for a while.”
“Then it’s settled.” He pats you on the shoulder with a crooked grin.
—
The next day, before you set off with Arthur, you try to say goodbye to Dutch. With hope in your eyes and determination in your bones. He doesn’t care that you’re leaving, if only for a few days. He doesn’t even ask where, too busy wrapped up in his plans of going to Tahiti to acknowledge you.
You don’t know how much more of this you can take. But you must. Because you have no other choice. Nowhere else to go. Your family would never accept you back, not after you soiled the family name, and you’d never survive out on your own. You just have to hope things between you and Dutch get better again. You have to.
If Arthur notices your silence as the two of you ride atop Brutus, he doesn’t comment on it. He lets you stew on your thoughts for a while, while he enjoys the scenery and the feeling of your arms wrapped around his waist much more than he would ever admit.
You’re much less anxious on horseback this time.
By the afternoon, you’ve reached Arthur’s favourite spot for hunting deer. He teaches you how to track them, what their hoofprints look like and how to distinguish them from other animals. He shows you other observable signs of them, like dung and broken sticks and antler rubbings on trees.
And, much to your delight (and with Arthur’s help), you manage to find one, a whitetail buck lapping at the water of the river. He praises you for doing a good job. Your heart soars.
You watch as Arthur nocks an arrow into his longbow, after urging you to take a couple of steps back. He’d told you to watch, before you try for yourself.
And you do, you watch the arrow fly straight into the deer’s neck. It cries. Loud, Brutal, Strangled. Only for a second. Then, it’s over, and the buck is dead.
You can’t help the pang of guilt that stabs through you. You imagine the buck with its family. You wonder if it had children. A mate.
You’d never really had a problem with eating meat before, with there always being a disconnect with the animal itself, alive and breathing, and the cooked meat. But now, after watching an innocent animal die just to be eaten, you feel a little nauseous.
Maybe you’re too sensitive for hunting. Maybe you just need to toughen up.
“Hey.. you alright?” Arthurs deep yet inexplicably gentle timbre rattles through your ears, snapping you from your thoughts.
He’s already skinned the buck, packing what venison he can into his satchel, along with the pelt.
You nod shakily, and you can tell he doesn’t believe you. You wonder absently if he can read your mind.
“You sure?”
“Do you ever feel.. bad?”
“For what?”
“Killing animals.” You peer up at him from your spot on the ground.
“How else we gonna eat?”
“I know.. but, it’s just—“ you cut yourself off, picking at your cuticles without even realising what you’re doing.
His gaze dips to your fingers before he extends an arm, offering you a hand. You stop picking and accept his help in standing up.
Your hands stay entwined for longer than necessary. You like the way his hand feels in yours — big and rough, adorned with callouses. Arthur makes no move to pull away, silently savouring the contact for as long as you will allow it.
“You wanna go fishin’ instead?” He asks eventually, view flicking from your now separated hands to your face. Christ, you’re beautiful.
“I don’t have a rod.”
He shrugs, “We’ll take turns.”
“You’ll teach me?”
He nods, “yeah, I’ll teach ya,” you smile a little.
You watch as Arthur grabs his fishing rod from Brutus’ saddle bag, and the two of you embark on the short walk to the riverbank.
You have the urge to just.. hold Arthur’s hand again. To slip your hand into his like it’s normal. Like you don’t belong to another man. You refrain, hands wringing through your skirts to keep them occupied.
You really needed to invest in a pair of trousers if these outings are to become a more frequent occurrence. You’d never had a reason to purchase any before, especially having grown up told they were unladylike for a girl befitting your station. It’s not like you’re a lady anymore, anyways.
Arthur talks you through the mechanics of fishing, and it seems much more simple than hunting. You watch him attach the bait to the hook, and throw the line out. You wait with him until a fish bites, and how he reels it in with ease.
Then, one he pockets the smallmouth bass, he hands you the fishing rod. “Alright, sweetheart. Your turn.”
You look at him with widened eyes and a hesitant expression. He hands you the rod with a grin. “Relax. I’ll walk ya through it.”
And he does just that, He guides you into position with gentle hands, voice rumbling in your ear from where he stands behind you. You almost stop paying attention to the lesson entirely.
And when you cast the line out, you wait. And wait. And wait. Nothing bites. Nothing even moves near the hook. You wonder if you put the bait on wrong and it somehow ended up coming off the hook.
Arthur, who’s now taken a step back to watch, arms crossed over his chest, tells you that it’s a waiting game. That sometimes it can take hours.
Eventually, after what felt like hours, something bites. You gasp, and immediately forget all that Arthur taught you. You only manage to reel it in for a couple of seconds before it escapes.
You groan in annoyance, ready to give up. But Arthur doesn’t let you.
So, you watch the lake, waiting, hoping for signs of movement. And, finally, another fish bites at the hook. You don’t panic as much this time, and with Arthur’s verbal assistance and assurances, you catch it. A fish. A real fish.
“I did it!” You breathe, elated, a grin pulling at your lips. You stare at the smallmouth bass, before handing it to Arthur, with an equally wide smile on his face. It seems the joy you radiate is infectious.
“A big one, too! Well done, sweetheart.”
His praise sends your heart fluttering, your body tingling with a sensation you haven’t felt in a long while. Your smile widens. So does his.
The two of you fish for the next few hours, and you don’t think about Dutch. Not once. Your chest feels lighter, as though a weight has been lifted. Tears don’t bubble beneath the surface, ready to fall at the slightest chance. You feel happy. Happier than you have in a long time.
You end up getting so distracted with fishing, and by the time the two of you have caught enough fish to feed camp, the sun is setting over the horizon. You won’t be able to make it back to camp due to the fleeting light of the sun.
“Looks like we’re gonna haf’ta set up camp for the night.” Arthur points out, folding up the fishing rod and heading to grab his tent kit. Your gaze lingers on his muscular arms, flexing as he sets up the temporary camp.
He sets up the fireplace first, and asks if you can cook some fish while he sets up the tent. You do just that — holding the meat above the grill until cooked, and then you cook another for Arthur.
He takes it with a gruff “thanks” and chomps it down in three bites.
The two of you sit next to the small fire, closer than societally acceptable with you being a taken woman. Neither of you care.
“Thanks.. for teaching me how to fish.” You say, gaze drifting from the flames licking at the logs to the man who has lit the fire in your heart.
“S’no problem at all, sweetheart.”
“Just.. why?”
“What’d’ya mean?”
“Why me?” you ask, voice low as you bring your knees up to your chest. “Why not.. go hunting with Charles? I imagine the two of you would come back with more food.” You pick at the blades of grass next to your feet. “I know you said it was because of Miss Grimshaw, but.. why help? You don’t owe me anything.”
He scratches the nape of his neck, looking around as though the answer lies somewhere within the trees. He thinks of saying something cliche about how you’re part of the gang, the family. But he’s never been one to extend a helping hand purely out of the kindness of his heart. He wasn’t even sure he still had one, not until you came along. You, and your wistful beauty, your haunting countenance. You, and your forlorn existence that made him want to scoop you up and keep you safe and happy forevermore.
He sighs, elbows resting on his drawn up knees. “I know. You just seemed cooped up in camp. And, I— uh” — he hesitates — “you were good company last time.”
“I was?”
He looks at you, your eyes widened slightly in shock as though the very idea that someone enjoys being around you preposterous.
“I cried over a peach.”
He shrugs. “I’ve seen worse.”
Your hesitance gives way to a small smile.
“I enjoyed your company too.” You tell him, after a while.
He almost wants to tease you about how you avoided him like you hated him. But he can’t bring himself to.
“Yeah?”
You nod, bottom lip pulled between your teeth.
Arthur’s lips twitch up into a crooked sort of grin.
You don’t know why you feel your cheeks flush pink. You do know why. You just don’t want to admit it.
You shift a little closer to him. You both pretend not to notice. But he keeps looking at you now, his steely gaze burning into the side of your face. It sends heat pooling through you.
“You’re different. To what I expected.” You don’t know what compels you to admit that, but here, out in the wilderness, you feel stripped bare, your soul out on display. You feel safe to admit everything.
“What’d you expect?”
“Someone less.. i don’t know.. nice?
He laughs out loud at that, shaking his head.
“Sweetheart, I ain’t nice.”
“You’ve always been nice to me.”
He doesn’t reply, quietly adamant there isn’t a good bone in his body. But you watch the tips of his ears turn pink from underneath his hat.
“You’ve been nicer to me than most people.”
He doesn’t like how sad you sound when you tell him that.
“They’re all damn fools.”
This time, he doesn’t take his eyes off you. You don’t— can’t take your eyes off him. You’re both locked in a stare, watching each other with bated breaths and parted lips.
The next thing you know, his hand is on your cheek and his lips are pressed onto yours. You don’t know if you pulled him in, or if he made the first move. All you know is his lips are on yours and you want to stay like that forevermore. They’re chapped and rough as they move against yours, similar to Dutch’s.
Oh.
Oh, no.
Dutch.
You pause, frozen.
Arthur jerks back.
With a hand pressed to your mouth, your breath hitches in your throat.
“Shit— I’m sorry—“ Arthur stammers. “I shouldn’t have done that.” He runs a hand down his face, eyes squeezed shut in something that resembles a mixture of grimace and regret.
You don’t know what exactly possesses you to do this, but you grab Arthur by the collar and pull him back onto you, pressing your lips to his once again. Your teeth clash against his, messy and all encompassing. His salt and peppered beard scratches your face in the best way possible.
Maybe you just want to forget about Dutch for a while. Maybe you just want to feel good again. Maybe, maybe, maybe. You don’t know anymore. But you don’t want to stop. You can’t stop.
Definitely a terrible person.
You don’t know if you have it in yourself to care right now.
One of Arthur’s big hands weaves to the nape of your neck, pressing you impossibly closer.
Your mind dizzies with want. Heat pools in your belly— and lower.
You swing your leg over his lap, his free hand landing on your waist to steady you as you sit, straddled across his thick thighs. Your mouths don’t part. Not once. Your hands move from his collar down his chest, feeling the toned muscles hidden beneath his shirt. Your hands drift down to the softness of his belly, and you almost froth at the mouth at the feeling of it. You’d never imagined that would be something you would like. But, God, you do.
Arthur is just as lost in you as you are in him. Hands roaming wherever he can touch, groping and caressing what he can with your clothes in the way. You moan into his mouth when his large hand gropes your breast through your clothes. He does the same to the other.
At some point, between kisses, you manage to relocate to the tent. It’s a mess of limbs and carelessly strewn clothes and Arthur touching you in ways you’ve been dreaming of for far too long.
He explores your body inch by inch. He takes you apart, strips you bare and lays your soul out for the taking. He takes his time taking you apart. He savours you like you are the salvation for a man dying of thirst. He worships you as though you are a divine being sent from the heavens to be his greatest torment, a walking temptation of sin and debauchery and lust.
And by the end, when you are spent and exhausted, tucked away in his big arms, half-asleep and warm, you have never felt more whole.
warnings : pre-canon, minor depictions of violence, reader is the gang's nurse of sorts :3 + & slightly insecure, written from arthur's POV
wc : 3.2k
“hey, sweetpea.”
your head snapped up in an instant, a once focused expression replaced by the tiniest of smiles breaking over your lips — soft, sweet, just like you. “arthur. hi.” a breathy, barely-there admission of his name, dripping with saccharine as the greeting left your throat. how was it, he wondered, everything you managed to do - down to the way you mumbled his name - managed to be so damn cute?
“what'chu doin' out here all alone, hm?” arthur dropped his hands from their resting position on his gun belt, head cocking to the side as he watched you resume your work. dusty blue linen cradled over your lap like something sacred, the silver glint of a sewing needle twinkling in setting sun of the evening. his shirt.
he had been watching for a while. observing, more like. arthur had already wrapped up his own chores for the day, the firewood axe tossed mindlessly beside the never-ending supply of half split logs the continuous camp fires required, and the hay bales he had moved now lay misshapen on the little thatch of grass where the horses grazed. camp had begun to settle down with the inevitable arrival of dusk, one of the few comforting aspects of the outlaw's life.
the promise that, when dusk came, a sleepy jack would be nuzzled in the crook of abigail's shoulder, javier would be plucking something quietly from the strings of a guitar, uncle or the reverend would be snoring in a drunken heap somewhere, and the girls would be cosying up together underneath the safety of tent flaps and chatter until the late evening, when the moon made her appearance in the dark of the blackwater night sky.
arthur typically paid the girls' tittle-tattle no mind, for two reasons; the first, being that although his mother had long since departed from the earthly confines of this world, she'd sure as hell not stand for him eavesdropping on the conversation of ladies. the second? he just didn't care much for it. karen's typical laments of sean's .. colourful behaviour (well, he agreed with her there. the kid was a goddamn handful at best and a fire-haired, blustering nightmare at worst), or tilly airing her frustrations out about molly's distaste for chores. and sometimes, abigail's occasional guilt-laced confessions on the trials and tribulations of motherhood.
or, when spirits were lighter, uncontrollable fits of giggling which carried all the way to the edge of camp. karen's drunken snorting, tilly's squealing and mary-beth struggling to scold karen inbetween pitchy laughs to ‘stop being so vulgar!’ no, he rarely paid such conversations any mind. even with the unabashed happiness being as infectious as it often was.
yet, usually from his seat at the main campfire, arthur's ears typically perked up — waiting. waiting for the quieter, softer giggles, ones that could belong to no one else besides from you. sweeter than the chirps of overlapping birdsong at dawn, and filling his chest with a warmth that no liquor or adrenaline-fuelled high from a good score could ever come close to.
and so, when you were missing from your usual spot tucked away with the girls, his curiosity was piqued.
arthur still remembers the day your paths crossed, all those months ago. as sure as the sun came up over the mountain peaks of west elizabeth every morning, he wouldn't be able to forget it.
you, with shaking hands clinging to dutch's gun belt as the count rode into camp with a vigour that rivalled the crack and rumbling of the thunder in the air. stern remarks about how you saved his life to the other members of camp, whatever it was — all of it faded to a ringing, white noise in arthur's ears as soon as dutch gently eased you off the white arabian's saddle.
oh, you.
like an angel amongst a den of devils. he supposed that's what he very well could be, in comparison to you. rainwater sliding off in rivulets from your simple, soaked dress, your bottom lip trembling, drenched curls plastered to your collarbones and your eyes; wide, and glassed over with unshed tears, darting from unfamiliar face to unfamiliar face. like a startled white-tailed doe, unsure but undeniably breathtaking.
arthur had been winded several times throughout his life, each one as unforgiving as the last. right hooks to the jaw, punches to his ribs, christ alive, he'd even been mangled with buckshot a couple times. though nothing, nothing could ever hold any weight to that feeling when your glance, your uneasy doe eyes, trailed over to him. lingered, brewing with something he couldn't quite place before your attention was snatched cruelly away from him — he remembers how a scowl formed on his face at the interruption, almost as if the disconnection was a personal crime inflicted against him.
grimshaw's work-worn hands placing a blanket over your trembling shoulders, her usual stern expression switched out for a softer, more maternal one. dutch's ring-clad hand placed over the small of your back, leading you to the glow of the campfire, with hosea following in suit and mumbling something he couldn't hear.
arthur remembers the deep inhale he involuntarily took as soon as you disappeared from view, how he was suddenly painfully aware at the desperate hunger for oxygen.
he didn't believe in love at first sight. no, arthur wouldn't consider himself a cynic, but that? love at first sight ... that was solely reserved for dime romance novels, and storybooks. the feeling when your eyes locked, for a fleeting second, but gone as fast as the shimmer of a shooting star. no, that was something far more deeper, more primal. a yearning, a longing. and then his head that was abruptly tormented by a flurry of questions. an aching to know more, to know you, to see you, to feel you.
his reminiscing was interrupted at the sound of air puffing out from your lips, curls falling in front of your face as you dutifully stitched. “mmm ... needed to finish some things,” you took pause again, looking up at him through thick lashes. “sit with me?”
arthur didn't bother hiding the slight smirk he wore at the softer tone of your question, your shyness obvious still, even with the bond you now shared. “course.” couldn't you tell that he would slaughter every town from blackwater, armadillo and tumbleweed even if you barely whispered the word?
obviously, you would never ask such a thing. you asked for nothing, and he couldn't even name a time where a complaint left your lips since you joined the gang. god, your lips. always in that damn subtle pout, as if you could get any cuter if you tried. so goddamn sweet, it was borderline cavity-inducing.
you summarised everything arthur wasn't, everything he'd never be and everything he couldn't be. soft and sweet, more gentle than the sway of dandelions and the breeze that carried the florets through prairie fields.
he took solace beside you against the trunk of the huge willow tree that overlooked the small camp, home, a little ways away from the bustling town of blackwater. “how was your day?” that warmer tone, reserved just for you, only for you. eager to hear about the day's events, almost all he could think of from his position on boadicea's saddle on the ride back.
your careful movements never ceased while fusing together the rip in his shirt with cotton thread, though your shoulders brushed briefly as he settled down. “good. spent most of the mornin' patching davey n mac up after they ran into trouble at the saloon ... something 'bout ... a woman?” you giggled then, tying the smallest of knots at the bottom of your work. practised, methodical. “i can't remember the details, but they had the whole saloon on 'em, apparently.”
your hands, so different to his. so much smaller, delicate. lacking in the callouses he bore from years of manual labour, gripping cattlemans and carbines, or the scarred, raised skin over his knuckles from being split time and time again. your hands, for mending and healing. his hands, for the polar opposite. quite the pair you made.
your giggle triggered a dry chuckle from arthur, shifting his gaze from your sewing to the activities of camp. “yeah, i heard. bunch o' fools, makin' you put 'em together again.” he grumbled then, eyes narrowing in at davey's new black eye and mac's likely broken nose. “always causin' more trouble for you.”
that protective flare, the blurred lines between protectiveness and possessiveness; you weren't even his, not yet, though irritation tickled his spine at the thought of you always fixing up the camp idiots.
arthur felt the familiar, light weight of you shifting against him, head leaning against his shoulder. “i don't mind. s'what i'm good for, y'know?” again, never one to complain, as sweet as a peach you were. your scent, faint whisps of lavender, vanilla, and campfire smoke. how you managed to not reek of the familiar stench of copper from constantly having your work cut out with all the bandages you fixed, and wounds you cleaned, was beyond him.
with his unoccupied arm, he fished into the pockets of his ranch pants and pulled out a pack of smokes. “you're good for a hell of a lot more than ...” he paused then, cigarette dangling from his lips and arm stretching out to gesture frustratedly at camp. “takin' care of them.” that final word, dripping with venom.
you giggled again, and arthur felt a flicker of pride knowing that he was able to draw such a lovely sound from your chest. you weren't sweethearts, not quite yet, but arthur knew you were intrinsically tied to him in all the ways that mattered. every single comment and remark from the other men you brushed off, whether on the basis of plain obliviousness at how truly special, and beautiful you were, or genuine disinterest. he reckoned it was a mix of both.
all those bastards, loitering around the campfire. their gazes always lingering far too long on you, their words dripping with a hidden lust you never quite seemed to understand, the way they flocked to you so fast at even the simplest of scrapes. and you gave, and you gave. with arthur always watching with a clenched jaw and a pair of dark eyes.
but still, your back and forth with the men was always lacking in something of substance. polite, and kind, in the way you always were with every person who crossed your path, but never in the same familiar way you shared with him. sure, you had him wrapped around your damn finger and were probably completely naive to the fact. but never, ever, did he see you extend that sweetness to anyone but him.
still, you were a rarer treasure than the bloom of desert flowers and worth more than the countless pocket watches, belt buckles, rings and jewels he thieved throughout his entire life. he wouldn't have any more men subjecting you their piss-poor excuses of flirting much longer. no, no, you'd be his soon. he had to make it special though. not through seducing you with empty silver-tongued words like dutch did with molly.
and when he did make it official, it would be pure, honest and true. the girls, they would coo and fawn over you and the men, they'd wound up so damn tight with burning jealously — a feeling arthur knew all too well by now.
he took a drag of his cigarette, careful to direct the smoke away from you and revelling at the way you settled against his side. he only noticed now that you finished your final chore for the day, a favour for him. the blue shirt now sat neatly folded in a perfect square on the grass. he couldn't help but wonder if you paid such gentle attentiveness to your other mending jobs.
“gotchu a present.”
he flicked his smoke ash on the grass, and felt you readjust your positioning against his bicep. “arthur,” your lips opened in a quiet protest, brows furrowing together just slightly. “y'shouldn't ... waste your money on someone like me.”
someone like me. the words burned him, placing a heavy weight on his chest. someone like me? as if, somehow, by some misconstrued delusion that you were anything but a little angel to love, to hold, to spoil rotten. hell, what else should be spending the fruits of his labour on? two-bit whores for a meaningless five seconds of pleasure like mac, davey or micah often did, or instead blow it through poker or on liquor like bill and dutch?
he fought back the anger rising in his chest, forcing himself to ease back his tensed jaw. “ain't no such thing as wastin' money, not when i'm spending it on you, girl.” his words hung firm, and decided in the air, but with no bite behind them.
you opened your mouth once more to cut in, but, he was quick to silence you; rummaging through his satchel for no more than a second before pulling out the little parcel, wrapped in brown paper and secured with twine. “go on.”
the hesitation lacing your movements wasn't lost on him, and neither was the guilt that seemed to gloss over your eyes. still, you obeyed his soft command, and he watched as your thumb and index finger loosened the twine slowly.
then, a gasp. hardly audible, but followed by a sequence airy giggles. “oh, arthur! you -” and there it was, that wide, pure smile. with a warmth that challenged even the burning of the blazing afternoon sun over the new austin desert. that big, beautiful smile, typically reserved only for times when you read little jack his bedtime stories, or when the girls would whisper something in your ear over flames of the fire and beer bottles.
in your palms, you cradled the tiny present arthur had picked out whilst passing the tailor; two, tiny silk blue bows, fashioned with little clips at the back of each. he didn't like the idea of giving you stolen, and likely bloodstained, garbage from the fence. no, you were too pure for that. he wouldn't have you wearing some dead woman's pearls, no, you deserved something new, and something bought with specifically you in mind.
“i don't have a mirror handy ... you mumbled your words quietly, two fingers stroking the delicate silk clasped within your hands in awe. “would you ... ?” you trailed off, bottom lip tucked inbetween your teeth. your other hand reached to the back of your curls where a worn, pale pink bow rested — one of the simplest luxuries you had in this life, being that pretty dresses and fine jewels didn't mix with your role in camp.
arthur didn't bother suppressing his wide grin as his hand, much larger than yours, made quick work to gently unclip the pink ribbon from your hair. with more gentleness than he thought ever being capable of in his life, he took the blue pair from your palm, placing either one in your curls on each side of your head. “there,” he rumbled, pulling away (reluctantly) to admire his handiwork. “pretty as a picture.”
truth be told, no picture could ever compare to you. no carefully poised, painted face printed on cigarette cards, or those spread between the pages of corset magazines held anything on you. and he wanted, oh he wanted, to tell you so. to cup your little cheeks in his big calloused hands and force you to believe how much of a treasure you were. but, you, so sweet and skittish, he worried he'd just scare you off.
“no 'm not, but ... thank you, arthur, i -” you stammered, a blush tinging over those freckled cheeks he adored so, and your breath caught in your throat. “i - i'm.” your gaze flicked down as you searched frustratedly for the words. “i'm grateful. it makes me, um,” you fiddled with your hands, one of your nervous tics, and avoided his face, his eyes, entirely. “it makes me .. real .. happy, that you think of me - about me, um.” you glanced up once more, your blush growing fiercer at finding his cerulean blues already locked on yours.
you looked real nervous, more nervous than you typically would be around him. to his shock, and delight, your lips pressed against the scruff of his stubble for half a second, and you withdrew just as fast. “thank you.”
he was sure his pupils had never been blown so wide with love, with longing, in his entire life. you sucked in a sharp breath as arthur granted himself the pleasure, indulged himself in pure selfishness by allowing his thumb to drop underneath your chin, tipping it up. “you're real, real cute, y'know that?”
you whined in further protest then, pulling away totally to collapse back on the trunk of the tree and obscure your face with both hands.
the connection lost upon him until now, arthur noticed the cornflower blue of your little bows mirrored the shade of his shirt - still placed in the grass - perfectly. as if, his subconscious knew before he did, and that smug feeling bubbled in his chest again. a sweet, gentle, barely-there claim on you. yeah, arthur liked you in blue.
he made a quick mental note then, while finding much amusement in gazing at you far too long and making you squirm, to buy you a couple of other matching things. a shawl, maybe? he knew you felt the cold more than others did; he watched you wander around camp at night with fur blankets wrapped over your chemise. he remembered all the times he'd slipped his own jacket over your frame, actually. the worn leather always much too big for you, reminding him of how he utterly dwarfed you in size.
oh, but a new dress would be a dream. you hardly bought anything for yourself, always waiting until your things were falling apart at the seams. on the occasions you and the girls would head into town together, you'd always come back with surprise trinkets for them or toys for jack, simple jewellery for grimshaw or a book for mary-beth. again, another way in which he was reminded of how good you were — a good girl, and much, much too good for him. but he was greedy in that manner, and wanted you all for himself. would have you, all for himself.
he'd take his time picking something out, he thought. nothing overly-decorated and uncomfortable but nothing too plain either. something with a lace trim, maybe, or a ribbon tie at the back. once he finally asked you, finally took you for himself, he'd make it a habit. would take you into town instead, only the two of you, and gladly waste his hours away in the tailor to see his sweet girl smile, and giggle.
“so,“ he cleared his throat and laid back against the tree trunk once more with you, and made a gentle nudge to your side in the hopes of making you stop hiding from him. quieter than a damn church mouse, and shyer than a cottontail rabbit. he thinks he wrote about that once, in his journal. how that tiny, brown rabbit with the flopsy ears he saw a couple weeks ago near camp reminded him so much of you. “y'like yer present?“
“i love it.“
A / N : i hope this turned out alright in the end ! i got a little carried away n this ended up much more longer than intended .. >.< this is my first time writing anything in four years + english isn't my primary language so i hope it isn't too obvious ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა m considering making this into a series if anyone is interested i just wanted to test the waters first :3 my requests are open too !!
“Oh girl, what’d you do?” She asked, placing a hand on your shoulder, urging you to sit with her on one of the many tables around camp.
“I read his journal…” You confessed, your chest feeling tight.
“That boy.. if he don’t want anyone readin’ his journal, he should stop bein’ so careless with it!”
Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader
WC: 5,726
Additional Tags: sub!reader, thigh riding, fingering, p i v, creampie, outdoor sex, praise | MDNI
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………
No one was allowed to touch his Journal. He made that very clear. A few years ago, when John was younger and didn’t know any better, he took a peek. Arthur had left the journal in his tent while fishing with Hosea, not wanting to get it wet. When he came back to camp, John was all over him.
“Had fun fishing, loverboy?” John grinned, waving Arthur’s journal in his face.
“You give that back, Marston!” Arthur lunged at John, reaching for the journal. John jumped back, reading some of the entries out loud.
“Mary, I’m a fool. Maybe we both are. How someone like you could choose to love someone like me, I’ll never understand,” John snickered as he evaded Arthur’s attempts to retrieve the journal.
“You little shit,” Arthur grumbled, grabbing John’s collar. The commotion caused a few of the other gang members to turn heads.
“Let go of me!” John clawed at Arthur’s arm as he raised a fist, so close to punching the younger boy before Hosea interrupted.
“Now, Arthur let’s not resort to violence, keep in mind if Dutch finds out you punched a gang member he’ll have you shovelling horse shit,” Hosea scolded, not wanting to deal with bratty teenagers while brushing through his horse’s mane. Arthur reluctantly dropped John, taking the chance to snatch his journal out of his hands, brushing off any dirt and grime that may have stuck to the thing. John stood with a scowl on his face as he watched Arthur stomp off to his tent while muttering profanities under his breath.
Another instance was when poor Sean was seen picking up the journal when it lay fallen on the ground. Before even getting a chance to read the journal, Arthur had swung.
“Christ, Morgan! I was just picking the damn thing up!” Sean exclaimed, clutching the side of his face as he stumbled backward.
“Back off,” Arthur snapped. Normally he wouldn’t have jumped to conclusions like that but he had been in a dark place at the time and didn’t want anyone reading what he’d written. Just seeing anyone near his journal ticked him off.
Arthur calmed down in the following years. Even so, the Van der Linde gang knew not to mess with him and his journal—everyone except you.
You were new to the gang, having recently joined after Arthur ran into you running from lawmen in the back alleys of Saint Denis. He’d wanted to take a shortcut to get to the trapper in the market to sell some pelts when you had slammed face-first into Arthur’s chest.
“Easy there, madam,” Arthur chuckled, helping you stand up straight, “What’s the-,“
!!!
Arthur’s sentence got cut short by the sound of whistles.
“Ah shit, lawmen?” Arthur scoffed, not wanting to deal with the law. He was a wanted man after all.
“Fuck!” You winced, not wanting to get a random stranger caught up in your troubles.
“Come with me,” Arthur grabbed your hand, beginning to pull you along in the direction of his horse.
“Wait, what?”
“Do you want to get arrested or not?” Arthur muttered, picking up the pace of his footsteps. You followed behind quickly, thankful for the stranger helping you out. Once you both exited the alley and entered the busy streets of Saint Denis, Arthur jogged towards his horse, a big and beautiful Hungarian Halfbreed named Maverick.
“Get on,” Arthur told you, extending a hand outwards to help you up. You took his hand, moving to sit side saddle behind him.
“C’mon, boy!” Arthur commanded as his horse began trotting down the street. You wrapped your hands around his waist, holding on tightly as his horse sped up into a gallop.
“What’s your name, sir?” You questioned, wanting to know who the man helping you out was.
“Arthur. Arthur Morgan,” He responded, gruffly, “Yourself, madam?”
“Um, ____ ____,” you replied, “thank you for… helping me. I don’t know what I would’ve done.”
“Don’t thank me just yet, we haven’t left the city, the Lawmen could still be after us,” Arthur said, “So what’d you do anyway?”
“I.. are you sure you wanna know? It's not very pleasant..” You mumbled, feeling guilty for your crime.
“Sweetheart, I assure you I’ve done my fair share of unpleasant things. Things that definitely didn’t go unnoticed by them lawmen,” Arthur tried reassuring.
“I killed my fiancé,” You said meekly, chewing on your lip. You hadn’t come to terms with what you did just yet.
“Did you now? Why’s that?” Arthur asked, an amused smirk on his face.
“He was a.. bad man. Never took no for an answer if you know what I mean..” You answered, your voice quiet.
“Well, sweetheart, some people in this godforsaken world are just scumbags. So to that I say, good riddance. You did us all a favor,” He joked.
“Mr. Morgan!” You gasped, chuckling at his words.
It had been a few months since you’d joined the gang. After your encounter with Arthur, he decided to bring you back with him seeing as you had nowhere else to go. The women of the gang took a liking to you immediately, teasing you about coming from a rich family. Dutch was skeptical about you, not being very fond of rich folk. Hosea on the other hand was more welcoming, making sure you felt like you belonged. You liked Hosea.
Arthur spent the most time with you. You liked him the most. He would bring you flowers that he picked back from wherever he went during the day, and you’d tease him about going soft despite being an outlaw. Everyone in the gang knew you two had formed a special bond. Everyone in the gang had also forgotten to tell you about how sensitive Arthur was about his journal.
Arthur had asked you to fetch gun oil from his tent and as you were about to leave, your gaze drifted to his journal, lying open on his cot. Your interest was piqued. You knew you shouldn’t snoop but you couldn’t help it. You reached for the journal, inspecting the drawings on the pages. Your eyes widened in surprise.
“Is that.. me?” You muttered to yourself, bringing the journal closer to your face. Multiple sketches of your face were on the pages. Your facial features were captured beautifully, each drawing with its own caption underneath with the date he drew them. Your face flushed at a particular caption stating the words ‘Pretty ____’.
Before you could stop yourself, you were flipping to the next page, this time seeing writing.
I don’t know what it is about her. She makes me feel like a good man, I didn’t think that was possible. I’ve done terrible things. Killed, robbed, other shit I don’t even remember. She’s better than me. Way better. I told myself I wouldn’t allow myself to love again, but she made me break that promise. I think—
“____?” Arthur opened the tent flap, walking in. You jumped, startled. The journal was still in your hand, and your face was absolutely flushed.
“You were takin’ too long so I came to check...” Arthur trailed off as his brow furrowed when he saw what you were holding. He was silent. He walked up to you, took the journal from your hands, closed it, and set it back on his cot.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go through my things, ____,” Arthur said, tone too serious. He turned to leave the tent, taking the gun oil which you had forgotten about when you grabbed his wrist.
“Arthur, wait. We should talk-“ You tried to say before he pulled his wrist away.
“I’ve nothin’ to say,” He walked out of the tent, going to sit by the main campfire to clean his guns. You left his tent as well, feeling guilty. He loved you and you just invaded his privacy. You felt horrible. Tilly, one of the girls at camp saw Arthur’s face as he left the tent and turned to you.
“Oh girl, what’d you do?” She asked, placing a hand on your shoulder, urging you to sit with her on one of the many tables around camp.
“I read his journal…” You confessed, your chest feeling tight.
“That boy.. if he don’t want anyone readin’ his journal, he should stop bein’ so careless with it!” Tilly noticed your face, you looked so confused.
“Tilly.. I think Arthur has feelings for me..” you said quietly, as if you were still processing the new information.
“Well ‘course he does! Everyone in this damn camp knows! About time you found out..” Tilly laughed.
“What do you mean everyone knows? He’s said it?”
“Well no, but you should see the way that boy looks at you. He looks like a teenager in love,” Tilly giggled, “And the fact that he didn’t lash out at you for touchin’ his journal says a lot.”
“What do you mean by lash out? He’s done that before?” You asked.
“Yeah. Now I wasn’t around back then but I heard from Ms. Grimshaw that when Arthur was foolin’ around with that Mary girl back then, John read his journal and Mr. Morgan tried swingin’ at him,” Tilly spoke in a hushed voice.
“Mary?” You didn’t want to be jealous of a woman you’d never met. Especially not after seeing how much Arthur liked you.
“Mhm. You don’t need to worry ‘bout her though, I know he’s only got you in his mind,” Tilly teased. You playfully hit her shoulder, a grin making its way on your face.
“He draws me.. in his journal.. I saw so many pictures. He wrote that I’m pretty,” Your face was still flushed, “What do I do, Tilly? He’s… he’s mad at me.”
“I think you should wait a bit, give him space. Let him cool off. He’s prolly more scared of your reaction to his feelings rather than bein’ mad at you for touchin’ his journal,” Tilly said, carressing your hand to calm you down.
You thanked Tilly for her help and walked to your own tent, glancing at Arthur on the way who paid no attention to you. He looked almost nervous. Maybe Tilly was right, you thought.
That night, neither you nor Arthur got any sleep. You were trying to figure out a way to approach him and Arthur was bracing himself for your reaction. You had feelings for Arthur as well, strong ones. Ever since he brought you that first flower, the look on his face made you fall instantly. He was so awkward, completely out of character for a tough outlaw. You felt a small smile make its way onto your face at the memory.
The next morning, Arthur avoided you. Anytime you even looked at him he turned away. At one point, when you had tried waving to him, he dragged poor Lenny away to go hunting. You frowned, upset that he was trying so hard to avoid you.
“This is hilarious,” you heard Javier say from where he was strumming idly on his guitar while leaning on a tree. You narrowed your eyes at him, not appreciating his amusement at your situation.
“He keeps avoiding me,” you huffed, walking closer to the man, not wanting the entire camp to hear about your business even if you were sure they already knew.
“Yeah well, Morgan ain’t exactly a ladies' man,” Javier chuckled.
“What, like you are?” You teased, crossing your arms before walking away to busy yourself. You heard a scoff behind you, pleasant guitar chords following behind.
Once Arthur returned, he made a beeline for Pearson’s wagon. He emptied his satchel, dropping off all the meat he and Lenny had collected, who speaking of which, looked exhausted.
You peeked your head out from your tent when you heard Ms. Grimshaw scolding Arthur.
“Look at the boy, Mr. Morgan! He looks exhausted! What were you boys up to?” She was loud, the entire camp could hear their conversation. Arthur only chuckled in response.
“Lenny’s fine, Ms. Grimshaw,” He said, swinging his satchel over his shoulder.
“He sure don’t look fine. Well anyway, you better make up with ____, the girls been poutin’ all day—“
“Ms. Grimshaw, I appreciate the concern, but it ain’t any of your business,” Arthur interrupted. He hadn’t thought of how to handle interacting with you yet. He tipped his hat to the woman before walking away to the edge of Horshoe Overlook, sitting on the rock Strauss normally sat at during the day. Most of the gang members had gathered near the main campfire, eager to enjoy the feast Pearson was preparing with the meat Lenny and Arthur had brought back.
Noticing Arthur was finally alone, you slowly approached the man. You were thankful it was dark, you and Arthur wouldn’t draw too much attention should anything happen.
Before you could so much as get near the man, Dutch slipped beside him. You groaned, shoulders slumping as you retreated, going to join the rest of the gang at the campfire.
The night continued just as you’d expected. Arthur stayed far away from you while you kept trying to get near him. Once you felt the night had stretched out for far too long, you bid farewell to the ladies, thanked Pearson for the meal, and headed back to your tent.
“Tomorrow.. I’ll sort this out tomorrow..” You muttered to yourself as you drifted off to sleep.
When morning came, rays of sunlight squeezed through the gap in the tent flaps, hitting your resting face. Your eyes fluttered open as you lay, your eyes adjusting to the small amount of light.
You stretched, slipping out of your chemise and into your day clothes, ready to start your day. You headed toward Pearson’s wagon to get yourself some breakfast, feeling absolutely famished.
“Mornin’, ____!” Mary-Beth greeted. You smiled at her in return as she poured herself a cup of coffee.
“Now, the girls and I, or, well I suppose just me and Karen, were wonderin’ if you wanted to come with us down to Valentine. We tried asking Tilly as well but lord knows what Ms. Grimshaw has her doin’ today.”
Well shit. You’d wanted to fix things with Arthur today.
“Mr. Morgan is taking us,” Mary-Beth added on, as if she knew what you were thinking. You felt flustered, heat creeping up your neck.
“Ah well, either way I’d be happy to go.. It’s been a while since I left the camp anyhow.” Mary-Beth was delighted with your answer, even though she knew it was mainly because of Arthur.
“Mr. Morgan! ____’s comin’ with us!” Mary-Beth called out, taking your hand in hers as she led you over to the wagon. Arthur didn’t respond, only giving Mary-Beth a curt nod as he stood atop the wagon, extending a hand to help her up. The wagon shook slightly as she sat across from Karen who was eyeing you and Arthur.
You looked up at Arthur and watched as he sighed. He swallowed his nerves and helped you up as well, letting you sit beside the other two girls while he sat in the driver's seat, holding the reins in his hand. Karen let out a laugh at the awkward exchange, nudging you in the shoulder as Arthur began leading the horses to Valentine.
The short trip from Horshoe Overlook to Valentine was bumpy. Once Arthur parked the wagon, he helped you and the girls get down safely. You had to turn your face away immediately to hide how red your face was.
“I’mma head over to the gunsmith, you ladies better stay outta trouble,” Arthur said as he began walking away. You were tempted to follow him but chose to stay with the others.
Karen had dragged both you and Mary-Beth over to the saloon for drinks, claiming that you and she needed to have more fun.
“Hey Mister, three beers,” Karen ordered, a grin on her face.
“You sure, Karen? You get kinda wild when you drink,” Mary-Beth chuckled. The bartender slid three bottles over to you and the girls, each of you taking one.
“Oh what the hell,” you muttered, taking a swig. The girls cheered, laughing at the face you made at the beer’s taste.
As the day went on, you and the girls got yourselves a table in the corner of the Saloon to privately chat. Arthur had busied himself with some errands and hadn’t spoken to you all day. You frowned at the thought, just wanting a chance to be with him in private for a moment.
“So, ____, what’s goin’ on with you and Arthur?” Karen asked you, her beer bottle clanking against the table as she set it down.
“It’s… complicated,” you answered, not wanting to get into it.
“Is it? ‘Cuz y’all look like idiots in love to me. He needs to grow a pair already,” she scoffed, Mary-Beth nodding in agreement.
Just as you were about to speak, a gruff voice interrupted.
“Can I buy you a drink, madam?” You turned to look at the man talking to you—he looked to be quite old. The two girls looked amused as they waited for your answer.
“No thank you, I’ve had far too many tonight,” you tried your best to be polite.
“Oh don’t be like that, how ‘bout just one, hm?” The girls picked up on your discomfort and stepped in.
“Sir, she said no, thank you for the offer,” Karen said in a stern voice.
“I ain’t talkin’ to you, woman,” the man snapped. As soon as he tried stepping closer to your table, his body got pulled back.
“You heard the lady. Now get,” Arthur’s gaze was locked onto the man, almost daring him to continue. The man stuttered, muttering an apology as he stumbled out of the saloon.
“Oh my, Mr. Morgan, look at ya swoopin’ in to save your girl,” Karen teased. Arthur ignored her words, shifting his gaze to you.
“You okay?” He asked, the concern in his voice evident.
“I’m okay. Thank you,” Arthur nodded.
“Good. I think you ladies have had enough for today,” he said, leading you and the girls out of the saloon and back to the wagon.
The ride back to camp was silent, none of you uttering a word. The tension between you and Arthur was thick, the girls easily picking up on it. Arthur parked the wagon on the side of the trail leading to camp, helping Karen and Mary-Beth down.
“Hey, uh.. do you wanna maybe go for a ride?” The words just tumbled out of your mouth before you could decide if asking that was a good idea or not. Arthur looked a bit surprised while you silently hoped he was ready to talk about whatever was going on between the two of you instead of avoiding you.
You noticed Karen making vulgar thrusting motions from the corner of your eye, glaring at her before turning your gaze back to Arthur. He exhaled sharply through his nose before answering.
“Sure,” he grabbed the side of the wagon and pulled himself back up to the driver's seat. You chuckled awkwardly and pulled yourself up next to him. Arthur turned the wagon around, heading back down the trail, away from camp.
The two of you sat in silence, the only sounds being the leaves rustling in the wind and the horses trotting. The awkwardness was killing you, wanting nothing more than to just blurt out your feelings.
“Lovely…uh, weather we’re having, no?” You cringed at your own question. Arthur didn’t respond verbally, only grunting.
“Could I try driving?” You asked, knowing he’d have to respond in some way now.
“Really?” Arthur raised a brow in amusement. You weren’t the best driver by any means, having almost crashed a wagon or two the last few times you tried, “Alright, sure.”
You took the reins from Arthur, the ghost of a grin on your face as you mentally celebrated the small victory. Now that you had the reins you felt it was the right time to talk. You led the wagon off the path and into a trail leading to he forest. Arthur glanced at you from the corner of his eye in confusion but chose not to say anything.
“Um, okay, now that we’re alone and you can’t avoid me, let’s talk,” you said, looking around you to make sure you both truly were alone. When the coast was clear you dropped the reins and turned to face him.
“Talk?” Arthur could sense where this conversation was leading, his shirt collar suddenly feeling too tight.
“I should start by apologizing…” You began, “I shouldn’t have gone through your journal. It was an invasion of privacy, and not okay.”
Arthur didn’t say anything. You were chewing your lip, nervous. You were about to say something else before he spoke up.
“S’alright.”
‘That’s good! He responded, We’re getting somewhere!’ You internally celebrated.
“Okay, I uh.. I guess we should talk about.. what I saw,” you said cautiously. You felt Arthur go stiff beside you.
“Yeah?” He was playing dumb.
“I feel the same,” You blurted out. ‘Shit, was that too straightforward?’ You didn’t wait for him to respond, instead continuing to speak, “I mean, unless I assumed wrong-“
Arthur was speechless. Was he hearing things? He couldn’t believe that you wanted him too.
“Are you serious?” He asked, looking at you in the eyes for the first time.
“Yeah. I’ve been trying to talk to you for the past couple of days to try and figure out how you felt. I wanted to see if you were actually mad at me or if it was something else…” You said, fidgeting with the fabric of your dress.
“I ain’t mad at you,” Arthur began, “I was.. I s’pose scared. It’s been a while since I’ve felt like this. I was afraid of how you’d react to what you read.”
You swore your stomach just did a backflip. Arthur took your hands in his, almost chuckling at the differences. His were much larger and calloused, while yours were smaller, softer.
“I wanna be with you, ____. If you’ll have me,” Arthur said, feeling vulnerable. Confessing his feelings for you was hard for him but he was trying his best. You deserved the best.
“Of course I’ll have you… I wanna be yours, Arthur,” You smiled, one of your hands cupping the side of his face. He leaned into the warmth of your palm, in awe at how he got so lucky.
“Are you sure you want someone like me, sweetheart? I ain’t a good man,” Arthur muttered, his tone filled with self-deprecation.
Having had enough of him constantly putting himself down, you gripped his shirt collar tight in one hand and pulled him forward. Arthur’s eyes widened as he felt your lips on his. He let his hands rest on your waist, pulling you closer gently, handling you oh so carefully.
Kissing Arthur felt heavenly, you felt warmth in your chest from just how gentle he was being, holding you so lovingly. You almost whined when he pulled away, forgetting that if you wanted to continue you both would need air.
You noticed that the tips of his ears had turned red, making you try your hardest to bite back a giggle. Arthur didn’t know what about that moment made him snap, but all of a sudden he was all over you.
Your amusement got cut short by his lips crashing onto yours, the only difference this time was that you felt his pure need for you. One hand tugged on his hair while the other gripped his shoulder tighter. Both of his hands were on the sides of your face, pulling you impossibly closer as he kissed you like you were the only thing that mattered. And you were, right now, the only thing that mattered to him was making sure you knew just how badly he wanted you; how much he craved you.
“You sure you want this?” Arthur pulled away, muttered against your kiss-swollen lips. You reached up, taking his hat off and running your hand through his hair.
“I want this. I want you,” Arthur swore he could feel butterflies at how sure you sounded. At that, Arthur crawled into the wagon, his body leaning against the back wall as he pulled you on top of him. Your dress became bunched up around your waist as you moved to straddle him properly, caging his legs with your own.
Arthur tangled his hand in your hair, pulling you in for another kiss, groaning into your mouth when he felt your hand trailing down his torso. You felt the heat radiating from his body through his shirt, making your hips subconsciously roll against his. Arthur’s breath hitched, trailing his kisses along your jaw and then down your neck. Every few kisses he’d stop to suck, searching for your sweet spot.
You giggled at the feeling of his stubble tickling your neck, feeling him smirk against your skin. He nipped at one spot in particular which earned him a gasp, one of your hands fisting the hem of his shirt. Arthur placed his hands on your waist, moving you to straddle his thigh as he experimentally rocked you against him.
“Fuck-“ you let out a shaky exhale, gripping his shoulders as you let him grind you against his thigh. Arthur watched your face, eyes glued to the way your cunt was leaving a wet spot on his pants. It was like he was pussydrunk without having even touched you properly.
“Arthur..” You sounded so needy, the sound of your voice going straight to his core. The friction between your clothed cunt and his thigh was too good yet not enough at the same time. You were slightly embarrassed at how lewd you were acting, grinding yourself against his thigh.
“I got you. Jus’ like that, doin’ so good f’me,” Arthur praised, one of his hands coming up to tug the neckline of your dress down. Arthur sucked at your collarbone, leaving small marks which he knew you’d scold him about later.
“Please.. I need more..” you weakly pleaded. Arthur’s cock throbbed in his pants, obsessed with the way you were begging for him.
“Look at you, first makin’ a mess on me then beggin’ for more. Dirty girl,” He chuckled lowly. Arthur leaned back and brought one of his hands between your legs, running his fingers over the damp fabric covering your cunt.
Arthur smirked when he heard your quiet whimper as he tugged your underwear to the side. Arthur looked at your face, waiting for confirmation to continue or not. Once you nodded, he brought his thumb to your clit, pressing down gently before rubbing in slow circles.
“This okay?” He asked, checking your body language for any signs of discomfort as he slowly slipped one finger into your entrance. You nodded eagerly, your nails digging into the fabric of his shirt.
“I need words, pretty girl,” Arthur said, moving his finger in and out at a frustrating pace.
“It’s good- I.. I n-need more..” You were trying so hard to keep yourself together; it was like you were putty in his hands.
“Where’d your manners go? No please?” He teased, slipping in one more finger as he began to move his fingers at a faster speed, “You’re grippin’ me so tight.. fuck.”
You began to grind your cunt against his hand, his palm grazing your clit with each roll of your hips.
“Yeah, jus’ like that, ride my fingers. You’re doin’ so good, sweetheart,” Arthur murmured. He curled his fingers inside you, causing your back to arch, pushing your tits in his face.
“Oh, fuck!” You cried out. Arthur reached his free hand behind you, unzipping your dress and pulling it down far enough to reveal your brassiere.
“You’re such a pretty lil’ thing..” he whispered as he unfastened your bra, your breasts now exposed to him. He cupped one of them in his hands, a shiver running down your spine when his thumb ran across your nipple. You whimpered when he brought his mouth to your nipple, sucking gently, gaze locked on your expression.
“Ah- mmh- I’m close, Arthur-“ He swore he felt his cock twitch in his pants at the sound of you whining his name. He left your nipple with a wet pop, bringing his hand back down to rub faster circles on your swollen nub.
“Yeah? You’re gonna cum? Good girl,” Arthur doubled down on his efforts, pinching your clit to finally push you over the edge.
You bit down harshly on his shoulder, trying your hardest to conceal your moan, knowing it would be far too loud. Arthur continued moving his fingers inside you, letting your orgasm draw out. He removed his hand from underneath you, the lewd squelch making you feel flushed.
You rested your forehead on his shoulder, breathing heavy as you came down from your high. Arthur rubbed your back soothingly with his clean hand, licking your juices off the other.
“You did so good, sweetheart. Taste good too,” Arthur grinned. Although you had just come all over his hand, you weren’t done yet. And from the way Arthur’s erection was poking your thigh, you had a feeling he wasn’t either. You sat back on his thighs, tugging on his shirt, indicating you wanted it off.
“Yeah? My needy girl still wants more?” Arthur gently flipped the two of you over, making it so you lay resting on the floor of the wagon as he kneeled in between your legs. You propped yourself up on your elbows, bottom lip in between your teeth as you watched him undress.
Arthur smirked as your eyes followed his hands as they carefully unbuttoned his shirt. Carefully, he lifted your head and placed his bunched-up shirt underneath to make you slightly more comfortable. Your heart fluttered at his thoughtfulness, pulling him down to kiss him.
Arthur helped you fully out of your dress, taking a moment to fully appreciate your beauty. You felt vulnerable under his gaze, but at the same time so loved. Arthur gently picked up your left leg, placing it over his shoulder while pressing chaste kisses onto your skin. His fingers fumbled with his belt, tugging it off and setting it behind him.
He pulled out his cock, his angry tip leaking shiny droplets of precum. You swallowed down your nervousness and wrapped your hand around the base, watching Arthur’s face as he threw his head back with a groan. You gave his cock a few experimental pumps, your thumb rubbing over his slit, spreading his precum around.
“Fuck, baby.. no more teasing…” Arthur murmured, wrapping his hand around the one stroking him, stopping you. He leaned forward, arms on either side of your head as he guided his length to your entrance. You bit down on your lip in anticipation, your legs spread wide open for him.
“Tell me if it hurts, yeah?” Arthur kissed your cheek before slowly pushing in, groaning at the way your cunt was squeezing him. Your jaw fell slack, eyebrows furrowing as you clawed at his back.
“Ah shit, sweetheart, you’re squeezin’ the life outta me,” He grunted, pulling his hips back slightly then pushing all the way.
“F-fuck, Arthur!” You felt tears cloud your vision at the intrusion.
“Greedy pussy’s suckin’ me in, you’ve been wantin’ this all day haven’t you?” Arthur spoke lowly, pushing in and out of you at a slow pace, letting you adjust to his size.
“Y-yes,” you dumbly agreed, “faster- please..”
“Yeah? My needy baby wants me to go faster?” Arthur chuckled, snapping his hips into you sharply. You cried out, leaving crescent shapes on his shoulders from your nails, “You still needa be punished for touchin’ my journal without my permission, don’t you, sweetheart?”
“I-I apologized,” you struggled to speak as he maintained a fast pace, the leg on his shoulder allowing him to reach much deeper.
“You did, but I find forgivin’ you this way more fun,” he teased. He kept up a mean pace, making sure you’ll be bruised enough to remember this for a few days at least.
“Ah- mmh- hah- Arth-Arthur.. please-“ you didn’t even know what you were pleading for.
“Please? Please what, baby? My girl’s cockdrunk already?” His words made you clench down on him, making him shudder, “perfect. You’re so perfect.”
He muttered praises under his breath, bringing one hand to your clit, rubbing quick circles. You were seeing stars, your hips bucking as you felt the coil in your stomach close to snapping.
“Gonna- ‘m gonna cum,” you warned.
“Do it, sweetheart, cum for me, I got you,” Arthur’s pace faltered slightly as he felt his orgasm nearing as well, “Shit I’m close too, where d’you want it, baby-“
“I-inside, please- mmh,” You wrapped your other leg around his waist, pulling him closer.
“F-fuck, you can’t just.. you sure, baby?” Arthur leaned down, pecking your lips. You finally felt the coil snap, your back arching as you gushed over his cock.
Seeing your face as you climaxed was all it took for Arthur to reach his as well, holding your hand in his as he came in you.
“You did so good, darling. Beautiful, I’m a lucky bastard,” Arthur peppered kisses all over your face as you came down from your high, breathing heavy. He let your leg down from his shoulder and grabbed a cloth from his satchel, using it to clean you up. He gently cleaned you combined juices off your thighs, smirking at your fucked out state.
You lay on the floor of the wagon, staring up at the sky, watching birds fly through the deep orange. You doubted Arthur dealt with people touching his Journal like the way he dealt with you, but you’d never been happier.
Once you both got dressed, Arthur turned the wagon around, leading you both back to camp. A content smile on his face while you leaned your head on his shoulder, your eyes fluttering shut from exhaustion. Arthur pressed a kiss onto the side of your head, feeling at peace for the first time in a long while. Although he was overjoyed with the outcome, he’d definitely learned to be more careful with his journal.
summary : you tell Arthur how you feel about him. or at least, you try to.
warnings : no use of yn, drunk!reader, heavy sexual tension (but nothing happens here), self-deprecation (from both sides, but heavy on reader), misunderstandings, slight angst to fluff, happy ending
word count : 4,8k
author's notes : I don't know what the fuck happened, but I accidentally posted the unfinished draft 💀 some people must have been confused. but anyway, here it is, and I'm very proud of what I wrote.
sorry for any mistake in advance.
GIF by Kjersti on pin
For the first time since Blackwater's sudden departure, the gang seemed alive again. Laughter and music filled Horseshoe Overlook, celebrating Sean's return.
The smell of whiskey invaded your nostrils as you let the liquid fill your mouth and slide down your throat, burning it slightly. You closed your eyes for a moment, settling into the intense flavor, and set the small glass down on the wooden table for the third time.
The alcohol slowly spreading through your veins made your body and mind relaxed and sluggish, not much to your liking. Of course, you liked to have fun and let your worries go for a few moments. After all, being always alert was also tiring. However, you didn't like feeling vulnerable.
“Take it easy, girl. Why're ya so eager to drink? It's still early in the evening,” Tilly commented as she took a sip directly from the bottle. You refilled your glass and drank it in one gulp.
“I know why.” Karen's treacherous voice was heard as she approached you. You could sense her mischievous smile from afar. “It's because of Arthur.”
You gritted your teeth and tapped her lightly, making her laugh. The words came out of your mouth more slowly.
“I don't think anyone needs to know.”
“Ya don't make any effort to hide it.”
You hated that everyone seemed to notice your little crush on the outlaw. In fact, you didn't make much effort to hide it: the indiscreet and lingering glances every time he came back from hunting or some kind of work, especially when the shirt and pants he wore showed off all his firm muscles; the smiles and the affectionate voice when he spoke to you; or when your bodies made the slightest contact, and your face flushed, and your stomach warmed with ecstasy.
Everyone saw it except him. All this disinterest he showed frustrated you, and that was why you went back to filling the small cup, in what seemed like an endless cycle.
You really were so stupid. Suffering for years over a man who was still — or should be, according to your own opinion — lost in the charms of that Mary girl. What did she have besides a pretty face?
You sighed. That was the drink talking. Of course Mary, raised in luxury and security, wasn't going to change her lifestyle for anyone, even if it meant abandoning the man she loved. No one wanted to be the target of the law.
“I'm so tired of this shit...” You muttered, running your fingers across your forehead to relieve the headache that was setting in. The small glass was abandoned, and your hand lifted the bottle, sticking it straight into your mouth.
“If you're tired, why don't you just say how you feel?” Mary-Beth suggested calmly, looking at you expectantly.
That's easy to say.
“Because he rejects all advances from any girl in the gang, and I really don't want to ruin what we have now.”
They looked at each other and laughed softly. If you could see the way Arthur looked at you and cared about you, you wouldn't have so many doubts.
You laughed awkwardly and rested your cheek on your palm, remaining silent for a few moments, until Karen placed many whiskey bottles on the table.
“Well, I think you're goin' to need a drink to get that out.”
“Karen, I already told you...”
“What Karen is tryin' to say,” Abigail spoke for the first time, drawing everyone's attention to her, “is that you don't have to say anything if you don't feel ready. But it's true that this weight you're carrying is hurtin' you. You can't keep it there forever. You have to think that you're doin' this for yourself. If he doesn't want anything to do with you, you have to get it into your head that you don't deserve that and that you have to get on with your life. Neither you nor anyone else deserves to live like that."
You lowered your head and stared at your fingers. Abigail was right, you couldn't keep those feelings inside you anymore. Although rejection hurts, you would have to accept it and move on, just as you had done with all the ups and downs that had come your way in life. You would accept it like the strong woman you are.
Your gaze lifted and rested on Abigail. You raised your hand and placed it on top of hers, caressing it gently. She herself had gone through this with John, but she remained firm and unshaken. Despite the pain, she had a son to take care of.
And besides, he was the one who was losing a fantastic woman like her.
“Thank you. All of you.”
Everyone smiled, and Tilly spoke. “We girls need to stick together to face this world.”
You laughed, and your gaze fell on the untouched bottles.
“Well, if I'm really going to do this, I think I need a little drink.”
Karen smiled slyly and picked up the bottle, opening it. She handed it to you and opened another one for herself.
“C'mon, girls. Today is for drinking!”
***
You couldn't tell if this had been a good idea or not. Your nervous system was so lost in alcohol that you couldn't form a single coherent thought.
“Hey, he's here!” Mary-Beth's enthusiastic voice entered your ears, surprising you. You raised your head in alarm. “Ya weren't asleep, were ya?”
You couldn't tell for sure.
“No... But who's here?”
“Arthur, silly. Now's your chance!”
Hearing his name, your body gained strength, and you stood up in one go. However, this only made you stagger and almost lose your balance. But luckily for you, Tilly was there to help. You thanked her quietly and leaned your limp body on her.
Abigail sighed. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Karen's loud laughter interrupted her. She walked over to you and wrapped her arm around your shoulder, pulling you toward her.
“'Course she can! Now that she's had her little ‘incentive’, she can do anything! Ya can do it, girl!”
You nodded slowly and smiled. You grabbed another bottle and brought it to your mouth, drinking the liquid in one gulp. The whiskey burned the surface of your throat, but you didn't worry about it like you did the first few times. On the contrary, it seemed to give you more desire to speak to Arthur bluntly.
“I'm going to—” You laughed, speaking slowly. It seemed like your tongue was tied, and you couldn't form a coherent sentence. “I'm going to show him what he's missing.”
"That's right, girl. Ya can do it."
Then Karen put the bottle down on the table and motioned for you to come closer. Slowly, you did as she asked, and she grabbed the collar of your shirt, making you frown.
“What are you doing?”
“Trust me,” she said as she unbuttoned the top three buttons of your shirt, creating a risky neckline that gave a glimpse of your beautiful breasts trapped by the corset. “This way, he won't be able to resist.”
“God, Karen...” Abigail sighed, placing her hand on her forehead.
“I want to see how she wakes up tomorrow. It'll be quite a sight.”
Mary-Beth agreed with Tilly's comment, which you completely ignored. Karen took off the shawl you had and placed it next to her bottle.
"Now, listen carefully to what I'm going to tell ya. Ya go over to that bonfire, show off the best of your little body and what it can offer if he wants to. He'll go crazy when he sees ya like that. I can even picture his face: rosy cheeks, wide eyes, open mouth. Ya'll thank me tomorrow. But ya have to take a chance, you hear? If you don't take a chance, you won't get anywhere."
You nodded and patted her arms lightly. “Don't worry, I'll do as you say.”
She smiled and you walked slowly toward the campfire. Each step you took was in sync with your heartbeat, which quickened when you first saw him that night.
It was impossible not to recognize his back among the other men. Broad, firm shoulders, so wide they looked like a mountain range.
And, well, you were more than ready to climb it.
Returning to your rhythm, you headed for the campfire, where most of the men — except Dutch, Strauss, and Bill — were settling in. The beautiful melody coming from Javier's guitar harmoniously filled your ears, but it wasn't enough to drown out your heartbeat.
“Oh, look who’s here.” Sean’s loud voice alerted everyone to your presence, causing all eyes to turn to you.
However, the only pair of eyes that mattered to you were the blue-green ones staring silently at you, revealing a special attention hidden between his bright irises. You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the violent way your heart was beating against your chest.
Heavens, just one look from him almost gave you a heart attack.
“Are ya here to say you're happy to see me? I didn't know ya cared s'much about me, but don't worry. Your big Sean's back—”
Any nonsense that came out of Sean's mouth went completely unnoticed, as you quickly passed him and headed toward Arthur, who stood up straight on top of the box where he was sitting.
Once again, your alcohol-addled mind was lost in its fantasies. What would it be like to sit on his lap, to feel his big, rough hands slide over your body, as if trying to memorize all your curves and weak spots? You could already feel your body heating up, and it wasn't just from the drink. What would it be like to feel his firm, muscular body against you, while he whispered words of devotion and promises in your ear that made your heat expel liquid pleasure?
You hadn't even started doing anything, and you could already feel your excitement making its way into your drawers.
After a few seconds of hesitation, and finally noticing the man's confused look, you finally spoke.
“D'you have space here?”
Well, it was all or nothing now.
“Hm…” Arthur scratched his beard and looked away from you for a moment, trying to ignore the fact that everyone's attention was focused on the two of you. “Shore, I reckon there's space for both of us—”
Before he could finish his sentence, you sat on his lap and wrapped your hands around his neck, taking not only him but everyone around you by surprise with your bold move. You didn't care about the laughter of some of the men present. You just focused on him.
Arthur, still surprised to have you between his thighs, stiffened against your body and his cheeks slowly turned pink. He hid his face with his hat. It was clear that the poor man didn't know what to do.
The truth is that he was sweet on you for a long time. Your gentle, yet tough and ruthless personality had attracted him to you from the moment you joined the gang. And even though you had what could be called a friendship, he couldn't resist dreaming of having something more with you.
Even after what had happened with Mary, Arthur saw in you an opportunity to finally love and be loved by someone who truly understood him. Who saw him for who he was.
Not Arthur Morgan, the most trusted associate of the Van Der Linde gang, with a $5,000 bounty on his head.
With you, he could just be Arthur, and have a life close to normal. No guns, no fights, no fears.
Just a simple moment of peace in his messy life.
But now, finally holding you in his arms, Arthur couldn't believe what was happening.
It must be the drink. It makes anyone lose their logic. A part of him thought. No one in their right mind would ever fall in love with someone like him, destined to destroy. Not to create.
However, when you looked at him with those big bright eyes, he couldn't take his eyes off you. Slowly, his eyes moved down, capturing every movement of your body. Your pink mouth opened, and you slowly exhaled, and his gaze followed intently the drop of sweat that trickled down your neck and disappeared into the visible valley of your breasts.
He clenched his hand against the denim of his pants. You had never worn such a revealing neckline, and the idea certainly hadn't come from you. He narrowed his eyes, and the person who could be responsible for this quickly came to mind.
Karen. Arthur was still wondering whether to thank her or give her a piece of his mind the next time he saw her.
However, never in his life had he wanted so badly to bury his mouth there and lose himself in your milky breasts. To leave his mark there. Damn, he felt like a bloody teenager.
The whiskey seemed to be affecting him too. But Arthur knew his limits: you weren't in perfect condition, and he wasn't going to take advantage of you like that.
If, one day, the situation was reversed, and with your consent, he wouldn't think twice.
But for now, he would think with his brain, not with his friend, who would soon be hard as a rock.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you to his firm chest, causing you to let out a surprised sigh and a joyful reaction from the people around you.
You blinked a few times, trying to process that your desperate act had worked. So you smiled and laid your head on his firm shoulder as you watched him take a few more sips of the orange liquid.
With each sip he took, his Adam's apple moved temptingly, preventing you from looking away. God, you wanted to lick it right there so much.
Before you could do anything, Arthur seemed to notice your gaze and stared back at you in the same way, as he placed the bottle next to the box where you were sitting.
“You...” You tried to start, but your throat felt dry. “Aren't you uncomfortable with me sitting on your lap?”
Arthur smiled as he absentmindedly moved his heavy hand on your thigh. Even though you were fully clothed, it felt like Arthur was touching your bare skin. You wondered what it would feel like to feel his warm touch against your naked body.
“No. If that was the case, ya'd already be on the floor.”
You laughed.
“Is that what you do to working girls when they try to touch you? That's very ungentlemanly of you, Mr. Morgan.”
This time it was his turn to laugh, and you sat up straight on his lap when you heard the happy sound. It was rare to see him smile so happily, and you liked seeing him like that.
Serene, relaxed. As if nothing else mattered.
You snapped out of your thoughts when you heard him grumble, and then felt his arms tighten around your waist. As if trying to keep you from moving.
“What's your real plan, woman?” His hoarse, serious voice made you sigh. His eyes tried to analyze you thoroughly. You hoped you hadn't done anything wrong.
In any case, the damage was already done from the moment you crossed the line of casual friendship by sitting on his lap. Your dignity had already disappeared from the moment you started drinking.
Now was not the time to back down.
So you moved closer to him, pressing your breasts against his chest. This way, your noses were only a few inches apart. You could feel his breathing change: it became heavier, as if he were waiting for your next move, so he could breathe again.
You used your most seductive voice and stared at him with your big, bright eyes.
“Are you nervous, Arthur?”
“I reckon I asked ya a question first.”
However, his frantic heartbeat against your chest gave him away.
“Your heart seems to be more sincere than your head.” You teased him, receiving a glare in response.
Arthur's grip on your waist and thigh tightened, as if trying to warn you that you were playing a dangerous game.
“Since ya seem so determined to ignore me, I'll refresh your little lost mind. What it seems to me is,” he brought his mouth close to your ear, speaking in a sarcastic tone. You could smell the intoxicating scent of whiskey with every word he spoke. “That by coming here drunk, with your breasts almost completely exposed, and sittin' on my lap on your own free will, ya're tryin' to make me lose ma mind. Is that what ya're tryin' to do, pretty girl? Answer me.”
You squeezed his shoulders with your hands, anxiously, until your fingers were almost white. Your body seemed to combust with every word he spoke. And the whiskey in your body wasn't helping.
Arthur slowly emerged from his hiding place and his greenish-blue eyes stared at you intensely. You could see the tension in his jaw, as if he were holding himself back.
You didn't want him to hold back. So, like a snake wrapping itself around its victim's body, you put your nose against his and spoke sweetly.
“What if I'm doing that? Is it working?”
And you delivered your fatal blow.
And his control was hanging by a thread. You smiled slyly, and I could see the tension in your expression: in the darkness that enveloped in his eyes, in his dilated nostrils, which expelled air abruptly; in his stiff body and in his agitated heartbeat.
Hm? Your body stopped and the excitement coursing through your veins seemed to disappear in a matter of seconds. Did you go too far and he didn't like it?
“Get up.”
“Now.”
Your body moved mechanically and you stood up, shaken. You'd fucked up big time and completely destroyed one of the best friendships you'd ever had by acting like a bitch in heat.
You bit your lip as you tried to control the tears that filled your eyes, feeling the bittersweet sensation of rejection. What were you going to do now? You lowered your head.
Or worse, how would you face yourself tomorrow, knowing the mistake you'd made? You would never forgive yourself and you wouldn't be able to face the disgusted expression he would throw at you.
You already felt disgusted with yourself, even in this state.
With each passing second, it became harder to control your emotions. You could feel everyone's prying eyes on the two of you. How humiliating. They must have thought you were ridiculous, desperate, behaving like the lowest prostitute there could be.
Of course Arthur wouldn't stay with you. No, compared to Mary - the beautiful, educated and intelligent Mary - you were the most futile woman he must ever have met. Shameless, despicable.
At no point did you even lift your eyes from the floor, and Arthur, realizing this, gently picked up your face. When he realized you were pale, his blue-green irises widened in concern. Just a few seconds ago you were perfectly fine. Happy, bold, beautiful. He needed to use his last thread of control not to throw himself at you.
You couldn't breathe properly, you seemed to be running out of air. Your stomach rolled, both from drinking too much and from anxiety, and you began to see everything spinning around.
Maybe the drink had made you ill. Arthur had no idea how many bottles you'd drunk, but from the state of you, it looked like you'd already had a good amount of whisky.
Without wasting any time, strong arms went around your body again and picked you up easily, as if you weighed nothing. From afar, he could hear the whistles and snide comments of some of the gang members, but once again, they went completely unnoticed.
Damn drunks.
He walked over to the grove of trees near the camp, and when he noticed that you were getting restless, he set you down on the ground again. You quickly pulled away from him - as if his touch hurt you or something - leaned forward, and vomited.
You wished that the regret and shame would come out too.
Taking your breath away, the bitter taste rose quickly, leaving you with watery eyes and skin covered in cold sweat. It felt like your whole being was being expelled at once.
You felt one of Arthur's hands on your back, stroking you affectionately, while the other went to your hair, pulling it close to your mouth. "Let it all go. Ya're doin' good, darlin'. Good girl."
You felt the tears run down your face. How could he still be so good and kind to you?
In the end, you let a long sigh escape from the back of your throat. Although you no longer felt that nausea, the previous feelings still remained, just like Arthur's comforting touch on the small of your back.
You had to apologize, but you couldn't face him.
“I...” You couldn't control your trembling voice. It made you feel small, weak. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that. I... I feel so stupid. Taking advantage of you like that, what an idiot."
So you stood up, with his help, and walked away, wiping away the tears that were silently streaming down your face. You turned around, but at no point did you turn to face him.
Arthur stared at your reddened face with confusion. And why weren't you looking him in the eye? "What do you-?"
"You must think I'm such a despicable, horrible woman, and rightly so. Even I feel that way. I don't even dare look at you now because I'm so ashamed. It's enough what you said before, with the tone you took, and I understand if you don't want to see me in your life anymore."
Every word that came out of your mouth was like plunging a knife straight into your heart several times.
"Now I know why you were always going after Mary and never looked at me with love. She must be a much better person than me: kind, pleasant. She mustn't be someone as deplorable as me who doesn't even care about the feelings of the man she loves. And now I've ruined everything, our friendship, which was so precious to me. What have I done to throw away such a precious friendship? I'm really stupid."
Arthur, on the other hand, even though he was listening carefully to your words, couldn't understand the situation. So he decided to intervene again. “Darlin', I...”
By now, tears were streaming down your messy face and loud sobs were leaving your mouth. You put your hands up to your face, trying to hide it.
There had never been a time when you wished you were dead.
After a few silent seconds, you heard Arthur's footsteps approaching. Slowly, as if you were some kind of animal he didn't want to frighten. He grabbed your hands and pulled them away, his strength overpowering yours.
One of his hands took your wet chin and raised it, forcing you to face him for the first time since you arrived there. Contrary to what you'd expected, his eyes didn't look at you with contempt, but rather with concern and sadness, as if what you'd said had hurt him too.
Arthur took a deep breath through his nose and stared at you seriously, while his other hand joined the other, resting on your wet cheek. His finger wiped away your tears.
You nodded, trying to calm your sobs.
"Now, ya're goin' to listen to me properly. No interruptions, are we clear?"
"When I told ya to get up, it wasn't for you to think that I didn't like what ya did or that I felt ya violated my personal space. That was never ma idea. On the contrary," he paused and continued to wipe away your tears. With that little pause, you were able to control your sobs. "It was to control myself. Even though ya are a walking fucking temptress, you were drunk and didn't want to cross a line you didn't want to when you got sober again."
“But then...what were you going to do?”
He smiled softly. “I was just going to take you for a walk.”
Of course. You wouldn't be drinking again so soon.
He slowly kissed your forehead and you felt his beard lightly scratch your skin. You smiled shyly.
Your cheeks flushed and you looked away, feeling that horrible feeling inside you disappear, and automatically, your body and mind calmed down.
“But about what ya just said.” Arthur began and you clasped your hands together nervously, mentally preparing yourself for what he was going to say. "Mary really was an important part of my life, I've never loved someone as much as I loved her and I never really got over her rejection. But when ya came along, always ready to listen to me, to advise me, to welcome me as I really am, Mary disappeared for a moment from my mind. And that happened more and more often every time I met you. Until the day came when it no longer hurt me so much to think about her. About what happened between us. Because now I had someone who looked at me for myself, who accepted me completely and didn't judge me."
“So...” When you felt his voice become huskier than usual, he coughed. “Sorry, I'm not used to talking so much.”
You swallowed, feeling the tears gathering in your eyes again. A feeling of sudden happiness settled over your whole body. You tried to memorize every word of his confession. As if you didn't want to forget what he was telling you.
You laughed and stood on tiptoe, gluing your lips to the corner of his mouth, taking him by surprise. “It's okay, I know what you mean, Arthur.”
In the dim light coming from the camp, he could see your bright eyes and loving expression. How could someone as ugly as him be looked at with such love?
“Even so, I want to tell ya everything.” He brought your fingers to his mouth, kissing them gently, as if he feared hurting them. You saw his red cheeks and his anxious breathing. He was as nervous as you were. "Every time you did somethin' for me, my heart warmed. Or even when ya always came to greet me after a long day out, when you brought me some food that you'd saved for when I got back, my feelings for you only grew. And it grew so strong that I couldn't look away from you. I wanted to know everything, I wanted ya to trust me, to touch me with as much love as you do now, with so much affection and admiration. I really don't deserve all this love you give me, sweetheart, but I won't waste it. I'm a man with stained hands destined to destroy, but when ya look at me with those eyes of yours, I can't leave you. My only option is to return your love in the same way."
He really didn't deserve you.
You couldn't stop smiling. The man you loved was telling you that he loved you just the same. You didn't need an “I love you”. Hearing these words from a man like him, who hardly opens up - except for the blank pages of his diary - was enough for you.
And what's more, you could see his love through his eyes.
A tear ran down your cheek, but this time it was from the emotion of the moment. No sadness, just pure happiness.
"As long as you're the Arthur I know, there's nothing that could make me leave you. After all, I'm a tough woman. I'm not easily shaken."
He laughed.
"That's true. I can't resist your serious face. It's adorable."
"Adorable!? You should know, Mr. Morgan, that this face you say is adorable has already robbed men blind and even killed some in self-defense."
You stared at him in disbelief as you felt his warm hand caress your waist.
He raised an eyebrow. “Are ya telling me to be careful?”
“Maybe.”
You laughed and he put his forehead to yours, taking the opportunity to rub your noses together. The whole thing made your stomach warm.
“Can I kiss you?” He asked.
When breathlessness set in, you pulled apart and the line of saliva joining the two mouths appeared. You smiled breathlessly and moved closer to his ear.
This time, you wasted no time in nodding and joined your mouth to his. Just as you had both wanted to do for so long.
“I love you.”
He laughed hoarsely and kissed your mouth for a brief moment.
Premise: Mary had left him broken once again. He finds comfort wherever he can, tonight that just happens to be another lonely soul.
Pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader
Tags: Angst, some smut[but not the main focus], past Mary/Arthur, slight Mary bashing but I do love her. It just makes sense for this fic, strangers to lovers, p in v, some teary sex. Also I use ‘the woman’ and ‘the stranger’ in place of Y/N bcs I don’t like it and also bcs it makes it so much sadder in my opinion.
Words: 2.7k
18+ Minors do NOT interact!
The saloon was loud. Friends hung onto one another as they laughed through the drowsy haze of alcohol, newfound lovers cradled one another and whispered sweet nothings. Behind him, a pianist played a lively tune that had almost everyone in the building getting up and dancing a jig with their neighbours.
Almost everyone. But not him.
He sat, unblinking as he watched the bartender casually refill his whiskey every time his glass emptied, eyes always avoiding the strange newcomer in his saloon - the strange newcomer who hadn’t said a word since he gruffly asked for a glass of whiskey, the strange newcomer who looked as though he were a few moments away from breaking down into sobs, his eyes downcast with a defeated expression.
Another patron came into the saloon, knocking the doors against the wall as they burst into the building. A cold breeze escaped the outside and infiltrated the warmth and light that was the saloon. The newcomer let out a noise of surprise and made their way over to a group, their voice mixing with the almost deafening laughter of the other patrons.
Arthur ignored him, ignored everyone really. His only focus was on bringing his glass up to his lips every few moments and taking a sip of liquid poison that was sure to quell his sorrows if he drank enough.
Mary. Even her name was enough to set off a fire within him. A fire fueled by regret and anger, a fire that let out a smoke of shame. He would never be good enough for her - she, her daddy, hell, even Dutch were right. He was just a dumb, ugly man who wasn’t worth so much as looking at the innocence and light that was Mary Gillis - soon to be Mary Linton.
He let out a sigh, his breath fogged up the glass the help just centimetres away from his lips. He held the cold glass against his temple and sighed again. He just wanted this day to be over, just wanted to go back to camp and hide away in his tent until his broken heart managed to repiece itself enough to carry on with life.
He half wished that Mary had given him the ring he gave her, all those months ago. At least then, he’d have something -anything- to remember her by, instead of the cold absence of his heart that she once resided in, or the flashes of arguments and screaming matches that eventually led to their relationship's demise.
He sighed once more and lifted his head. A new stranger was sitting at the bar. She held the same look that he did - one of anger and betrayal yet still marred with sadness. A dark cloud of loneliness loomed over her and he felt himself pulled to her, in some way.
His eyes met hers before looking away quickly, a blush appearing on his cheeks at the thought of being caught looking at her. A strange half-smile appeared on her face, so he assumed that she wasn’t all that upset.
A light thump next to him told Arthur that he now had company.
He looked up and saw the woman that he’d just been caught staring at, was now sitting beside him; her hand went up for a moment to indicate to the bartender that she wanted another drink.
“Y’alright?” Seeing as she had made the first move to sit next to him, Arthur thought it was only fair that he begin the conversation.
The woman exhaled through her nose, a bitter noise.
“As well as I can be, given the circumstances.” She said, her voice hoarse from either crying or shouting - he didn’t know. The sentence was cryptic and vague but Arthur expected no less from a stranger.
He hummed out an acknowledgement and then ruminated on whether to carry on the conversation or sit there in silence, sharing his sorrows with a stranger. The woman didn’t look as though she cared either way, much like him, but he decided to be polite, if only because he knew Hosea would strangle him if he knew that Arthur left a clearly distressed woman with no one to talk to.
“Had a rough day?” She nodded but didn’t clarify, he decided to fill in the silence, “Me too. My woman up and left me.” The stranger perked up at that, recognition flashed momentarily in her eyes and her shoulders seemed to lose some of the tenseness they once held.
It felt wrong to call Mary ‘his woman’, it was too…rough, it didn’t capture the beauty of their relationship together. She was much more than his woman and he was much more than her man. Their love was endless and didn’t deserve to be labeled with such frivolities but at this moment, Arthur was slightly tipsy and rather upset at Mary so didn’t care to delve further into the love that he once, and secretly still did, held for her.
“Sorry to hear that. My fella did the same. Found another woman - younger, prettier.” She sighed and her eyes welled with tears, “and then just forgot about all our years together. Tale as old as time, happens to everyone.” She said the last bit quieter and Arthur felt the slight notion that he wasn’t supposed to hear that bit.
Panic briefly crossed her face and it seemed as though she were scared that she had shared too much, came on too strong. She lifted her glass to her lips and took a sip, then avoided his eyes. He smiled a sad smile.
“‘M sorry to hear that ma’am. Feller who does somethin’ like that ain’t a true man. Jus’ a little boy playin’ pretend.” He took another swig of his glass. The whiskey didn’t taste of much anymore, just bitter and lifeless as it passed his tongue. The woman nodded and let out a quiet ‘thank you’ but didn’t say much after that.
Determined not to sit in awkward silence, Arthur tried again to start up a conversation.
“So. Why’d’ya sit next to me?” He asked and then cringed, how pathetic and rude could he seem, asking a distressed woman why she did something. Hosea would have his hide if he knew Arthur was being so rude. The stranger just let out a soft laugh, she didn’t seem offended, if anything the question seemed to amuse her.
“I saw you looking at me, noticed that you looked kinda down too and thought that we could drown our sorrows together. Might look less pathetic anyway.” She straightened and turned to him with an earnest expression, “Not saying that you’re pathetic at all, sir. I didn’t mean it like that. Just that…it’s just that a woman drinking alone might look a little odd and you know…” She trailed off, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”
Arthur just snorted.
“It’s fine ma’am. Lord knows I look like nothing more than a pathetic drunk.” Despite his foul mood, an amused feeling crept its way into his chest, “At least compared to this lot.” He swept his hand to the patrons behind them, still laughing and dancing away.
She laughed softly, her face lit up for a moment - as though she hadn’t expected to laugh.
Arthur noticed that both of their drinks were getting rather low and raised his hand to motion for the bartender’s attention.
“Another round for me and the lady.” She chuckled again and the bartender nodded. He filled their glasses to the rim and then wandered away from them both.
‘Christ man’, his scathing inner voice chastised him, ‘you need to start eating before you drink. Nothing good comes from liking a girl from the saloon.’ He ignored it and raised his glass to clink against hers.
“To not drinking alone.” He cheered and she chuckled, clinking her glass against his own. Some whiskey spilled from over the rim but neither of them minded.
Things carried on that way for a while. The saloon got less and less busy as the night rolled on. Only the working girls, sad, lonely drunks and both Arthur and the stranger remained. Several voices carried through the saloon, whispered confessions to a new lover or mumbled songs from the mouths of the drunk. The atmosphere, once light and cheery, was now cold and bitter.
Amidst the cold though, there could be a spark of warmth.
A cheery disposition fell across the two, fueled by alcohol. Arthur’s cheeks were now rosy and his head felt as though it were swimming. It felt as though a golden light was cast upon the stranger and if he looked close enough, he could’ve sworn that her eyes were that of Mary’s.
Something sad settled in his chest and a type of longing fueled his next actions.
He took the stranger’s hand in his own and oh how her soft skin felt like Mary’s.
“D’you wanna…” He swallowed, “d’you wanna head somewhere more private?” His voice was slurred and he could have sworn that the woman was about to slap him across the face and demand an apology for being so crass. But instead, she did something that shocked him to his core - she nodded.
The two ran up the stairs, looking more like rowdy teenagers who had just discovered what sex was than grown adults trying to find some comfort amidst their terrible days. He hadn’t even booked a room, instead just burst into the first one that didn’t have the sounds of muffled moans escaping through the doors.
There was no passion in what they did, no love, no warmth - just two people trying to forget.
Arthur shucked down his trousers, all but ripping them. His belt caught on his stomach and he groaned as he undid it. In front of him, the stranger was undoing her corset. Their actions were hurried and the look in the stranger’s eyes was pain filled.
With his trousers now undone, Arthur made to undo his shirt but gave up halfway through. He moved forward, mouth open as he leaned into the woman. There was no passion in the kiss and if he was being honest, Arthur didn’t want to kiss her but he felt obligated to at least pretend to care about romance instead of using her like a two dollar whore.
She reciprocated the kiss but like Arthur, she didn’t care too much about it and pulled away after a moment, clearly too upset to pretend to want to kiss him.
They fell onto the bed, still tangled in one another’s arms. Arthur reached down and helped to insert his cock in her. She was wet enough and if he were sober, he’d spent at least several minutes getting her to her peak but in his booze-addled, broken-hearted mind, he couldn’t find it in himself to care.
Immediately, he began to thrust, not caring if he wasn’t doing well. His mind was far too preoccupied to care about something like that.
She sounded as though she enjoyed it though - moaning through tear filled eyes.
“Oh, James.” She cried over and over. He didn’t have the heart to correct her on his name, not when he was doing the same thing.
Her skin was so soft and unblemished compared to his own, like Mary’s. Her eyes, wide with pleasure with tears spilling over the brim reminded him of Mary. The way her hair cascaded into the pillows was like that of Mary’s dark, wavy locks.
Damn that Mary, he growled to himself. She had taken part of him with her when she abandoned him. She still owned part of him and he would never get it back. She had infiltrated his mind, she had taken his body, his soul. He would never get over this. The pain was too much. He just wanted her. He groaned loudly, mainly so that it would silence his mind.
How odd to be haunted by a person who was still alive, he thought as his tear-filled vision addled his brain. He blinked and a tear slipped down his cheek. When he looked back at the stranger, she had reformed. Instead of the features that weren’t his to look upon, the one that belonged to another man who gave up on their relationship - it was Mary. Her face was contorted into a familiar look of pleasure, her eyes filled with love and light. A hand crept up and tucked his hair behind his ear, he knew from the familiar ring on its finger that the hand belonged to Mary. He blinked again and reality returned. It wasn’t Mary. It wasn’t even a person he knew the name of. It was a stranger.
Another tear fell down his cheek, would he never be rid of her? Would he never look upon another woman without being haunted by the familiar face? Would he never stop hearing her last words ringing in his ears over and over.
“You’ll never change, Arthur.” Her voice taunted him, “You’ll never change.” His father was right, her father was right, she was right. He was never good enough. Never strong enough. Never clever enough. Never rich enough. Never enough.
His soul was shattered and his heart missing. He was a broken shell of a man and he would never be enough. For anyone. His mother had died. His father hated him. Hosea had left with Bessie and was still yet to return. Dutch only saw him as a weapon. Mary wouldn’t marry him.
Why wasn’t he enough? Why wasn’t he enough? Why?
“Why wasn’t I enough for you Mary?!” He shouted to the void. Yet still he continued to thrust into the stranger. Mary’s face still taunted him. Always there yet never close enough. He couldn’t reach for her. He was stuck, trapped in this endless cycle. Her face would haunt him for the rest of time, always reminding him that he wasn’t enough. He would never change.
He let out a loud sob.
Mary, Mary, Mary, Mary. His inner voice taunted him. Her name cycled around his mind and wouldn’t leave. Mary, Mary, Mary, Mary. He sobbed again.
“Mary!” He shouted as he reached his peak, only remembering a few seconds afterwards to pull out of the stranger and come on her stomach instead.
The visions of Mary fizzled and were replaced with the stranger. Like him, she was crying, her eyes betrayed a despair and betrayal that cut so deep into her soul. Like him, she had not had sex with a stranger, but instead had sex with the vision of the love of her life, the one who betrayed her and caused her to become this husk of a person.
She turned away, faced away from him. She clearly wanted to lick her wounds in peace and Arthur wasn’t about to interfere with that. He had his own wounds to deal with.
Mary’s face cut deep into his soul. He could still smell her perfume in the air, as if she had really been here.
He continued to cry until he physically couldn’t keep it up anymore and passed out. His dreams were invaded with visions of Mary and the stranger, haunted by what could have been if he were good enough.
When he woke the next morning, it was to an empty bed. The other side of the bed was cold, clearly the stranger left a long time ago. He didn’t mind though, she had enough to deal with to help him deal with his own pain.
On the bedside table, there was a note. Scrawled words that indicated either a quickly made letter or an inability to read or write.
‘Thank you for talking with me and for being with me last night. It would have been much worse without you. I pray that you find peace soon.
Good luck.’
Arthur placed the note in his satchel. Despite it being from someone he didn’t even know the name of, he would need to revisit the letter several times in the future, if only to remember tonight and the pain it caused, or to remember that he was not the only one going through a heartbreak.
He got dressed in silence and tipped the bartender two dollars for having to deal with him last night.
Summary: Dutch isn’t the best partner. Always leaving you unsatisfied, uncared for, and lonely. Arthur’s more than willing to fill in some gaps.
WC: 2.9k
Tags: m/f, f!reader, smut with a smidge of plot, mutual obsession, cheating, drunk sex, semi-public sex, oral (f receiving), unprotected piv sex, praise kink, creampie, fingering, pet names, slight aftercare,
A/N: This is my first fanfic so any advice to improve would be appreciated! This is also a 2 part work so Dutch’s part will be coming up (brace for impact). This is also posted on ao3 under @/vanderlindde.
︵︵︵︵︵︵︵︵︵︵︵︵︵︵︵︵︵︵︵︵︵
Being Dutch Van Der Linde’s lapdog had its perks—til they didn’t. Though, lapdog was an overstatement, more of a prized trophy. A trophy encased behind glass; a trophy that collected dust until Dutch would shine you new again just to show you off. He often showered you with jewels and expensive clothes. Though no amount of expenses could ever pay off the cost of pleasure he owed you.
Dutch wasn’t a man to pleasure. Everything shared by him was solely for his pleasure. From every blowjob you gave him, to every penny he spent on you. He reveled in the fact that everything you owned was his doing.
The camp pitied you, all treating you like some kid with a scraped knee.
But not Arthur Morgan.
Arthur saw through your high class facade. He saw through the broken prized-pony label that everyone seemed to place on you.
He took the time to know you. Your likes, your dislikes, what made you tick. He’d keep you company. He’d take you on short trips to Valentine, hunting trips, or even simple rides on his horse if it would cheer you up.
Time—time was what he gave you. Something far more valuable than any blood-covered jewel Dutch would bring you. 𐚁 ₊ ⊹
It was a busy evening, most of the gang gone on a heist. Arthur had just arrived back to camp, trudging towards Pearson’s station to drop off a buck carcass. Taking a quick glance around camp, he notices Dutch’s open tent. Empty, he notes. His mind immediately goes to you.
Finding you down by the lake, he approaches you. Upon hearing the sound of crunching rocks, you turn your head to be met with Arthur’s gaze.
“Shit, I meant to surprise ya,” He says sheepishly as his hand jerks to hand you a dainty gold bracelet from his satchel. “found this, thought you’d like it.”
Knowing Arthur, it was likely that “finding it” meant he stole it. Nevertheless, you took it into your hand and offered a small smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. Unlike Dutch, at least Arthur thought about that you’d like when robbing. Dutch would often pick whatever looked the most expensive. While Arthur would only take what he knew was to your style. The man in front of you frowned.
“Slow day?” He drawls, trying to make conversation. You nod, your finger tracing along the curve of the jewelry. “You wanna… go for a ride?” He rocks back and forth on his worn boots. You shake your head, your gaze glued to the bangle in your lap. You hear him sigh then mutter something under his breath,
“C’mon now, you can’t be sittin’ around, mopin’ all day” He mutters, a hint of irritation in his tone now. You finally look up with a bothered expression. Arthur fucking Morgan, a persistent man he was.
“What did you have in mind?” You give in.
He smiles victoriously to himself before shrugging his shoulders. “Could get a drink down at the saloon?”
You glance over at the gleaming water beside you as if pondering the suggestion. You then look back up at Arthur and nod. He nods back and offers his hand to help you off the boulder you perched on.
On the way, Arthur talked your ear off, exchanging stories from his hunting trip today. You listened and held onto his waist tighter as he pulled into town. He hitched his horse just in front of the bustling building. Once off, he helps you down and escorts you inside. 𐚁 ₊ ⊹
A few drinks in and you felt every nerve in your body become sensitive. Every low, grumbling laugh from Arthur sent shivers down your spine. Every brush of his fingers against yours lit your senses on fire. Every lingering look from him said more than what either of you could ever say. You felt it, and you had a feeling he did too.
Though Arthur knew better. He knew you weren’t his to claim or his to even think about in the ways that he did.
Every sip of alcohol consumed by you made Arthur nervous. He noticed your flushed cheeks and how your sentences strung together like one big word. Signs he knew all too well that indicated that you were drunk.
Drunk you was never a good sign.
“Alright now, let’s get you back. Can’t have ‘ol Dutch worryin’ about his girl, now can we?” He says, patting your shoulder. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at the mention of Dutch. Maybe it was the whiskey talking, but to you, it seemed he looked annoyed for even thinking about Dutch as well.
“I ain’t no one’s girl.” You spat, shrugging his hand off more harshly than intended.
“That so?” Arthur challenged. Even a fool could catch onto the slight innuendo in his voice. You hum a quick mhm and take a sip from your almost-empty glass in attempt to draw attention away from the slight blush on your cheeks.
“I think that’s enough for you,” His hand cups your smaller one wrapped around the glass.
“Let go.” Your fingers tighten as you inch it towards yourself.
“Or what?” His voice drops an octave.
The air suddenly grew thick; neither of you moved, or even breathed. You could’ve sworn Arthur licked his lips, but before you could give it another thought, he takes advantage of your distraction and pulls the glass away from you. He slams it onto the bar with a few coins and escorts you back out the bar.
“I’m a grown woman, y’know. I can handle myself.” You say, your voice raised and irritated.
“I ain’t say you wasn’t.” He replies in his usual smug tone as he helps you up onto his horse.
The silence back to camp was deafening; the pair of you too polite to interrupt the choir of crickets beneath you. Arthur then musters up the courage to say,
“It’s uh, lil’ chilly tonight. You reckon yer whiny ass’ll get through the night?” He attempted to end the quip with a smug chuckle but ends up choking on his spit. He quickly clears his throat, praying you didn’t mention it.
He glances over his shoulder to see you resting on his back. Suspecting that you had fallen asleep, he continues to ride in silence.
Alcohol still fogged your brain; you weren’t thinking straight. Your breath brushed the hairs along the nape of his neck. Arthur froze, his body rigid. You took the oppertunity to kiss the side of his neck. He shudders but doesn’t say anything. You couldn’t tell if he had even noticed so you tested the waters further. Your lips press against the same spot, this time firmer.
“What’re tryin’ to do to me, woman?” He groans.
You don’t stop there. Your tongue darts out to lick him softly.
“Dutch, he’ll kill us, y’know.”
“How many more times are you gonna bring him up tonight?” You pull away to interrupt. Arthur doesn’t dare to bite back, he just lets you continue to graze your soft lips against his neck. He never wanted this moment to end. It was as if—at least for a moment—he believed there was a god and he was finally in his good graces.
“Jesus..” He mutters, moaning as he feels you start to suck his neck now. His mind swirled with thoughts between Dutch’s fury if he were to find out about this and how bad Arthur needed you now.
Your body jolts as you feel the horse suddenly stop and pull off onto the side of the trail.
“Arthur?”
“Down, now.”
You hesitate. “What?”
“Get off.”
Reluctantly, you get off the tall horse. You didn’t know what to expect. Maybe he was going to scold you, or make you walk all the way back to camp.
Arthur gets off the horse swiftly right after you. Before you could react, his hand grabs hold of the side of your neck as his lips crash against yours. You don’t even mind the fact your head had hit the tree behind you. All that was on your mind was the fact that he was kissing you.
You pull away to take a breather, Arthur making a small sound at the loss of touch.
The kiss ignited something in him, like his soul had just been sucked out of his prisonous body and shown the wonders of freedom.
For you, that one kiss had provided everything you’ve ever craved—connection, mutuality, affection.
“You ain’t know how long I’ve waited to do that.” His voice wavers slightly. He pulls you back in, lips interlocking with yours once more.
He groans into your mouth, his neediness and touch depravity soaking into the kiss. His hand tugs at your skirt, wanting you impossibly closer. He drops to his knees in front of you.
“Take it off, please.” That please was laced with utter desperation that was visible through the depths of his eyes.
You take no time in remove your skirts, the clothes dropping to the floor without care. You remove your blouse too, the frilly white piece joining the others in the dirt. Arthur props your thigh onto his shoulder, your dripping pussy inches from his face. He gives you one final look—a look that both sought out consent and a mutual need. With a nod of your head, Arthur’s tongue trails to lick up the juices gushing from your slit.
“Fuckin’ hell, you taste like heaven.” He murmurs against you. The combination of the rough stubble on his chin and the rumbling of his voice was pure bliss. Straining cries leave your throat; you couldn’t help but take advantage of the empty fields and the trees that obscured you from any possible travelers.
Arthur was utterly lost in you. Lost in the satisfaction of the two of you finally giving into each other.
His hand reached up to palm your tit while the other joined alongside his mouth. He pulled off to watch his digits as they parted your swollen folds. His mouth was slightly agape as he watched in awe. The calloused pads of his fingers slid up and down your slick before dipping into you slowly. His eyes dart up to marvel at your face as it contorts with pleasure. Your breathless moans might’ve been enough to make him cum his pants.
“That’s it darlin’, feel good?”
You nod.
“I ain’t hear you,” He says, wanting the conformation fall from the very lips he loved so much.
“Yes—god, yes it feels good” You gasped, fingers curling into his hair.
His fingers curled in and out of you; at the same time he altered between flicking his tongue at your clit and sucking it.
“Please, let me fuck you.” He begs, words sloppy and slurred as he continued to fuck his tongue into in your pussy.
“C’mere,” You say, attempting to even out your breathing.
Arthur sets your leg back onto the floor, your knees weak—even a small gust of wind could knock you down. He then stands before you, removing his shirt hastily before undoing his belt buckle with awkward hands. Your eyes feast on his tan, muscular physique as he undressed. A trail of dark hair sprinkled his lower stomach, a bush of hairs slowly unveiling as he pulls down his pants. He hooks his thumbs under the waistbands of his pants and underwear enough to have his cock spring out. Your eyes widen at his length, then back up at Arthur. His cock had a slight curve, thick all around, veins that ran along the sides, and the tip a throbbing pinkish color. He stares back with a bashful expression.
“Somethin’ the matter?”
“No, it’s just I ain’t expect.. that.” You let out a shaky exhale.
He chuckles at your shock. “I’ll go slow darlin’, don’t you worry now.” He says gently.
He flips you so your back was to him and your front pressed against the rough bark of the tree. His knee nudges your own to further spread your legs while his large hand presses on your lower back to make you arch. His touch was demanding yet reassuring and gentle. His other hand strokes his cock as he lines it up with your spit soaked cunt. He runs his tip up and down your slit teasingly.
“Damn it, Morgan,” You moan desperately. You squirm in attempt to fuck yourself onto his dick. Though Arthur acts accordingly; he pushes your hips forward just enough for you to press into the tree further. Your hardened nipples scrape against the wood, and though painful, you couldn’t find yourself to pull away.
“You can be patient, can’t you girl?” You could practically hear the smirk plastered across his face.
“Wasn’t you just on your knees askin’ please to fuck me?”
“I was just bein’ a gentleman, sweetheart.” He pushes his hips just enough for your pussy to envelop the tip of his cock.
You mewl; your hips involuntarily moving to make a futile attempt to push just another inch in. Arthur groans at the sight. Your eagerness reflected his inner turmoil that urged him to fuck you like tomorrow won’t arrive.
You suddenly feel his cock stretch you out. His head dips down to moan deeply into your neck. Strong hands hold you in place as his cock eases into you—not yet taking you down to the base. Wood chips crumble to the ground as your fingers dug into the birch. He pulls out just enough so that his tip remained in you.
“Deep breaths, girl,” Arthur coos. You let out a shaky breath to compose yourself.
With a snap of his hips, Arthur thrusts his full length into you, catching you off guard.
A noise escapes your throat, a wail that any passing rider would mistake for a wounded animal.
“You can take it,” Arthur grunts as he sets the pace of his thrusts. He smirks to himself as he feels you clench around him at the praise. “Such a good girl for me, ain’t ya?” His hand delivers a sharp smack onto your ass before coming up to knead your tit. Your nipple, now raw from the friction of the tree, is pinched between Arthur’s fingers as he gropes you.
Your hand slithers around to fist Arthur’s hair, tugging him immensely closer. Gladly taking the invitation, he kisses and sucks ever so softly, careful not to leave any marks. It frustrated the both of you to remember the consequences you’d both face after this. Although the idea of going back to Dutch after being fucked by Arthur like this was riveting.
Arthur reaches around to rub your clit. His middle finger runs up and down your sensitive nub slowly. He then takes his large hand and cups your mound, creating a comforting warmth. He keeps it there, his even thrusts never ceasing. You feel his stubble tickle up and down your neck before settling at your ear as he nibbles on your lobe, whispering sweet nothing’s as he does.
“Doin’ real good for me, baby.”
“Takin’ this cock so well.”
“Does that feel good?”
Your breath becomes heavier, shortened. You knew it was a telltale sign that you were close. So was Arthur it seemed; small whimpers emitted from his throat as much as he tried to quieten them.
“Oh fuck’s sake, I—“
“Don’t pull out.” You say with a hint of hesitation. Arthur sensed it—that ever so small sliver of hesitation from you.
“Oh baby, don’t say that unless you really mean it.” Arthur groans desperately, huffing softly into your shoulder. Such simple words were enough to send him tumbling over like a fool.
“I mean it, cum in me.” You repeat, this time without any hidden implication.
Filled with regained enthusiasm, Arthur’s hips moved with a mind of their own. His movements becoming erratic and uneven as he rutted into you. The crisp night air filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin and passionate moans.
Finally removing his cupped hand from your mound, your clit tingles as the cool air hits. Arthur runs a finger up and down your sensitized nub, smirking to himself as you cried from the overstimulation. Your knees buck under you as the dual sensation of his cock bruising your cervix and your tender clit being rubbed overload your senses.
You call out his name in a feverish cry as you cum on his dick. He holds you in place, to both ensure you didn’t stumble onto the ground and to keep you still to cum in you.
“Jus’ a little longer baby, can you do that for me?” He grunts as his hips stutter until he finally spills inside you.
He moans your name like a prayer as he leaves himself pressed against you, breathing down your neck. He inhales the tangy scent of sweat and sex lingering in the air.
Arthur pulls his softening cock out, groaning at the sight of your mixed arousals spilling from your gaping hole. To him, it was one—if not the—prettiest sight he’s ever seen.
“You done good, girl.” He lets out a deep exhale to even out his breath. He pulls up his drawers and pants as you turn to face him. He picks up your earlier forgotten skirts and dusts off the excess dirt. He helps you to slip into them.
Once you both looked presentable to return to the road, Arthur gives you one last look over . He drinks in the sight of you in your long, modest skirt, knowing that just underneath hid a dirty little secret.
I am a collapsing star with tunnel vision (but only for you)
word count: 18.9k || tags: smut (at the end), hurt/comfort, fluff
summary: "Stay." He whispers. Like a prayer. He hopes you do.
When Arthur first opens his eyes, he notices that he's in a cabin.
It's a disorienting feeling. There's something put in his nose, and he tries to move, finding that his body's too exhausted to do anything. It's an uncomfortable feeling. There's something tightly wrapped around the injuries from the fight before his death, and a figure in the corner of the room. His arm moves a little, only to find a needle pushed into his arm, and he panics, groaning when his body tenses suddenly.
"I wouldn't do that if I were ya." The figure speaks up, clicking their tongue as Arthur blinks at them.
"an' who're you?" He swallows uncomfortably, and the figure adjusts the bag attached to the needle.
First, it's a look at your face.
You look young. Definitely younger than him, but not distinct in what age. You look phenomenally young for someone who supposedly hauled him from where he had been bruised and battered from his fight with Micah. Young, young, soul. Not a wrinkle on your face, and you are yet to show any signs of maturity. Strange, strange being.
Arthur squints at your face, observing the lines and lack of lines. He takes in what you're dressed as — just any other lady, really. He squints at your face and looks for the familiar glint of a hidden agenda, but you seem to present yourself as is to him. Only then does he relax his shoulders a little, staring at you. You seem harmless enough, though he's still not sure what's in his arm, but you don't seem to be trying to kill him.
Then, he takes a look inside the cabin.
Outside of the bed he's rested on, the needle in his system and the tube stuck in his nose, there's nothing else out of the ordinary. You have a fireplace, a stack of wood on the side, and you almost seem to be living in the forest. Quite nice, honestly. The cabin feels nice and homey, but you have the unfortunate situation of him in what he assumes is the only bed from what he can see. He keeps his eyes trained on your face, watching your every expression. Just in case you're hiding something.
"Call me sunshine f'r now." You hum, lips curled upwards sweetly. "Yer still not well, so I'd lie back and rest for the time being. Let me take care of the injuries."
"How'd y'know— ugh.. huh?" The grogginess overtakes him again, and it reminds him of when he was younger and used to get sick all over again.
"Oh, look. It's kicking in." You beam, waving at him as he feels his consciousness slip from his mind. "No worries. It's just…"
Arthur Morgan falls asleep, eyes closed, body lax as he drifts in and out of consciousness. Sometimes he hears you talk to yourself, muttering quiet words, assumed to be narrating your own life, talking out loud. Perhaps you're used to staying alone. It seems like there's only you in the cabin, since there's never any other voice. The door creaks sometimes, and when he's conscious for the few seconds in between his sleep, he catches you around the home doing something.
He thinks he caught you doing something with the food once.
He's still mildly disoriented from waking up. The grogginess never fully escapes him. He stays awake for longer periods in between sometimes and eats what you have for him, but quite frankly, the needle in his arm terrifies him, and he's not too good at using his left hand for eating all that much. You help as much as you can, feeding him before eating yourself, and he's forced to rely on you. He thanks you after you do, and you give him a gentle wipe of his lips like he's some baby.
He sleeps again shortly after those periods, drifting off sometimes to a melody you hum, sometimes to the sound of the wind rustling the trees outside.
When he's awake at night, he stares out the window, watching the leaves and the flicker of the fireplace, wondering what came of everyone else after his tussle with Micah. He'd ask you, but he doesn't know how much you know. For all he knows, you could have just been some poor lady who found him bruised and battered on the ground. He doesn't know much about you, still, but he has no choice. His gun isn't with him, and quite frankly, you seem to be taking care of him rather than trying to kill him. He'd be dead if you wanted him dead. He'd be dead if you just left him there to rot.
He usually sleeps a while after that.
But he starts staying awake for longer periods of time in between his rest, sometimes getting to watch you toss out the fireplace ash, sometimes watching you sit on the day bed by the fireplace on a journal of your own. When he asks for water, you lift the glass to his lips, and when it's dinner, he lets you feed him whatever you can. He tries using his left hand to eat, getting better by the day, but some days he coughs too hard, and you have to feed him again.
"Thank you." He mumbles.
"Always." You nod.
Eventually he falls back onto a proper sleep schedule, waking when the sun does in the morning, sleeping when the moon rises at night.
You look older now.
You don't feed him as often now. You offer him a bowl, and he'll be able to scoop it up with his spoon, and he doesn't need to rely on you to feed him.
"Dinner." You hand him a bowl.
Arthur takes it, eating slowly, making sure not to move the arm with the needle in it.
He learns to trust what you have to offer him. You seem harmless enough, smile on your face, no bad intentions behind it. He's lived a long life, he thinks. He did plenty of good in his final moments. He can tell the good from the bad, and he thinks you're a good person. Much better than he is, after all. He has no reason to be so on edge around you.
"Alright." You hum. "How's the throat feelin'?"
"Alright." He mumbles. "Why?"
"Y'er gonna start treatment for the tb."
Arthur raises a brow.
"The doctor said there's no cure."
"Well, I say we ought to try new methods anyway." You point a finger at him, and you shrug. "My ma survived it just fine with what I'll give ya, so I figured it might be worth a try, mister…"
"Morgan." He nods. "Arthur Morgan."
"Mister Morgan." You hum, lips curled upwards sweetly. "Don't worry. I won't hurt ya. Found y' near dead by a cliff, and by god, how scary."
"Yer a good person, sun…shine." He hums. "Sunshine? Yer parents name y' that?"
"Called me that while growin' up."
Arthur doesn't doubt it. You look like you'd grown up with enough love in the world. There's a smile on your face that isn't quite as deep as he ought to believe it to be. It's alright to be fine and peaceful. You seem like a respectable person, after all. Much more respectable than him.
"How y' feeling?"
"Sick." He hums. "Does the… treatment really work?"
"Worth a try." You hum. "Just gotta promise me to listen and trust me."
"It ain't that hard to trust you."
"It will be when you start it."
Arthur spends his days resting and listening to you. It's quite easy to listen to you, after all. You give him instructions, give him little pellets to swallow with water, but the pills make him feel sick. You have a bucket by the side of his bed for him to vomit into when the nausea gets bad, but there's not much else you can make for him. His food is soft compared to yours, and you make sure he's able to digest everything. He still gets meat in the stew — softened, but still edible.
He also has his own set of utensils. It's because you tell him he's contagious. He makes note of that to himself.
It feels uncomfortable being taken care of like this. He's not quite sure what to make of the fact that you're fixing him up. The nausea hurts, but you're there every step of the way. It's strange to think that he's never heard of you despite being so well known in the East. Maybe you moved from the West over. He heard some of them natives have cures for illnesses unlike western medicine.
It's still disorienting, though. He's still not too sure what's quite going on some days. It makes him confused. The mild paranoia still sits in his skin. He watches everything you do when you're around him and he's conscious, and though he takes the pills and trusts you to some extent, some days it's hard. Some days he feels so nauseous before eating that he doesn't have the stomach to even eat. He's curled over the side of the bed or hugs the bucket. His head spins and his lungs heave, struggling to breathe like he remembers before his death. Oh, the cough was not kind to his lungs.
"Oh, okay, Come on. It's fine." You hold the bucket as Arthur coughs, lungs hurting and chest burning, blood spilling past his lips.
"'s that supposed t' happen?" Arthur blinks, and you shrug.
"Happened to my ma." You hum. "At least the blood's comin' up. Won't kill y'a no more."
"Doesn't feel good."
"Feels better than collapsin' a lung, I can tell y' that." You grimace.
"Collapsin' a what?"
You blink at him twice, tilting your head with an innocent smile as you pretend to not remember.
"Hm?"
"Yer gonna be the death of me, sunshine."
"Well, it's the pellets or the tuberculosis, so have y' pick." You shrug. "Maybe next time I ought to ask first before bringing y' back from the dead. How as it anyway?"
"The dead? I was dead?"
"F'r a bit. Did y' know it's new? The machine I used to save ya. Founded in Switzerland or sum." You tap your chin. "Brings the dead back t' life for long enough to save em. Had to figure out how to work the one my pa was given as a gift."
"Say, y' some kind of rich kid?"
"Nope." You smile at him.
You look only a little younger than him now. He doesn't doubt that you'd be around his age if he hadn't grown up as an outlaw. You have that look to you. Someone who's lived their life moving around. Feels strange for you to be around his age and so knowledgeable. Maybe you went to university like the fancy folk up north do. You seem to be well presented. He doesn't see people like you often. They don't usually come down to the south. Most of the Northeners prefer sticking to their own kind. The civilized kind.
He wonders why him. Why now.
He complies with treatment, swallowing pills and eyes closed when he feels the sickness crawling up his throat. You tell him it's called phlegm, and he curses whatever god there is out there during the initial stages of treatment, but the food becomes easier to eat, and his body learns quickly how to adapt. It overcomes as it does. When the bruises heal, his body focuses on the tuberculosis. The medication proves to be useful. He stops throwing up after a week or so.
You have a little calendar on the wall to mark the passage of time. You have a clock on the wall and the calendar underneath, Arthur keeping his eyes trained on you when you do things around the house. He itches to help, but you keep him stuck on the bed with the needle in his arm. He can't bear to look at it longer than a few seconds. The sensation is long gone, but on occasion when he shifts, he can still feel the needle in his arm, and it irks him.
He longs for the day you'll be able to detach it from his poor arm.
"You know, Arthur. Tuberculosis can be cured. Just takes time." You laugh. "Some people live by nothing. Seems your lungs were in humidity for too long. Always better to stay in dry land when sick."
"I didn't know." He mumbles, watching as you peel an apple next to his bed. "Thought it was just a cold."
"I don't blame you." You cut a piece of the apple off, holding it to Arthur's mouth.
"What's this?"
"Just eat the damn apple."
He opens his mouth to bite down on it, chewing slowly as you continue cutting up the fruit to place it on a plate.
Old habits die hard.
"You'll be fine. Seems t' be much better." You hum. "You're throwin' up less these days."
"Yes, I s'ppose."
Arthur watches as you clean off your hands at the sink, watching as you mumble to yourself, quiet mumbles. You did that a lot. You tended to mumble to yourself to remind yourself of something, and Arthur wonders if it's because of him. It bothers him to no end, he supposes. He went to collect the debt from the sick man, only for it to come back and kill him. Almost, kill him. There's much to be lost in thought of in his own mind. In a way he believes perhaps he deserved the death. He was no good man, Arthur Morgan. He had made right what was dong wrong by him before his death, so he thought perhaps he would die with some more semblance of peace, but even in his final moments, his breath labored and he yearned to see the sun rise one last time. What a foolish man, he is.
"… wish I got to stop you before you caught it."
Your words break him from his thought, lifting from his head as he looks at you.
"What's that?"
You fluctuate between ages. Like some witch, perhaps. You look younger on some days than others, and sometimes when he wakes, you look younger than some of those girls working at the saloons, but you also look older some days. He wonders what kind of nonsense it's got to be for you to be looking so young some days and older on others, but he doesn't pry. He tries not to. You're allowed to keep your own secrets, after all.
"Don't worry about it." You smile, lips curling upwards sweetly as he nods.
"Sunshine."
"Yeah?"
"You ever gonna pull the needle out'a me?"
You tap your chin, wiping your hand off from the water as you think about it.
"Ever thought about going to a sanitarium?" You reach for something in a box — gloves. Arthur finds them to be strangely colored, but they are gloves nonetheless.
"No. Needed by the gang back then. 'm a wanted man."
"Mm. I see." You hum, moving over. "I'll take the needle out if that's what you want, Arthur. You'd have to start getting up and moving, though… Namely a bath."
Arthur looks away when you instruct him to keep his arm still, and he winces as you slide the needle out of his arm, clinkering of the needle in the box catching his attention.
"Did you just…"
"Yeah." You hum, wrapping a bandage over the hole left by the needle. "Tossed it into the bin. Can't touch the rest of the trash. It'd be horrible if an animal got their grubby little fingers onto it. It's a biohazard."
"A bio what?"
"Danger." You pause to wonder when the word had first been coined. 1973? God, that's a whole century later. Whoops.
Arthur squints at you, and he watches as you tilt your head at him, raising a brow.
"Yer full of surprises, sunshine."
"I take pride in that." You hum, pulling off the gloves to dispose them in the same bin.
Arthur moves his arms around. He's not completely muscle-less despite it all. He moves both his arms, staring at his softening hands. Strange to him, despite it all. It seems foreign that his hands would ever soften. He's unused to not having to do labor. His hands have gotten softer.
"Come on. You need to wash up." You grimace. "Yer stinking up the whole place."
"Oh, sunshine." He raises a brow at you. "Don't be so brash."
"Can't." You scrunch your nose. "Nose keeps clogging because you stink."
Arthur knows that feigned annoyance on your face is just a facade. You had been wiping him down when he was asleep. He'd wake up to it sometimes. Never anywhere inappropriate, no. Just his arms and legs. On occasion, he'd feel you wiping his neck and face, quiet melody hummed on your lips, too foreign to his ears. But he understands. He's unused to being taken care of, after all. He's gotten used to lifting his weight around the camp and helping when he could. It only worked him further to the bone when he found out he was to die. He had gotten so used to taking care of others he forgot what it was like to be taken care of. He almost likes it.
"Say, Mister Morgan, how'd you like to get up and walk a little? You up f'r it?" You tilt your head. "I can support ya."
"Y' seem smaller than me, sunshine." He hums. "Also, Arthur, please."
"Won't know til y' try." You step next to the bed, holding an arm out for Arthur as he shifts down. He wasn't quite convinced that you could support someone of his build, but you seemed insistent enough..
"Mister Morgan."
"Arthur." He insists.
"Arthur." You fold your arms, tapping your arm. "Won't you take a bath? We even have warm water."
"Warm water, y' say?"
"Mhm." You grin at him, tilting your head coyly as he laughs.
"Alright. I'll go wash up. Where's the bath?"
"Come on down and I'll help you get over there." You offer a hand as he turns from the bed with his arms, supporting himself as he gets down.
"It's been a couple weeks since you've walked." You catch him as he stumbles, and he groans.
"'m a grown man an' I can't even walk on my own."
"You're a patient, Arthur." You hum. "A sick man before a grown one."
"Don't like dependin' on you like this." He mumbles, almost embarrassed.
"I know." You hum. "But it's alright. You'll get your chance to pay me back."
"Then I might as well rack up more debt to you. Would you help me wash up?"
"My, Arthur, I didn't know you were a man like that." You laugh, helping him walk as he laughs, rumble in his chest traveling to your arm around him. "But I s'ppose it goes with what I've been hearin' 'bout you around town."
"They speak of me?"
"When I ask who Arthur Morgan is, they tell me all about'cha." You help him into the bath, ditching the jacket to free your arms. "Y' still wan' me to help?"
"If y' don't mind."
You help him clean, sleeves rolled terribly far up your arms so you can get further down into the tub. He notices that you try not to look him in the eye, making sure to avoid areas too close to where you shouldn't touch, and hands hesitant the closer you get to his pelvis.
He understands. You're not a bath girl after all.
But it's so strange that he's still alive. He was so certain that the sun would be his final sight, look at the buck staring him in the eye as he died after saving John. It would have been a good way to pass even if he didn't want to. The sun brought comfort to his lungs. That was plenty more than he'd needed. His last breath filled his lungs with more air than he had breathed in the past months.
Yet he breathes normal now. Lungs restored, presumably. He can't quite see into his own chest, so he doesn't know how they look. They feel healthier now. All that matters is he's not coughing as much and isn't as sick. It's a blessing, he supposes. He worked himself to the bone to try to do better, be better, send everyone that matters off to where they belong. The sickness should have taken him. It would have been a good ending.
It would've fit a man like him.
But it's also not enough. It's part of the human body to want to fight until their last breath. He's alive but isn't quite sure what he's going to do after this. It's part of why he watches you. He has until you inevitably get tired and abandon him like the gang did. Like Dutch did. Soon, you will start expecting he pays you back. He has no money. He left all of that for John.
Maybe he can pay you back with labor. With his body.
"Y'know, Arthur."
"Hm?"
"I really do think that it's incredible that you wanted to live so bad." You squeeze off the rag you were using to clean him and take a step back. "You were still sorta breathin' when I found ya."
"I wasn't dead?"
"Short, shallow breaths." You hum. "'s why I had something plugged to yer nose when you first woke up."
"An' what was it for?"
"Air, Arthur. It was to send your body some more air since y' lungs weren't workin'."
Arthur blinks at you, mind turning slowly, but ultimately deciding that he didn't understand it anyway, so there was no point. Medicine really did seem to improve, huh? The state of the world was moving quickly, and everything was moving too fast. Too quickly. He's unused to it all. He's unused to how you are. It's just a mess of jumbled science that he isn't smart enough to know. That's not his world. It's never been his world. Perhaps it would be if he hadn't joined the gang, but there's no point in mulling over that anymore.
It's not like he can redeem himself anymore.
"Oh, right. Might be best for you to avoid goin' out for a while." You wipe your hands with a separate towel.
"Hm?"
"Finished settin' up yer grave." You hum. "A dead wanted man is much better than a missing one."
"A grave?"
"Where y' almost died." You hum, wiping your hands down on your dress. "Where I found you."
"I see."
"We'll see if any of your old friends come visit the grave." You hum. "I'll bring in anything they place as offering. Who knows. Maybe a couple of your friends might leave new things. You had a handful of things on you when y' passed too. Was the letter from someone?"
Arthur freezes at the mention of the letter.
"Was from a woman. We used t' be engaged."
"Huh."
Arthur doesn't know why his heart clenches at the mention, but he supposes it's not much to think of. Gentle, soft. Soft for her, still. He's spent his whole life taking care of her when he could. It'd be hard to let go of affections so easily. He must look solemn to you, 'cause you clap your hands to snap him out of his thoughts.
"Water's gettin' cold. Better chop chop, cowboy."
"Cowboy?"
"Mhm." You hand him a towel as he gets up, getting used to walking again. His skin's all wrinkly from the water. "Y'had a cowboy hat by you when I found y'. It's on the table with the rest of y' stuff."
"Alright." He mumbles.
"No use mopin' over people you can't— well, can't see yet. You can save the mournin' for when yer all good. Who knows, maybe you'll be able to get her back."
"And when will that be?"
"Mm… couple months?" You tap your chin. "The TB takes a long time t' get better with pills. Not much else you can do to treat it."
He sighs.
"Y' sure I'll get better?"
"Yer a strong man, Arthur Morgan. 'm sure it will."
"And if i don't deserve it?"
You tap your chin, pondering over it.
"What is there to deserve and not deserve? The universe doesn't balance on what good and bad we do. There are far more important people than you 'n I."
You don't speak for the rest of the night, Arthur eventually drifting off and you retiring to your room. He gets a better look at the inside of the cabin. A bathroom to the right, and your room on the left. He rests in what he assumes is the drawing room. He has his own bed. A big bed. He can't help but wonder if you'd ever catch the illness from him. You might find out too late like him. It would be horrible if he got you sick. He'd never let himself live if he did get you sick.
He finds his stuff in the cabinet next to his bed, reaching for a pencil and his untouched journal.
He starts writing. Sketching, perhaps. A picture of you he remembers from the bath. Alongside notes about late.
Woke up in an unfamiliar cabin. Felt strange. The TB felt horrible at first, then the pills the woman fed me started making me throw up. Thought I was going to die. But lived. I don't cough as much, but she insists I have to take another five months of the medicine. What a woman.
Asked me about the letter I had with me. Told her it was from someone I used to be engaged to. Mary. I miss her. I wonder how she's doing. I'm glad I handed John the ring.
A sketch of you sits on the other side of the paper. Far more detailed than he was expecting it to be. You must be asleep in the next room over, yet here he was, trying to remember what you look like from his memory. Last he had drawn a woman so detailed was when he saw Mary. It makes his heart clench, perhaps. He loves Mary. He'd love her for as long as he could breathe, maybe. But there is affection that hurts painfully in his chest, fighting the giant to love you too. His heart is not that big. He does not know how to love someone unfamiliar to him.
But he knows the feeling — the bubbling nonsense that he remembers from when he first fell for Mary. The awful feeling of hope in his chest that he had tried suppressing for so long. He can only do so much to stop himself. He can't control his heart, after all. He wonders if this is just a cruel twist of fate or if this is just god being horrible to him. He's never been a religious man, but those moments of darkness were strange to him. Felt too foreign to be good.
He wakes in the morning, greeted by you making breakfast. You cook around the house, hunt, take care of the home. You do everything by yourself and it confuses him to no end. He's seen capable women, but it just seems you just keep on impressing him more and more.
Even when he insists on helping out in the house, you wave him off and tell him to focus on recovering. He can sketch things he finds around the house if he really needs something to do.
So that's what he does. He sketches the couch until he's got the fabric memorized, sketch the sight of you from the back in the kitchen until his fingers are tinted from the lead — until he has the sight of you memorized and fluttering in his mind over and over again. It's horrible, horrible, horrible of him, but he cannot help it. There is the illusion of domesticity before his eyes, something he never knew he could crave this hard, and you are his savior, so it only seems fitting that he would fall for you the way that he has.
But he also believes he doesn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve the domesticity that comes off in waves from you — the care, the heart, the comfort. None of it is something he believes he deserves after his past as an outlaw. He's a dead man, given the chance to start over, yet he's chained by the actions of his past. He can't right every wrong like he wants to. He's died once, which should have relieved him of his sins, but the memory haunts him.
He doesn't believe that he deserves the life that you're giving him, so he settles with helping out with what he can get away with.
"Arthur, you— stop! Not now!" You stop him from fixing up the fireplace, pushing him off as you sigh. "The smoke isn't good for your lungs. You have to let me clear out the ash from the fireplace."
"j's wanted to help."
"I know." You hum, reaching for your handkerchief to wipe his face of the soot. "But y' can't do much right now. Just focus on recovering. If you're bored I can find you something to do."
"Which would be?" He leans into your touch.
"I'm not sure. Painting? You sketch a lot." You tilt your head. "Surely you can find your way around the colors."
"If that's better."
"Got a preference? Watercolor, oil, gouache… acrylic?"
Arthur doesn't recognize the last one.
"I'm not offering you pastels or charcoal. They include some dust, and I'd rather die than let you breathe in something foreign into the lungs and undo all of the progress we've made concerning your lungs."
Arthur blinks again.
"Regular pencil?"
"You sure you don't want anything else?" You frown.
Arthur shakes his head.
"Just a pencil's fine, sunshine."
"Alright. I'll find you a sketchbook somewhere. Surely it's in one of my boxes."
You find it by the end of the day. You hand him a box of different pencils and the biggest sketchbook he's ever seen and tell him to "go ham". He does not know what that means. If anything, he assumes it means to go… he doesn't know. He won't bother trying to figure it out either. He spends his days curled up on the concerningly comfortable day bed you have, sketching down whatever stands out for the day. You let him go out with a bandana around his nose and mouth and sketch the plants if he wants to.
Arthur's not quite sure how to thank you.
"Focus on recovering." You tell him. "You can pay me back that way."
So Arthur sketches. He carries the heavy things when he notices you struggling — not that you ever do — and he tries his best with helping around the house. He picks up washing the dishes when you finish, grateful that he gets to eat what you do now. Roasted chicken, freshly baked bread, and beans with enough flavor to stand on their own. Bowls of rice alongside grilled pork, baked pies with berries fresh from your garden. He eats horrendously well, food flavored the way he could only assume was brought from somewhere that wasn't America. He doubts he'd ever had anything so good while camping.
"God." He mumbles. "Feels good t'be havin' proper food again."
"Oh, I bet." You hum. "Sure that porridge was driving you insane."
"Half the stuff y'feed me is new to me."
"Just trust that I won't poison you. I'm tryna speed up your recovery." You point a butter knife at him, and he hums.
"Can I have a slice of pie?"
"Thought you were gonna open your mouth and ask for a second slice."
"What berry's it today?"
"Boysen— raspberry."
"Boysen what now?"
"Boysenberry." You pause.
"'s that from where y'r from too?"
"Something like that." You huff. "Want a slice or not?"
"I'd like y'to shoot me if I ever say no."
"Well, can't be shooting a patient of mine." You hand him his plate, and he sighs.
"Heaven."
Arthur cleans the plates afterwards. He tries, at least. You tell him it's much easier if he just drops a couple of dollops of the liquid soap you have into the big pot you used to stew dinner and let the dishes sit inside with hot water for a couple minutes, but he insists on being the one to rinse them off after, even if it means he's still doing less work than you. He really wishes you'd let him cut up the animals for you so you don't need to be using that big cleaver of yours all the time, but you refuse to let him touch it.
He settles with letting his stomach rumble while he sketches on the cushions instead.
Some days he chooses to abandon the eraser and go in with his hands the way he used to smear the lead with his fingers to shade, but other days he feels bad for leaving silver imprints on the cushions, so he settles with the pencils, switching between them and using so much without sharpening the tips that everything looks softer on paper.
He frowns at it sometimes, but you always tell him you like the way they turn out, so he sticks with what he does.
Sometimes he shows you his sketches like a child showing their mother — apprehensively, asking if you like it. (He doesn't know why he does it) But you always do, a quick nod and grin enough for him to sit back into the cushion. He writes about it the same way he used to write about himself making a fool of himself in front of Mary.
Can't stop making a fool of myself in front of her. Really concerning. Don't think I've liked someone and acted this stupid in a while. But she makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. I know this feeling, I just don't believe it.
But he tries. He really does try. He takes his medication you hand him an hour before dinner and sketches until he's certain he's drawn everything that he's allowed to look at in the house enough times to memorize. He wonders if he should ask if he's allowed in the rooms, but he'll save that for when you air out the house in a week or so. You air out the rooms when the wind isn't as strong and the autumn air brings only breeze, not heat.
You make him wear the bandana around his nose when you do. Tell him it's so none of the dust gets into his lungs during early treatment.
Some days he wonders if you're doing too much.
But other days, most days, the uncomfortable voice in his head curls around his throat and tells him that he enjoys it. That he deserves to be treated like this after trying to redeem himself. Isn't it just a showing of redemption? Isn't it the universe paying him back for the good deeds he did before he died? Isn't that just how it is? It's not true, he tells himself that. There is no paying back from the universe.
He suppresses the thoughts with each scratch of the pencil on paper, opting to watch you crack your neck before the stove instead. There's this churning affection for you that brews in his heart, rumbles in his soul. Like a pot threatening to spill over. It's hard to remember to keep everything in check. He doesn't deserve to love you, he doesn't think. There is no such thing as deserving or undeserving.
Still, he thinks over his time with Mary. They loved each other. He just didn't have the heart to settle down and roll over. Too young. Too brash. Too headstrong. He enjoyed the life of being an outlaw. Relished in the fear that some people would show whenever he towered over them. It's a life he was proud of in his youth, but now ashamed of. He would have done it different now that he's getting to the age.
"Say, Arthur." You support a basket of laundry on your hip, raising a brow at him. "You got any other clothes to change into?"
"Haven't had the time, I suppose." He glances at the clothes. "Why? They seem dirty to you?"
"Thought you might like changing clothes every now and then." You tilt your head. "What're your measurements? I can get you something when I'm in town."
"'m not sure, sunshine. I used t' just go in and try stuff on."
"Mm." You huff. "I could measure you?"
Arthur doesn't like the way that his blood runs south when you say that so casually.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." You nod. "Well, not today. I'd have to measure you a little after a meal so your clothes aren't too tight. I could also just sew you some clothes myself and get that old sewing machine in my room running, but I don't know how good my clothes would be in comparison to an actual tailor."
"'m sure it'll be all fine." He hums. "Why not now?"
You point at the basket on your hip. "Taking this to the river to wash."
"Why t' the river?"
You frown at him. "Didn't wanna wash it over here. There's a river nearby… don't y' wash yer clothes in the river?"
He gives you an unimpressed look, and you frown.
"Can you take m' shirt while you're at it?"
"Yeah." You hold your hand out for it, and he unbuttons the shirt to hand to you.
He doesn't know what possesses him to do that.
The embarrassment comes immediately when you leave the house, and he hides his face in the cushion to breathe for a moment. Damn idiot making a fool of himself. He's nearing his forties and here he is, losing his damn mind over a caretaker. He really ought to get himself together once the TB's gone.
So he settles with writing in his journal. Sketches of you folded out of the sketchbook and into his journal. Tucked into the fraying leather.
Fool. A damn fool he is.
But the truth bleeds from deeper than his heart.
It's around four months into taking medication that he starts noticing that you stare into nothing a lot more often. You lose yourself in your mind, staring out the window when he washes dishes into the abyss. Some nights if he sleeps late enough he'll catch you on the porch, rocking slowly, staring out into the trees, over the horizon. It makes him wonder what's wrong.
You don't seem to want to stay.
Sometimes he catches you holed up in your room for so long that you forget about dinner.
He knocks on those nights, and you come out, telling him sorry, eyes puffy from crying, something simple made. You don't bother hiding the way the furniture changes slightly and the fireplace where you cook food isn't actually a fireplace. Arthur learns not to question it. There was a word he heard for it a long time ago. Melancholy.
It's in the tired eyes and exhausted soul.
You throw food into the oven and light it with a match, letting the food sit and lay on the day bed across from the one he sketches on, staring at the ceiling.
Some days you fall asleep and he takes out the food from the oven. He saves a slice of dinner for you, always.
Some days you eat it, some days you don't.
He learns to navigate the days when you're so deep in melancholy that you forget to eat. Some days you take a bite or two before you slip it into a cabinet that blows cool air on the food. Before you settle on the couch to watch Arthur sketch in his sketchbook.
Some days he wonders if home being far away means death.
How terrifying for his savior to yearn for something he wanted to flee.
But you never forget to portion his medication. You tell him what time of day to take the medication. Always on an empty stomach. You try staying conscious enough to make sure he's taken his medication, but other days you sit on the couch and stare into nothing. Then, you'll return to your old self, asking if he needs anything from town when you head down, asking if there's anything he wants to eat before you start preparing food.
He learns the cycle.
It doesn't have anything to do with when you bleed, he finds. Some days you're just more melancholic than others. On days that you are, he does the cutting and preparing of food, keeping an eye on the clock for when food would finish stewing. He learns to live with stews or pies on those days — no complaints. He makes use of the cabinet you have full of different spices. Doesn't taste as good as when you make it, but it still tastes better than the camp food he'd grown used to having.
Eventually you work out a spice measurement for him to use when you don't feel good enough to cook.
But you always make sure he has something to eat.
He asks you about it once.
"Y'wanna tell me what's goin' on with the melancholia?"
"Just melancholy." You hum. "Don't do well with it."
"Y'need sun or air? I can—"
"No, no, Mister Morgan. Don't you go out doin' nothin' necessary now." You sit up, thanking him as you take your plate. "It'll grow out once the weather passes."
It's almost always sunny when you're melancholic beyond saving.
Yet, you push on. You have to nurse him back to health, after all, you tell him.
He recognizes the look in your eye. He's seen it in people he knows. In people who are filled with so much melancholy that they can't breathe. That smoke themselves to their funeral. In the eyes of an artist who paints and paints until the melancholy takes their life. He wonders what's caused it in you, but he doesn't pry. He learns to fill in the parts that you need help with. He learns to watch you cook so he can make something that would have the same effect on you. If he cannot cure it, then he will try to help it.
Sometimes, in the gaps of the darkness, you talk to him.
"Arthur."
"Hm?"
"Y'ever loved someone?"
He pauses.
"Have."
"Will you tell me about her?"
"We were engaged." He thinks over his next words very carefully, but to no avail. "I loved her."
"'m sure you did. You wouldn't have gotten engaged otherwise." You stare out the window. "What was she like?"
Arthur joins you in staring out into the darkness this time.
"She… was everything."
You hum, going back to staring out into the abyss again.
The gloom does eventually leave bit by bit as the season comes to an end. You pick up cooking again and shoo Arthur out, replacing his pencils with a pack of optional charcoal, an easel brought in with huge canvases of paper. You tell him you're sorry that he had to see and take care of you during the melancholy when it should've been him being taken care of, so you pay him back with a small gift.
Your definition of small surprises Arthur.
But he still learns to read your moves. Sometimes, you still for a little longer than you ought to, and he takes over the cutting in the kitchen. You bring him the clothes you talked about a season ago, cheering when they all fit him perfectly. You never got his measurements. He supposes you just ended up guessing and got it all right. Yet, he still finds himself doing what he can to lighten the load off of you. He feels like you ought to have someone help you out as much as you can. The home only has the two of you, after all.
You call him pretty once.
He thinks you lied.
But he understands that feeling of helplessness. His death made it perfectly clear to him that it'd be impossible for him to ever redeem himself. That he was a helpless man, but oh, did seeing you struggle with even wanting to be alive strike him different. So similar yet so different from him. So, so similar yet different. You craved what he feared, and he feared what you craved.
Sometimes you let loose and bring back booze for the two of you to share.
You hold yourself well, but then the night gets too quiet and you hic and laugh.
Arthur thinks you sound like wind chimes when you laugh.
"Mister Morgan, you sure are a pretty old man." You hum, cheek pressed to your palm across the dinner table.
"Is that so?"
"Mhm."
"I never quite believe you, sunshine, but I thank y' anyway."
"Y' should learn to take a compliment. Won't hurt y' to." You hum, eyes closing and dozing off.
He carries you to the day bed, scared of entering your room, sliding off your shoes before he pulls a blanket over you.
Some nights he sits at the end to look at you a little longer — observe the way your hair falls over your face and the way you breathe. Like he has to remind himself that you're still alive. LIke he has to remind himself that you're still here. That the melancholy hasn't taken your life alongside your soul.
Taking care of you takes up so much of his mind that he stops wondering about himself. Always a good thing not to think too much about himself. He's getting to the age where he should be sure of things — not questioning them. Yet, he still questions himself. He's fond of you, besotted, even (read that somewhere in one of your books when he got bored), but he doesn't think he's the best for you. Maybe better to hurt both of you in the present rather than somewhere down the line. It would do him much better to do that than give you both false hope.
You deserve someone better than him, and he deserves… he deserves to suffer for the weight of his actions.
But it doesn't stop him from taking care of you. He presses calm hands to your shoulders to have you sit when you look visibly tired, and he eventually learns to settle you in bed because you sleep bad. It's visible in the bags under your eyes. Some nights you stay up staring out the window until you inevitably fall asleep again, head slamming into the wood, Arthur's hand meeting your skull halfway to stop your head from slamming into the table.
Some nights, you chat. Some nights, you don't.
He learns to understand it. Understand you.
You don't owe him anything, after all. His lungs feel much better with each passing day. You're a blessing even if you have your moments.
Arthur finds you standing out on the porch late in the night one evening. It's two past twelve, which means you probably couldn't sleep. You always struggle to sleep on some nights more than others. Maybe you're brooding again. You always have something to think about late at night. Strange, strange woman. Yet, he loves you— oh. He likes you. He loves you. How expected of an answer for him. He thinks he was trying to run from the answer too. Dishonest man. Horrible, horrible man, yet he loves you so.
You deserve better, though. So he opts for pretending he doesn't.
"Thinkin'?"
"You really ought t' stop filling in the gaps in my soul, Mister Morgan." You don't turn to look at him, staring out at the forest as Arthur steps next to you in the darkness.
"'m only tryin' to take care of y' the way you do me." He dips his hat gently, and you turn to look at him.
"'s easy for poor ol' weak-hearted me to think that you're only doing it out of love." You hum. "And that's not good for me."
"And why not?"
"'cause I'm falling for you."
There's a silence that Arthur isn't quite too sure how to fill in. His soul is too murky for him to tell you the truth. He likes you. Loves you, maybe. But he can't and shouldn't. There's nothing good that would come out of him telling you anything about his feelings. He shouldn't pay back the care you've given him with the truth that he had loved you probably longer than you've ever been falling for him. But you deserve someone better than him. You deserve a man who's good. A good, honest man. A man that Arthur isn't.
"Arthur. I know you love Mary, still." You seem to choose your words carefully, pinching your fingertips as Arthur frowns. "But I need you to understand that I cannot control my affections."
"Sunshine, I—"
"You don't need to feel bad for me." You hum. "I never expected reciprocation. I just wanted to tell you so you'd stop being so kind. I can take care of myself plenty fine, Mister Morgan. Just focus on taking the pills and getting better, hm? I'll send you off with enough money to purchase land in California or more North where no one can find you. You don't need to worry about me."
Arthur doesn't like how your words hurt him.
"Y'keep talkin' like y' don't plan on staying."
"Oh, well. I wasn't meant to stay this long, after all. I only stayed 'cause of you, Arthur. I ought to make sure my patients recover before I leave anyway."
The admittance of the truth seems to hurt him more.
"Sunshine."
"Don't go feelin' bad now, Mister Morgan. You're still plenty of a good man to me."
"And where you goin' back to?"
"…home, maybe."
"And where's home?'
"Somewhere no one else can go."
He doesn't like the distant look on your face.
He always thought you weren't from around. Frankly, he thought you were escaping from a life somewhere he didn't know. Always thought you were someone like him. Maybe he ought to get better at reading people again. You were never escaping anything. You had just settled down for a change of pace, maybe. Who knows. It could be a dead husband or wife. But it becomes apparent that you were never supposed to stay for as long as you are now. Sometimes he wonders if home is in the darkness you look into so often. He wonders if you mean darkness as home or someplace he really can't go as home.
"If that's… what you want."
"You ought to go find Mary once you recover. I'm sure she'll accept you with open arms, even if it takes a little warming up." You hum, dusting off your skirt. "Well, Mister Morgan. Quite the productive conversation we had there. I ought to rest for the night before the melancholy gets any louder."
You turn around, ready to retreat to bed, and Arthur moves before he can think of what to say to get you to stay.
"Look, sunshine. I ain't no good man, but somethin's tellin' me I shouldn't let y' walk away like this."
You look at him, tilting your head.
"If you feel bad, Mister, you really ought not to." You try to pry his hand from your wrist, frowning slightly when it stays. "You aren't obliged to love me back nor pay me. I'm the one who chose to save a dead man, after all."
"You've just done so much f'r me. I can't let you just leave without it. Listen to me talk, sunshine, won't you?"
"Was there somethin' you didn't tell me, Mister Morgan?"
"Just Arthur, please." He mumbles. "I will work through—"
"Oh, heavens. No, Arthur. I don't expect you to love me back one bit." You hum. "Might be easier for you to never develop affections for me at all."
He raises a brow at your words.
"Wh—"
"I'll send you off to where you'd like, get a nice plot of land for y' and then I can be off on my way home."
"Sun—"
"No need to fret, Arthur. 'm not a girl, y'know? I'm plenty older than I look." You laugh the same laugh you always do. "Who knows. Maybe you'll see Mary agai—"
Arthur can't help his next moves.
He has a hand holding your jaw, the frustration evident as he huffs.
"F'rgive me for what's next, sunshine."
And he kisses you.
Bastard move if he's one to be familiar with. He's surprised you don't bother pushing him off. If anything, you stay perfectly still, almost as though you were waiting for him to finish. Frustrates him to no end. Playing him like a fiddle. You woman. What a horrible, horrible man's hands you've fallen into.
His lips rest against the skin of your neck, careful to remember that he can't kiss you on the lips until he's all better. He'd do anything to make sure you don't get sick. Surely the saliva would be better than the blood, but he's still weary to make sure you are fine.
His stubble brushes against your skin when he rests his face in the crook of your neck, and he's scared to look at you. What kind of a face you are making, he wonders. He's so in love with you he could burst at the seams yet you never quite seem to believe that he's moved on. Oh, what does it take to convince you that he's not the same man he was when he died?
He does eventually pull away, eyes more sad than he cares to admit. You seem tired, now that he looks at you.
How stupid of him to think that he could ever deserve a second chance at love.
"I would've preferred y' just slapped me than looked at me like that."
"I just don't believe you love me, Arthur." You hum. "You clearly haven't moved on from Mary."
His heart hurts.
"I really have."
"But your heart wants something else." You turn from him, and Arthur stares as you disappear into your room.
He had a heart, because it was broken — but he still has his heart, because he just heard it crack with the thud of your door closing.
He doesn't know how to love properly. Too haunted by the people of his past. Too haunted by someone he knows has tried to move on from him. Even in his last moments, he hoped that Mary would be happy. Just plain happy. He wonders if he's happy now. He sure doesn't feel happy from the way his heart cracks in his chest. A broken heart twice. What a fool he is.
But he tries. He takes his meds like you instruct him to and he cleans the dishes even though it takes a while for him to learn how to get them all the way clean with the liquid soap. He tries and tries, filling his pages with things you did during the day and reminding himself of when you look most happy. There are enough sketches of you to fill a library, he thinks.
He hunts half past dawn and brings home the food, skinning and cleaning the animals, watching you cook them afterwards, heavy clang of your knife against the bones of his spoils. He learns to understand when you want something. Shift of weight from one foot to the other, pinch of fingers when you're scared to say something. Look on your face when you're alright with him showing any affection to you.
But you're also never scared.
You keep a gun on you when you go to town, haul back the supplies like they weigh nothing, and scold Arthur like he isn't taller than you and a bulk of muscle that would a send a man twice your size running off. It's awfully homey of you. Makes him remember his earlier entries about how he caught himself dreaming of retiring someplace nice with a wife. He's sure he wouldn't have believed himself a year ago if he had known it. Oh, he doesn't deserve you one bit.
He takes over the heavy labor bit by bit, fixing anything you needed fixed, hands returning to the rough state he was so used to. But you peel open. his hands at the end of the day, soak them in warm water, spread lotion on them like he's made of glass. Gentle, gentle touches for a man who hasn't known it since childhood. Tears and pulls out memories he didn't realize he had. It makes him soft on the inside — tears his heart out whilst healing it all the same.
But you grow warm towards him. You start kicking your legs over his in the comfort of a couch while the two of you watch the fireplace to wind down. He starts noticing the ax sharpened for use and his portions up to himself for deciding. You still feed him his medicine and make him rest in the living room, but you're softer around the edges. You're less tense around him. You look at him more fondly. He feels undeserving of it.
But he listens to what he wants. Learns the way you like things.
"Made y' tea." He sits down next to you on the couch, placing your mug on the table in the center as you scribble in your journal.
He unwinds with you after dinner with both of your journals, never asking the other what they're writing unless they bring it up.
Some nights he sketches you. Some nights he writes about how he feels and what he did.
Chopped up more firewood today. Takes quite a bit to heat the cabin, and Sunshine doesn't seem very concerned about us running out, but it's the least I could do. I've been getting softer these days. She feeds me too well, but also my heart. She makes me want a live I have no business trying to live, but I also cannot go back to my old life. This is a second chance, I am just scare to take it. Maybe I make myself a fool all the time. Can't remember the last time I did that over a woman that wasn't Mary.
There's a sketch of the fireplace next to his entry. Brick upon brick, sketched out gently with the pencil he uses and sharpens with his blade. You had gone ahead and fixed up his things when he got them back — specifically his knife.
It's been over half a year. By technicality, he shouldn't need to take anymore meds, but he's only a few days away from the end of his cycle, apparently. You had told him he needs to take more since the TB hadn't gone away completely, and some days he really ought to ask you how you'd be able to see it, but he learns not to ask. Better not to know sometimes. Probably better that he doesn't know.
"The new meds are working." You hum. "Checked last night when you fell asleep. They're mostly fixed. They don't seem to be fighting the meds either."
"And how long until I can stop taking them?"
"Gonna be a while." You hum. "Another three months?"
He grimaces.
"The disease needs to be completely eradicated before you can stop taking the meds. You're just lucky it isn't antibiotic resistant." You hand him two pills.
"Anti what resistant?" He takes them, taking the water that follows to swallow them.
Arthur watches you purse your lips to think over how exactly to explain it to him, trying to ignore the nasty taste of the pills left in his mouth.
"The pills fight the TB. The pills are called antibiotics." You pause. "New medical research. Kind of risky, but a lot let risky than when my ma had to take them."
"Kills the TB?"
"Kills. Well, kind of. You've been taking two different kinds of pills to kill the TB." You pause to think. "The TB is strong, so it actually takes the two different medication to kill it off cleanly. It's a little weird since it actually has this layer over the disease itself, so in order to kill the disease you have to chip off the outer later."
"Sunshine yer talkin' a lot of big words right now."
"You need to continue treatment because it's not dead." You conclude. "None of those were big words."
"I know." He grins, lips curling upwards on one end coyly as you sigh.
"Look at you learnin' jokes now."
Arthur laughs when you turn around, and you huff.
"I really ought to give you a lil more space for all the art, huh?" You glance at his little corner — stained sheets and wood. You probably hadn't expected Arthur to pick up charcoal as fast as he did.
Well, he didn't have much else to do. You let him out to wander but not do too much strenuous activity, and you only let him do the heavy labor if you're watching. He wonders if he ought to do it shirtless so he'd elicit a reaction out of you. You seem to be a little more cautious around him since confessing that you weren't very fond of him treating you so kindly. He didn't think he had been doing anything different, but maybe you just operated on a different level of expectation from people you don't know.
Not that he hadn't had any strange intentions towards you, but he keeps them to himself for the most part because of the TB. Can't go infecting you with the disease. He wouldn't know how to fix you. At least you know how to fix him.
Still undeserving of it, but he has no choice. There isn't anything else he can do. He has to learn to accept it, he supposes. You've done so much for him anyway. He feels like he really ought to pay you back somehow. He's been painting scenes that he can still recall from the sketches of his journal, and he's been hiding a painting of you behind the other two paintings out of embarrassment. Sometimes the lead gets a little stuck between his fingerprints, so he wipes them off on one of the cloths you'd given him.
There is a lot of darkness in his paintings. The forest outside your home is shaded with plenty of black thanks to the winter. Most of the trees have lost their leaves, which leaves him with an immense need for more charcoal. He wonders if you ever tire of bringing him materials back from the store. He can't quite pay you like he ought to, but he doesn't want to take your generosity for granted either.
He wonders if he should find a library to learn how to find lead naturally. Surely the rocks outside could create some sort of pigment. Maybe even the clay. It bothers him a little, but he doesn't ask you for more lead when he finishes. He just mixes some dirt on some days to create pigment.
As a result, his drawings don't exactly color match when he tries, but he makes do with what he can.
You frame some of the sketches around the house. Some go into the study you have — books that Arthur won't touch unless you say he can. But he also dusts the house when you're not home. You trust that he'll listen well enough, the coughing much better now, though you insist on him finishing the final round of medicine. He wonders if you'll leave after the three months. You're always talking about moving. He wonders if he'd be able to go with you, but from the way you talk about it, he feels like he has no space in it.
He doesn't quite want you to leave.
He doesn't think he does, at least. He knows he doesn't want you to leave. If anything, he's certain that he'd like you to stay. You've given him a slight glimpse of a life he used to crave the older he got, only to consider moving away. He's not allowed nice things, but he can dream.
And you're just so patient with him he feels unworthy.
"You're a good man, Arthur Morgan." You hum, kicking your legs from the dinner table as he washes the dishes.
"I can hardly believe that, sunshine."
"Then you don't have to. Let me do all the believing for you."
"Hard to believe you when I don't even know y'r name." He looks over at you again, and you hum, laughing.
"Alright."
Your name tastes sweet against his tongue, clinging to his heart and seeping into his soul even when you go to bed and he lays awake in his. Oh, your name. He knows your name now. It fills his heart with warmth and rushes his cheeks with red, embarrassment horrible for his poor heart. He's acting such a fool over you that you could probably ask him for his life and he'd offer it to you.
Old good for nothing man and here he is, fighting for his life because of you.
But his heart warms and he calls you by name when he remembers too. Feels too intimate some days. It's like you're doing it on purpose to bait him into intimacy. The illusion of a good life eludes him. He doesn't deserve it with so much blood on his hands. He knows he never would've changed if he hadn't been diagnosed with TB. The acknowledgement is enough to kill him.
He's not a good man, despite it all.
He takes his medication when you tell him to, when the clock tells him to, and when he naps, he wakes up and you tell him how his lungs are recovering. His lungs are better, you tell him. It's almost gone. The medication is just killing the final bits of his illness. You show him photos sometimes. Black and white, of the way his lungs look. Holes in his lungs, but they're regenerating, you tell him. You show him older photos you had taken.
On those days, he wonders if you're a witch of some kind.
But no point in wondering you are. He's grateful for you. He hunts and brings back food now that you let him and skins the animals, learning from you how to dry age them so that they last longer.
The deer he hunts lasts the two of you two weeks.
"God I'm sick of chewing on that meat, bro." You grumble, stabbing at the deer on your plate. "I need chili oil."
Arthur isn't quite sure what that is, but when you come back with enough spices to fry the whole room into hot tears, he thinks he kind of understands. You abandon the oven in the house to start a fire outside, bricks set up and a giant fire set under a large… pot? It resembles a bowl more, but he doesn't ask when you ask him to hand you a bunch of the ingredients.
The steam it emits causes a raised brow from him, but you push on, coming out with a jar of red oil.
"This is chili oil." You point at Arthur. "Wait, can you even handle spice?"
Arthur tries, pursing his lips and deciding that he wouldn't risk his system losing it over the oil.
"Y'can have it with y'r meat. I'll lay off on it f'r the time being."
The snicker you try to hide doesn't escape him, and you mumble something under your breath about cowboys and no spice tolerance.
He doesn't get that luxury when he's constantly on the run. He's gotten so used to bland food that eating what you were serving him started feeling like a luxury. He's getting used to it, which he isn't too fond of, but he enjoys it. He's just much more apprehensive about everything else. But it's easy with you. You make it easy for him. So, so kind. So sweet.
Sunshine made chili oil today. Too spicy for me. Tongue is still a little numb. She seemed to like it, though. Wonder if I should try it again.
But he learns to hunt slightly smaller animals after that. You tell him what days you're going to the butcher for a slab of beef so he doesn't go out, and on other days you tell him to hunt small. You're still mildly traumatized from having the same animal for two weeks straight, but you don't bring it up anymore. Arthur learns to avoid hunting deer after that. You're not fond of it very much. You think the meat is too tough to chew on. He sees it in the way you grimace when the meat makes way past your throat.
Arthur's still a guest at the end of the day, really. So you clear out the study and make space for his bed, letting him rest in the room now that he's better and his tuberculosis isn't threatening to kill him at every cough. It's been a while since then, but he gets to read all of the literature you have hiding in the room. There's lots and lots to uncover, and he finds himself very quickly entertained and mildly concerned for the books that sit in your library. Most of them are hand bound — seen in the way they don't sit perfect, but he reads them nonetheless. Fishes out one of your dictionaries when he finds words that don't exist.
He wonders if that's what you're into, but it helps him pass time alongside the sketching with charcoal. He starts sketching some of the characters in your books, finding ones that share his name, staring at the quickly filling book of charcoal and imagination. Your portrait remains half finished, though, tucked behind his other portraits. He shades old friends into existence sometimes. The one of John haunts him the most. He wonders if he ever did right with the ring he gave him.
Three weeks after he starts reading, he finds books with dates in them.
Dates from the future — couple hundred years into the future. He wonders if they're any different, but he reads them. He had suspected it already, and it seems that you've stopped bothering to hide it. Maybe you feel safe enough to no longer need to hide it. Or, maybe you don't care if he finds it anymore. Maybe you trust him enough to learn it and not tell anyone. Maybe no one would believe him if you really do leave anyway. Maybe you just don't care anymore.
But he reads through your books, learning new words, finding his own way with words. The education that escaped him comes back at his old age. Yet, he finds maybe it isn't too late anyway. There's no harm in wanting to read the books you read and the literature you've saved. There's no harm in learning now that he has the time to sit down and really read.
He learns to ask the question "when" instead of "where" when you bring up home after reading some of your books.
"When? Oh, heavens. God knows when." You huff. "I don't like what the answer's supposed to be, but I sure do like the traveling."
Arthur nods, going back to his book on the day bed, kicking his feet over the other.
"What year, then?"
You tap your chin. "Whatever year the machine takes me."
He wonders if the home is an extension of the building he's staying in. Maybe that's why you're so desperate to chase him off the lawn of your home. Maybe you want to go home... wherever that is.
Two months after that, you show him a photo of healthy lungs. He doesn't understand it, but he keeps the photo to sketch into his canvas. A large pair of lungs with slight scars, but healed all the way. Healed like the bullet in his shoulder and scars from his youth. You tell him he's healthy now. He exhales and thanks you for your effort. You tell him it's all thanks to his listening.
"You did good." You beam at him. "You're all free to go out and wander at night now."
He's just glad he doesn't need to take medication anymore.
Arthur steps out for the night air. He's all better now. The air is crisp in his lungs. Packs a nice chill to it, and he glances around the cabin he'd been getting taken care of in. It's just a cabin. Something else is happening in it, in your room, but he wasn't the type of guest to try and pry something you didn't want to share out of you. So simple. So easy. You're so simple and easy. One hell of a woman when it came to it, but you stood by your word and kept on it.
He felt like he was pushing on you half the time that you'd lie across him in the drawing room, but you never spoke up. You seemed to speak up when you minded. You'd never backed down from putting him in his place when he'd step out of line. Sometimes he likes the feeling of your weight on top of him in the daybed by the fireplace. Sometimes he enjoys the company. He's grown a little more honest with himself. It's easier to be honest in the dark at night.
He wanders through the forest. It's quite silent, but it doesn't scare him. You'd handed him his gun in case he wanted to take a wander. He could always play off the fact that he was a ghost if he were dead. Just wander around and take a look around town. He doubts anyone should remember his face too hard unless they knew him. His wanted posters always featured a little beard or stubble. He's completely growing a beard these days — much to your woe. You seemed to like him when he has a little texture and not a full beard.
Besides, some of the wrinkles on his face have lightened up because you keep smearing all sorts of oils and lotions on him. He does admit, he looks less roughed up than when you first found him. He ought to thank you for it.
So he sets out to take a look. The nearest town wasn't too far of a walk, and he's sure to stop at his grave before he passes. The number of flowers on it surprises him. He never thought himself to be a particularly good man, yet so many people seem to think him that way. It warms the soul. It reminds him that he had tried when he found out he was sick. In a way it was punishment — to beat a sick man to death. Retribution — if it ever did exist. But he's alive. Saved, and alive. Makes him wonder what he ought to do next.
Maybe if he begs you hard enough, you'll stay and not leave.
He stops at the edge of town, looking through the trees as he watches the people run up and about. It feels strange to see everything when he's supposed to be dead. He was supposed to die on that cliff. He wasn't supposed to be saved by the likes of you. Mary's words ring in his head often. There's a good man inside of him, but he's wrestling with a giant. The giant wins too much. He tries to take care of you. He wonders if he's only hurting you some days.
Some days you have this distant look in your eyes again like you're gonna slip through his fingers and he won't be able to save you.
Like you're not really anchored in the sea, just drifting here and there.
An unanchored soul that drives him insane.
He gets ready to leave when he spots her.
Head of dark hair, orbs of black for eyes.
Mary.
His heart stumbles in his chest when she turns around and spots him, and time stills. He stops. As beautiful as the day he lost her, he thinks. He never showed up, so he has no right to be staring at her like this, and his heart cries. His heart begs and begs, a reminder that there is someone who he loves and loves him back up at the top of the mountain, but he cannot help himself. He stares at her, eyes tired, and she looks at him, eyes wide with tears of fright or joy, he cannot tell. He knows that his heart races out of habit, not affection. That much, he is sure of. He wants to reach out and comfort her out of habit, not love. He's moved on.
But he cannot cut her off cleanly. Oh, he knows. Even now, he wants to help her carry her luggage and tell her he's sorry for abandoning her where he promised he'd show up. There is a good man in him, but the giant is no longer there, so he has no more need to fight. It is so heartbreaking, he thinks. But it is alright. This would be more than enough for him to move on. Just to see that she was alright. He wonders what she's in town for.
"Arthur? Oh, Arthur!"
And Arthur turns around, walks off and then runs off, boots sinking into soft dirt, his name lost in the forest when he finally makes his way back to the cabin. She wouldn't chase him, no. He would have chased her, but she's no longer his. He's no longer hers either. He hasn't been for a long time. Maybe he's clean.
For the first time in a while, Arthur's chest feels lighter.
"Oh, you're back." You look up from dinner, and he glances at the plate you grabbed but didn't fill. "I was expecting you to stay longer."
"No, no." He hums. "Just went to get a glimpse of town."
"Well, how was it?"
"Feels weird bein' dead." He hums, portioning his own plate. "But was the same. Feels strange not bein' on edge anymore."
"See anyone you know? The flowers at your grave have been replaced as of late."
He thinks of Mary, but he doesn't talk of her. He doesn't want to hurt you. Besides, he didn't do anything.
"No. Just ordinary folk livin' an ordinary life."
"That's good." You hum, lips curling into a small smile. "I ought to go down sometime. We need some supplies."
"Y'need me to go with?'
"Oh, no. I'm plenty fine on my own." You hum. "Better if you keep guard. What if we get robbed?"
"I don't think anyone's robbin' you all the way up at the peak of the mountain, sunshine."
"Yeah, yeah. Stay back. I'll handle going to town. I don't know how many people still remember you. It's a problem." You hum. "Oh, and stay home during the day. Don't want your visitors to know you're still alive."
"Yes, Miss." He nods.
"Gotten real polite now, huh?"
"Maybe." He hums, smug like a cat, even.
You laugh, smile unable to be fought off of your face. There's an acceptance on your face, like you've accepted that this is how you ought to live for the next few months of your life, even if he's all better and you seem to be spending more time in your room than you typically do. Well, he won't be one to pry. You're up to whatever you're up to, after all. As long as you'll stay. As long as he has you.
But he's grown fonder of you. Always has been. He's sure it isn't just the gratefulness of being saved anymore. Everything about you has become habit to him. His soul aches for yours when you're out for too long in the day and when you're holed up in your room and only come out to cook for the two of you. Oh, he's beyond redemption, he fears. This is beyond redemption.
You head down to town the next day, instructing him on where the guns are and what to do in case there's an intruder.
"No pulling the trigger unless they pull first." You pause to tap your chin. "And, well. Let's try to avoid killing a man in the house. At least I don't have to see blood if it's on the porch."
"Any other instructions?"
"I take the shotgun with me to town." You hum. "So I sure hope you have good aim, Mister Morgan."
He nods.
"Best in town."
"Best in the East, even?"
"No one's better." He tips his hat.
You set down to town by foot. He wonders if he should find a horse for the two of you to head down to town with, but that would come once you're back. He might have to teach you how to ride a horse. For the time being, he sits with the canvases and charcoal, thumb smeared with black as he keeps the gun close. He isn't paranoid about intruders, no. He's had his fair share of gunfights before his death. No, he's more concerned that either of you would actually have to scrub out blood if he really does shoot off an intruder's head.
You've probably got things that could sell a fortune around in the home.
Reminds him of Marko Dragic.
Oh, right. The man's dead.
It's half past dawn, past noon, when he hears the sound of three horses outside the door. The sun's starting to set, and it's a good time to try to grasp the chance to rob someone. He knows that. It's better in the saloons at night, but it's better at sunset for the homes. It's usually when people are the least armed. Though, he's got more experience than them, so he rises from his seat, portrait of you half-finished as he stalks to the door with the revolver in his hand.
The men fire two bullets into the air, and Arthur doesn't move from his spot, instead, staying at the door.
Arthur holds the gun in his hand, hand on the door as he watches for the shadows through the cracks.
It'd be much easier to subdue the men if they were off the porch. You hate cleaning that rotten thing, and more blood would kill him. He's not against cleaning off the blood. He's used to it, but he'd also rather not blow someone's head off and leave you with a dead body at the door to greet you instead of him. You might scream. You haven't ever said anything about dead people, so he'd rather not take the risk. You said no blood in the house. He'll just clean the blood if he has to.
The sound of a shotgun has him pulling open the door, and he finds you and two dead men, the third falling to his ass while backing up into the door, falling onto Arthur's legs instead.
"Oh, there you are!" You pipe up. "I was worried you'd gotten yourself shot another time. You alright, dear?"
Arthur doesn't quite think he's gotten shot during the time that the two of you have been living together, but he doesn't say anything.
"Yes." He hums, glancing down at the man.
"I'm sure gonna have a swell time cleaning the porch." You huff, pointing the gun at the third. "I'm wondering if I should let this one run away to warn everyone else. A maniac lives in the woods with a ghost."
The man looks up at Arthur and near shits himself.
"A-Arthur M-M—"
"Hm, I get that a lot." He scratches his chin. "But that man's dead, y'know? A dead man can't be all the way up 'ere catchin' y' stumble."
The man scrambles the second you lower your shotgun, fleeing down the hills as you whistle.
"Man's got less balls than I thought he would."
Arthur can kind of guess what that means.
"Y'alright?" He raises a brow at you, and you tilt your head at him.
"Ah, yeah." You hum. "Not my first roadkill."
Arthur furrows his brows at the word. No clue.
"I can clean the porch."
"Oh, don't worry about it." You push him back inside, shotgun slung on your back again. "I'll get it cleaned right now. I have the supplies. Can you chop up dinner for us? I bought you a razor blade, by the way. As nice as a beard would look on you, I think I'd shit myself if I saw you in the dark with a full beard and a hat on one more time."
He takes the paper bag from your hand and settles with listening to you.
He doesn't hear much rustling outside, but the sound a whirl, and then the sound of metal, and when you're back in the room and he's finished cutting everything up, you look like you barely broke a sweat. Probably one of those strange moments of yours. He's never quite sure why you don't look tired after cleaning or anything else.
He tries not to think too hard about what you do. He's more focused on trying to convince you that he's not leaving.
"You know. I heard from one of the folks down in town that someone's selling land in California." You hum, starting the fire for the oven.
"'s that so?"
"Could get you that land, help y' settle in, and then I'll be off on my way."
"Sunshine."
He's starting to believe that you're ignoring his pleads on purpose.
"Unless y'want land in the new plot the country stole from Mexico." You hum. "Nah, too much law enforcement. California's nice this time of year."
"Sunshine." He tries again.
"We can ride on west? Oh, well we'd need horses, but we could just—"
"Sunshine." He grabs your shoulders to turn you around, frustration evident in his voice. "Listen t'me."
"Hm?"
"As long as y'r here, I am not going anywhere." He deadpans. "'m yours."
"Oh, that's mighty flattering, Arthur, but—"
"No, no." He cuts you off. "'m a wanted and dead man. My bounty's more than anythin' else in the area. I have nowhere else. I'm not escapin' to California if y' don't go with me."
"Arthur, I'm hardly necessary."
"No. Non-negotiable. If y'r gonna throw me som'where new, y'r comin' with me." He squeezes your hand. "None of that "off on my way" if I can help it."
You blink at him, looking away.
"That'd be funny." You glance at the fire. "You should shave after dinner. The beard is really botherin' me."
"Y'need me to get water?"
"No, no. The bath is full." You hum. "Got one of those fancy heaters they sell in Pennsylvania too, so take all your time."
You're still not entirely sure how they somehow invented hot water heaters before running water, but you don't ask. You are in the land of cowboys and outlaws, after all. The period will fall soon. That much you know. Soon, the lifestyle will fade and towns will start popping up more as people settle down. Well, not that you'll witness it.
Arthur helps you lift dinner to the table, portioning both of your plates as the two of you sit down.
He wonders if you've made up your heart.
"Why're you so set on goin' home anyway?"
"Well, Mister Morgan. Some of us crave the predictability of the same life over and over again." You hum, stabbing into the chicken. "Some of us crave instability that is predictable."
Arthur frowns.
But he understands. He understands what you mean. The outlaw life was glittering to him at first because it was never the same. Never the same trick. Never the same heist. The unpredictability meant everything to his young outlaw mind. So, so much. Everything meant so much to him until it killed him.
"Don't wan' t' settle down?" He raises a brow.
"Mm, it'd be nice, but I don't know how. I don't know who either, haha." You scoop at the rice. "Who'd I even settle down with?"
Arthur wants to say him. He craves it, bones rumbling gently in his skin, soul heavy with an exhaustion only settling down could fix. Wants you real bad. Wants you horribly bad. The same kind of ache that he felt when he received the letter from Mary before he died. Oh, Mary. Oh, Arthur. Long gone are the days of marrying her. Now he dreams of living the rest of his days with you like this — small cabin, comfortable days. This is all his soul yearns for now.
He's still not quite sure where you're getting the money to sustain everything, but he learns not to ask.
Arthur shaves in the bath, glancing at himself in the mirror as he feels at his skin, staring quietly. He looks younger.
He writes in his journal that night.
Miss keeps talking about going home these days. Like she wants me to settle down and then she can be on her merry way off to God knows where. Don't know where she wants to go. Still don't know where her home is, but I've started calling the cabin home. This is home to me. It's a real shame she doesn't quite want to stay as much as I do. I wonder if I'll be less of a burden and take her up on the offer to move to California. She mentioned Marston might be there.
But it's real scary. I don't want her to leave. Like her too much. Acting like too much of a fool around her. She's just wonderful. I think. I like her more than I should. Love her, even. But she doesn't want to stay, and I'm just a rotten old man beyond saving, so it's not like I can keep her.
Saw Mary in town two nights ago. She called my name. I didn't look back. Maybe I did love her, but not anymore. Sunshine takes up all of my mind. Too much of my mind. Oh, what a man I am.
He resists the urge to write your initial next to his in a heart, but ultimately gives in. He whispers your name like it's forbidden. Like there's so much yet so little. He falls asleep to the thought of your name next to his, to the thought of his last name clicked to yours like an extension of his love. Not as an extension of him this time. If anything, he'd want to be an extension of you.
The first of the month comes, and you tell Arthur you're going to check out his grave and see if the flowers need any watering since it was dry season. You take a basket with you, stepping through the dirt and mud as Arthur lets you know he might wander in the woods to hunt for the day.
"Just don't get any blood on my porch." You hum. "I put the shotgun back. I doubt I'll need a gun when visiting a grave."
He sends you off with the revolver anyway.
The animals in the woods are scarcely hunted, now that he thinks about it. You seem to always come back with a cut of pork or beef when there weren't many ranches in the area. He wonders if it has to do with the butcher down in town, but you don't go to town as much anyway. Either way, he decides to hunt. You don't like deer meat, and there aren't many bears to hunt in the time being, so he wonders if he should go and find some rabbits to trap.
You might wince and make him skin the rabbit, though.
He wonders if you'll find anything at his grave. You mentioned that you found ruined letters when you first set up the grave, but the rain from the night had ruined the paper. He wonders who they were from. Well, not that it matters. He's dead, and he ought to stay that way. The ghost of his past shouldn't be let to haunt him since, well, anyway. A dead man is a dead man. What is there to let haunt him when the dead man is living?
He brings home three rabbits. He eats more than you, but it's enough to feed both of you til you both are full. He skins it so you don't need to. He wonders if you're uncomfortable with skinning a rabbit like you are with any other younger animal. It's like you can tell or know. It's always like you know.
When it strikes noon, he decides that he'll just roast the dinner over the fire today.
There's a glow coming from behind your door, but he ignores it. You'll probably take care of it when you return.
But you're missing for a while today. You return four past noon, basket full of flowers, berries, and a couple letters, setting them on the table in the drawing room, humming to yourself gently as you glance at the lunch Arthur cooked, nodding.
"Let me wash up first." You smile. "I'll heat up the food in the oven when I come out."
Arthur nods, settling on the chaise longue and opening his journal to write, humming to himself as he tries to sketch the rabbit he saw from memory. The sun is half down and starting to set, now that he notices. He wonders if you were cleaning his grave, even. Maybe you were. Or maybe you bumped into someone you knew on your way down. Some of the villagers would hike up to hunt every now and then. He had to avoid a few when out today.
"Hey." You scrunch your hair with the towel, sun half set as you hum. "Oh, you didn't touch the basket."
He looks up from his journal. "Wasn't sure if that was from my grave or not."
"Well, the basket is used for the stuff around your grave, so." You rummage through it, fishing out a letter. "See anything fun in the woods today?"
"No."
"I saw quite a couple of visitors. Everyone seems to visit you on the first." You head over to wash the bowl of berries you picked, rinsing them with the water from the bucket. "You sure you didn't see anyone?"
"Well, avoided some villagers, but nothin' else."
"There was a woman with a letter." You hum quietly, towel sitting around your neck. "Left where your grave was set up."
"From who?"
You feed him a berry and hand the letter to him, lips curled into a tight smile, nodding as he looks at its sender.
"You still have the chance to chase after her, you know? Your lungs are all healed now an' stuff. If she's still writing to you after all this time she must really be struggling with letting go." You pinch at your fingers again. "She's staying nearby in the town for a month or so. Asked her where she was staying. I told her I may visit her with a friend, but not to get her hopes up. I don't think she ever moved on."
Arthur notes the worried look in your eye. Your door glows too. Like a reminder. It glows like the campfire in the old camp, slow shimmering around the metal when he stares too hard. But he knows it's not something that you could explain without showing him. It's something part of your world — something that he wasn't a part of.
You make the indication of moving, and his hand finds your wrist instinctively.
But by god does he want to be part of that too.
"I won't." He croaks, reading through her letter to him, thumb brushing over your wrist as he does, squeezing once he finishes, putting the letter down. "It's been over for a long time. She wrote to me so she would feel better. She is mourning a dead man. I've been dead, sweet'eart."
You look tired against the glow of the fireplace.
"I'm yours." He squeezes your wrist as he says it, heart shaking in his chest. "As long as you'll have me. I ain't touchin' anyone from my past as long as you'll have me."
"I don't know if I should."
"Oh, darlin'." He mumbles, staring up at you. "There's never any pressure. 'm yours even if y' leave me. But just know that 'm only ever gon' be yours."
"I don't think that's a healthy way to love, Mister Morgan." You hum. "Heavens knows if you're over Mary."
"I am." He whispers, pressing your hand to his forehead. "Oh, believe me, sweet'eart, I am. I'd be a dead man if I wasn't. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't."
"She told me she saw you in town a few days back when she first arrived. She needed to check to see if your grave was still here." You hum. "Asked who I was. Told her I'm the one who found you. It wasn't really a lie. I am the one who found you, after all."
"I saw her in town when I went out couple nights ago." He whispers. "Was looking in the woods and saw her. She saw me too. Called my name, and I had to pretend I didn't know it."
"You should've run to her." You whisper. "You're not sick anymore."
"Oh, sunshine. I couldn't." His voice shakes. He can feel his heart rattle in his chest. He knows the painful tug of his heart when you came back with a letter in your hand and a pained look on your face was not over whatever he thought it was. He just didn't like seeing that pained look on your face. He never wants to see it again. Oh, his poor neglected heart. "This poor bastard of a man couldn't leave you. 'm so in love with you I don't recognize myself."
"That's not good."
Arthur watches the upset smile on your face spread.
"It would've done you good. I may return home soon."
"'s that what's of the glowin' from your room? And the books fr'm a year I don't know?"
You hesitate, furrowing your brows and closing your eyes, shaking lightly.
"I s'ppose it's got to do with how y' don't talk like the folks around here." His voice is softer now. He doesn't want to scare you too much. He can't force you to stay, but you have to go knowing that he loves you. Not loved.
"Ah. You…"
"'s hard not to." He hums. "Y' stopped after the first han'ful of weeks."
"It's hard to remember to need to do that." You sit down next to Arthur, resting your head on his shoulder as he puts the letter to the side.
"So y' gonna tell me?"
"Will you be mad if I don't?"
"No." Arthur hums. "You're entitled to your secrets."
"It won't matter anymore in the future anyway. I'm considering what to do with it." You squeeze his hand. "It's to help me get home, but considering I have a liability now, I can't quite return like this."
"Home where?"
"Home somewhere you can't go."
Arthur knows there's more that you won't tell him, but he doesn't pry.
He spreads his legs a little so you can kick both of yours over one of his thighs, and he lets you make yourself comfy against him as he gives you his hand to play with.
"'m not from this time." You mumble quietly. "But 's alright. I don't know if I wanna go back anyway. But I just think you'll go—"
"No, no, sweetheart." He rasps, squeezing your hand. "God, 'm a no good for nothin' but by god do I want you to stay."
"I just. Don't know." You whisper. "I'm scared."
"I'll be here always. Won't die on you again. Even if I do, you'd find a way to fix me right up." He lowers his head to meet your eye, and he whispers the last part. "Love you. I love you. I've been loving you."
It feels like a confession of sin, the way it breaks past his lips, but oh, he doesn't care anymore.
"You really do?"
"I do." He presses his forehead to yours. "And if people come lookin' for you from that universe f'r you, I'll shoot them all dead. 'm an old man with bloody hands. A little more red on stained hands means nothin' to me."
You crack a smile at his words, humming. "They can't find me here."
"Yeah?"
"Not in my universe. They lose people when they leave their universe." You squeeze his hand, eyes tired as he tilts his head to get a better look at you. "So technically I'm not retrievable. I get to stay if I want."
"Then please stay. Please, please stay." He begs you like a prayer, and he thinks this is the closest he'll ever get to understanding why religious men beg to god. He's never needed you to stay so bad. "Keep this old bastard of a man. Please."
"We're similar ages, Arthur." You laugh. "I only look younger because of the technology we have. You'd look like me if you were using half of the stuff I was."
"'s have to do with all the fancy liquids in the bath?"
"Yeah." You rest your head on his chest, closing your eyes as you hum. "I'll see. I always knew I would. I didn't get why everyone else wanted to, but I suppose it kind of makes sense."
"So you'll stay?"
"Of course." You whisper, eyes closed. "Always. Always and always."
"Yeah?"
"Mhm."
And Arthur stares. Stares real hard at the way your lashes flutter and you stare at the fireplace. So, so much. Maps out the way your nose sits on your face and the color of your eyes. Stares hard and tries to remember. No doubt he'd been sketching pages upon pages of just you, but you look wonderful all the same. He's had plenty of time to take in how you look and how you act. A wonderful bundle of sun placed in a cabin he couldn't ever dream of calling home. Makes him want to settle down with you. A long died out fire rekindling because he loves someone again. You look the same as he knows you do. You stopped fluctuating between youth and maturity forever ago, but he loves you regardless of how you look.
The question comes out before he can rationalize or think it through.
"Shall I get you a ring? Or are we t'be companions 'stead of lovers?"
You gasp, horrified. "Arthur Morgan, is that any way t' propose to a woman?"
"Suppose not." He laughs when you puff your cheeks and feign annoyance. "'m yours whether or not you'll have me. This big, ol' bad man."
"Well, I do believe that I ought to accept your proposal, Mister Morgan. You seemed to have redeemed yourself in my eyes at the very least. It'll take a while to convince me you really do love me, but I suppose I shouldn't hold it over your head. However, that really isn't any way to propose to a lady."
"'f course. Though, I ought to do the theatrics of it all."
He lifts your legs off of his, and he presses a knee to the ground.
"I'll bring you a ring once the sun rises. This poor ol' bastard of a man is all yours, sunshine. 'm yours to use until 'm no longer useful." He mumbles, taking your hand and rubbing circles into your ring finger. "'ll spend the rest of my life convincin' you that I love you, even if y' never believe me."
"Oh, you awful old man." You huff, resting your forehead against his. "I don't need to use you, Arthur. My body works just fine."
"I'll do it so y'don't have to." He mumbles. "Let me. Need to show you I love you."
"Then please let me take care of you too." You push his head up and tilt your head, body relaxing as he meets you halfway for a kiss.
"Of course." He mumbles back, lips finding yours again to press his hands down on your waist, skin soft against his hand as he sighs into the kiss, melting into you. It's safe in your arms, and your skin is soft against his hands. He's safe now. Long gone are the days of living to help someone else. He has you to help just as much as he'll help you.
When he parts from your lips, he can't help the laugh that tumbles from his lips, rumbling in his chest as you huff.
"What?"
"Don't know how I got so damn lucky."
"Well don't you go thinkin' that now." You huff. "You ought to spoil me rotten after all the heartbreak you put me through."
"Mm, whatever the missus wants." He hums. "Whatev'r y'want."
"Just want you." You mumble. "'s all."
"Oh, silly woman. You already have me."
"Then that's enough."
"y'sure you don't want anythin' else?"
"'m happy with just you."
"So simple."
"'s why you should spoil me more." He watches you fight the coy smile that makes way on your face, and he shakes his head.
"Anythin' for m' girl." He mumbles, brushing his nose along your jaw. "m' pretty, pretty girl."
"Oh, Arthur, you flirt." You huff, warm to the tips of your ears.
"If it helps me get what I wan'"
"Which would be?"
"The missus all happy." He hums, resting his face on your chest as he looks up at you. "All pretty no matter what. Even in such a scandalous chemise fresh out the bath."
He laughs when you close your eyes in embarrassment.
"Yer a grown ass man nearin' his forties and you're here playin' coy like you're 17." You pinch the bridge of your nose, and Arthur laughs.
"'s long as it keeps you entertained."
You give in, looking down at Arthur as you brush your thumb against the stubble on his chin.
"You're an awful, awful man, Mister Morgan."
"Your awful, awful husband, Missus Morgan."
"Oh, you sly bastard—"
but you don't complain when Arthur slides up to kiss you again, body pressed to yours as he angles your face to fit his perfectly.
Arthur's perfectly content where he is now.
Maybe the universe abandoned him so he could find you.
He doesn't know.
He finds your hand to slide his fingers through yours, and he opens his mouth to look at your ring finger.
"What are you doing?"
He slides the finger past his teeth, biting down hard, earning a jolt from you, but he keeps your finger between his teeth, only letting go when he's sure the marks will stay.
"Oh, you horrible, horrible—"
Arthur's never been a religious man.
He doesn't speak, biting down on his own ring finger instead, letting go once the mark will stay.
But by god, is he a lucky man to have you after so long.
"But I'm your horrible, horrible husband now, darlin'." He shows you the teeth marks on his finger, and you huff, pulling him in for a kiss.
He fights himself through the kisses with you, tongue licking a stripe up your neck, nipping gently at your jaw and listening to the way your breath catches in your chest. His, all his now. All better so he can show you just how much his soul bleeds for yours, all better so he can press pretty kisses to your lips and leave them puffy and wet with both your spit.
He trails down eventually, knees hitting the rug beneath the couches as he looks up at you, lovesick with an emotion he didn't think his head could spin with.
"What a goddamn fool I am." He grunts, holding you close as you shake in his arms, one hand sprawled on your stomach while the other holds your thigh up. "Runnin' in my mind when I could've been here lovin' you. Oh, you angel."
And he bites, nips, marks, teeth pressing into the plush of your thigh as he gets higher and higher, eventually finding his breath painfully close to where his mouth is practically watering to be.
"Seems awfully modern." He hooks a finger under the fabric of your panties to pull.
"Ah, the 80s? 90s? 's not from—" You're not quite sure anymore.
Arthur pulls them off of one leg, letting the other dangle off of as he presses his tongue flat against your pussy, low hum of content rattling through his throat.
Your legs struggle around him, but he forces them open with his hands, nose brushing against your clit as he eats you out, spit and slick smearing over his chin as he relishes in the way you squirm. Sends his head spinning. He can't remember the last time he had gone down on a woman with a heart so full. Oh, the gentle glow of your skin from the fireplace. He could stop to immortalize you forever in pencil, but he'd be much more content in the present.
"Ah, Arthur. 'm so— so—" You gasp, curling forward and digging your fingers into his hair. The sting only serves to drive him further, if anything.
So he continues, freeing a hand to thumb at your clit, letting your heel dig into the back of his shoulder as you finally cum, head thrown back and voice breaking mid-moan. He doesn't stop, continuing to work at you with his tongue, thumb still circling your clit as you cry, leg going straight and then giving out over his shoulder, dangling as he wipes at the cum on his chin with his fingers, licking his fingers clean afterwards.
"Y're so, lovely, sweet'eart." He groans, removing himself from between your thighs to press a gentle kiss to your ankle as he cages over you. "Y'want the bed?"
"Oh, Mister Morgan, if you don't fuck me proper in the next minute—"
He presses a thumb to your clit once more, earning a break in your voice and a smug smile on his lips, and you gasp.
"You awful man."
"Your awful husband, Missus Morgan." He calls with all too much affection, sliding himself along you to help with lubrication, equal mirth and affection in his eyes as he pushes himself in gently.
"Ugh, awful, awful—" You throw your head back, gasping as Arthur nudges a particular spot inside of you.
"What was that?"
You whimper as he pushes further into you, exhaling when he finally bottoms out.
"I s'ppose you're not a big man for nothing." You heave.
"You always this vocal during intercourse?" He raises a brow as he pants, holding your hips down as you squirm.
"Only when the man won't stop being an ass—"
Arthur moves, slowly, like he's relishing in the way you squirm and whimper under him, head thrown back and hands reaching for his forearms, nails digging in as the sting of it goes to his head. Oh, you wonderful, wonderful woman. How awfully lucky of a man he's got to be to get to hold you like this. He whispers your name into the night air like it's a prayer — chanting, singing, begging. You've got him wrapped around your finger without ever trying.
You pant under him, arms reaching to hide your face as he pries them from your face, one hand holding your wrists in place as the other presses down on where he is inside, and your body tenses as you gush around him, no previous warning, your breathing labored as you close your eyes, mouth open to try and catch your breath. He guides you through the orgasm, thumb circling on your clit and body stilling as you clench around him.
"Ah, Arthur. Can't— can't no— no more." You heave.
"Oh, darlin'… let me do all the work." He whispers, pulling your arms over his shoulder.
Arthur drinks up every sound that you let escape, quiet gasps and pants filling the empty air whenever he thrusts particularly hard. It's music to his ears if he's ever heard anything. The sound of the squelch from thrusting drives him insane — goes straight down, and he presses open mouthed kisses to the plush of your skin, sucking and nipping until he can feel himself growing out of breath. You clench around him like a vice, hot and tight around him. He's so lost in you he fears he's never going to quite love like this ever again.
When you cum, you gush around him with a broken moan, nails digging into his shoulders as he curses, spilling his load into you without a second thought. God. He presses his forehead to yours as he rides out both of your highs, lips pressed to yours gently, sweat and saliva tasted all at once, flavor of the berries from earlier tangy on his tongue. Oh, how he loves you so. It makes him stupid with something. Dumb until he can't think no more.
A foolish, foolish man, is Arthur.
And the way you shake fills his chest with something unfamiliar to his heart.
"Stay." He whispers.
For what? He does not know.
But he hopes you do.
He's sure you do.
"For you? Always." You press a kiss to the crinkle in the corner of his eye, and his heart is full.
Summary: Convincing modern!arthur to wear gray sweatpants. That's it. That's the whole plot.
Pairing: modern!arthur x female reader
Warnings/tags: smut (18+, mdni), nickname “darlin’,” praise kink, cutesy little teasing, mutual masturbation, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v, cumming inside, arthur is a bit insecure at first (what’s new? our poor little shayla 🥺), a bit of possessiveness, little spank to your rear, standing full nelson, doggy against the couch hehehe
a/n: I'm so excited to have finally finished this thought I shared from the other day omg. Enjoy!!
The familiar tune of an old western played over the TV as another episode of Arthur’s favorite black and white shows began to play. As you cuddled into Arthur’s side, you traced a lazy finger over his flannel sleeve, feeling his body heat soaking through the soft fabric. A comforting warmth enveloped you as you breathed in his scent. As you scootched in closer, you felt the bare skin of your legs brush against the rough fabric of his jeans.
The feeling was always a sharp contrast to the cozy pajamas you settled into each night. Arthur had never been one for loungewear, opting to remain in his daily attire until the end of the night, when he would simply strip down to his boxers before climbing into bed. Of course, if his clothes had become dirty throughout the day, he would change, but only ever into another pair of jeans or workpants.
One day, curiosity had so utterly consumed you that you found yourself searching through his dresser drawers, searching for any sign of sweatpants, athletic shorts, anything you could imagine might be more relaxing than denim or canvas. But no matter where you looked, you had turned up empty.
The feeling of his jean-clad legs against you brought the question to the forefront of your mind once more. And this time, you just couldn’t resist asking any longer.
“You ever think about changing into something else?”
“Hmm?” he hummed, eyes still fixed on the screen.
“Your clothes. You ever think about wearing something softer, looser in the evening?”
“Not really. These clothes seem to do me just fine,” he shrugged.
“So, you think it's silly I wear pajamas?” you laughed, trying to get more insight out of him.
“Course not. I can tell they make you feel comfortable. Make you look mighty fine, too,” Arthur winked as you pushed a hand against his chest with a playful grin. “I just figure, why put something new on just to step out of it in a couple of hours?”
“But doesn’t it feel scratchy or stiff after a while? Your jeans, I mean? Have you ever even owned a pair of sweatpants?”
“Can’t honestly say that I have. Just used to my workin’ clothes, I guess.”
“Hmm,” you nodded, finding yourself unsurprised that he had never owned a pair, but equal parts slightly horrified at the thought. You couldn’t imagine wearing your regular clothes all day. Maybe Arthur just didn’t know what he was missing. Of course, you would have to buy the loungwear if you had any hopes of him ever owning it. You pored over the possibilities: the stores you might purchase them from, whether the clothes should be fuzzy and warm or light and breathable, and the colors he would enjoy.
And then the thought hit you.
Gray sweatpants.
Good lord, you didn’t care how stereotypical, overhyped, or fratty it might seem. You loved a big, strong man in a nice, clean, gray sweatpant. Especially when they were not too tight, not too baggy, but just the right fit to catch the subtle outline of a man’s…
“You good for one more movie?” Arthur’s voice cut through your train of thought, leaving you surprisingly disoriented as the credits began rolling.
“What?” you stuttered, needing a moment for your brain to catch up to your ears.
“Was wantin’ to see if you could stay up to watch another, but I guess that answers that. Already off in dreamville,” he replied, poking your ribs with a chuckle, completely oblivious to what kind of dreams your mind had been creating.
“Don’t have to be quite yet,” you teased, angling your body toward him as your hand trailed at the hem of his shirt, fingers grazing his belt buckle.
“Is that so?” he smirked, the subtle warmth of arousal creeping into the pit of his stomach at your suggestion.
When you leaned in to plant a kiss on his jawline, it was decided. Arthur strained for the remote, not wanting to pull away from your touch, but desperate to get you into bed. You erupted into a fit of giggles when he quickly swung you off the couch, tossing you over his shoulder as if it was nothing. Landing a playful swat to your rear, he carried you up the stairs while you squealed.
After a bit of online research, you had settled on just the pair of pants you wanted for Arthur. After picking them up on the way home from work, you were absolutely giddy, and slightly turned on just thinking about what it… what he, you coughed, would look like with them on.
Arthur eyed you suspiciously as you tried your hardest to make it through dinner nonchalantly. You didn't want to reveal your surprise until after you were settled for the evening. That way, you could force him to put them on right then.
Your excitement built as you helped Arthur clean the kitchen, washing dishes and wiping the counters clean. A silly little grin was creeping up your face, threatening to soon claim its undoubted residency. As you lay the last dish to rest in the rack and rang your hands dry on a dishtowel, you finally gave in.
“Got you something today,” you said, praying your crazy smile wouldn't scare Arthur off as you turned to face him (it never did, anyhow).
“And why would you do a thing like that?” he teased self-patronizingly.
Oh, shut up,” you laughed before making your way to the hutch in the dining room. Opening the cabinet doors, you pulled the bag from its hiding spot, placing it into Arthur’s hands. “Go put these on.”
Arthur raised a brow, still completely clueless as to the contents or motivation.
“Don’t make me ask twice,” you smiled, a hint of mischief just under the surface.
“Alright, alright,” Arthur replied, putting one hand up in mock surrender before turning to walk up the stairs, disappearing down the hall to your bedroom with a curious smile.
You took a seat on the couch, reaching for the remote and clicking through movies absentmindedly. Your knee bounced up and down, a warm sensation building in your gut in anticipation.
After what felt like centuries, you heard the creak of Arthur’s weight coming down the stairs, willing yourself not to turn around just yet. You waited until Arthur hesitantly rounded the couch to take him in, eyes scanning up and down his figure. You noticed he had changed his shirt too, exchanging his flannel button down for a soft, loose fitting cotton tee.
Arthur came to stand in front of you, waiting for your appraisal, still unsure of his new clothing. He knew he felt more comfortable physically, but inside, he was worried you would think he looked silly or out of place.
Meanwhile, you were trying not to internally combust, indulging your eyes on his broad chest, strong thighs straining against the fabric, and the prominent bulge he boasted between them.
Sensing his lack of self confidence, you beamed him a genuine smile, rising to wrap your arms around him. “You look so cozy,” you spoke softly in his ear. “How do you feel?”
“A bit out of place, but comfortable,” Arthur replied.
“Good. I'm sure you'll get used to it. Much better than those jeans.” You couldn't help but notice the soft suggestion of something else pressing against your stomach as you held your bodies against each other.
“You think so?”
You nodded, trying to stifle the shiver threatening to run through you. Releasing each other from your embrace, you took a seat on the couch, resuming your search for something to watch. You finally landed on a documentary you had been meaning to watch for a while, but it was getting harder and harder for you to focus despite your interest in the selection.
As you lay against Arthur’s body on the couch, you snuck glances downward, noting the prominent outline in his lap. You forced your eyes to snap back to the screen, testing yourself to see if you could remember the most recent point the film had made, racking your mind each time just to come up with a surface-level memory.
Arthur, on the other hand, was oblivious to your distraction, completely transfixed by the documentary. You shifted in your seat, stealing another descending glance as you tried to ignore the blooming ache between your legs.
“Interesting…” Arthur mumbled, eyes glued to the screen, brows drawn in contemplation. You jumped ever so slightly at the sound, causing Arthur to give you a quick curious glance before returning his focus to the TV.
One hand was resting on his knee, drawing soft circles against his warm body. It was getting progressively harder to ignore the voice in your head, screaming for you to lower your hand, further, further, further, until you reached the object of your -
“You feelin’ okay? Face looks flushed,” Arthur’s voice cut through the air, nearly knocking the air from your lungs in surprise.
“Yeah, I’m good,” you squeaked, cringing as a knowing smile pulled Arthur’s lips upward.
“Yeah? And what were they just talkin’ about? The last person they interviewed?”
“He was saying that… well…,” you stuttered, cheeks growing hot.
“Oh darlin’, you are such a bad liar,” he smirked.
“What? I…”
“See, the person that was just on the screen was a woman. Ya know, the one they’ve been interviewing for the last 10 minutes,” Arthur interrupted, smile growing bigger by the second, knowing that he had absolutely caught you, though he wasn’t sure what exactly he had caught you in yet.
“Well… you see… I…,” you trailed off, knowing there was no getting out of this now. You gulped uncomfortably, trying to find something, anything else to focus on, maybe something you could use to change the conversation. But of course, your reflexes betrayed you when you found your eyes drawn again to Arthur’s lap, as if by a magnet. Your stomach dropped when you realized where you had just looked.
You quickly searched Arthur’s eyes for any sign that he had noticed, gulping when you felt his chest begin to vibrate with a chuckle. Shit.
Arthur may have been oblivious before, but he certainly wasn’t now.
“You… you have a thing for this, don't you?” he asserted, reaching for the remote and pausing the film.
You didn’t try to deny it, but you weren’t exactly forthcoming, either.
“Well, I really did want you to feel more comfortable. Thought you could use some loungewear,” you said sheepishly.
“Listen, I may not keep up with all the latest fads and lingo but don’t think I ain’t heard what women say about gray sweatpants. Funny that’s the loungewear you just happened to settle on.”
Now utterly embarrassed, you curled your face into his chest, trying to hide your face in hopes that it would lead Arthur to turn the film back on and forget all about this.
“Hey now, no need to feel ashamed. I’d be happy to indulge this little… fantasy, of yours darlin’.” Arthur’s hand crept up your leg, kneading your thighs gently before they climbed higher. You sucked in a shaky breath when his hand dragged over your clothed core before coming to a rest.
Arthur’s other hand pulled you from his chest to look at him. He winked before sliding his hand from your core down to his own, not so subtly cupping his bulge while maintaining direct eye contact. You shivered, casting your gaze downward just as he began stroking himself, his big, strong hand slowly working up and down through his pants.
Arthur leaned in, lips brushing lightly against the shell of your ear. “Touch yourself,” he whispered. “Let me see.”
This man was going to be the death of you, but you did as you were told, eyes never leaving his movements as you dipped a hand into your shorts and under your panties. You moaned when your fingers finally made contact with your aching clit, a pool of slick already formed beneath it. Arthur’s lips parted as he watched you, continuing to stroke himself over his clothing.
“Good girl,” he praised, eliciting another moan from you. “So turned on by this cock, huh? Didn’t want them to stay hidden in them jeans?” It was getting harder and harder for him to talk as he continued to touch himself, watching you with a feverish intensity.
“Mmm yes,” you whimpered, your fingers drawing faster circles against yourself.
“Gimme that hand,” Arthur commanded, reaching for your wrist as you retracted your hand from your shorts. You groaned when he placed your hand over his hard bulge. Immediately grabbing his length through the fabric, you bit your lip as you began stroking up and down. The sound that fell from Arthur’s lips had you clenching around nothing, desperate to hear, feel, and see more. You had been with Arthur plenty of times, but you were always just as eager as the first.
“Feels so good, baby,” he rasped, eyes hooding over with desire. “So good with that hand.” When Arthur couldn’t take it anymore, he pulled down his pants and boxers, freeing his length so you could touch him properly. You licked your lips as you smeared precum down his cock, Arthur’s head falling back into the couch, eyes shuttering closed at the feeling. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath.
You ground yourself against the couch, desperate to feel some sort of friction again. Feeling the couch move with your movements, Arthur’s eyes fluttered open, watching you writhe back and forth as if in a trance.
“So fuckin’ needy, huh? Take those clothes off,” he commanded before tucking himself back into his pants, rising from the couch, and coming to kneel on the floor in front of you. Arthur assisted in pulling your bottom layers to the floor before spreading your legs wide, groaning at the sight of your wet pussy. “Shit, you really are desperate. Absolutely soaked,” he muttered as he ran a finger through your folds. Your hips bucked up to meet his touch, your own head now falling back against the couch.
As Arthur lowered his head to your core, your hands found his hair, running your fingers through his soft locks. You swore your eyes rolled to the back of your head when Arthur licked a warm, flat tongue slowly up your folds, pulling back to see your reaction. His grip on your thighs tightened, forcing you to stay spread open when he spit on your puffy clit before pulling it gently between his lips. Shit, you weren’t going to last long.
Arthur continued to work his mouth against you hungrily, his cock becoming painfully hard. You jolted in pleasure when a finger prodded at your entrance, circling around the edge before pushing slowly inside. It slipped into you with ease, and before long, Arthur was adding a second. When you had adjusted to the feeling, he curved his fingers, finding that spot inside you like second nature.
Pleasure coursed through you, buzzing through your entire body. You nearly came when you looked down to see Arthur’s gaze still entirely focused on your face. Arthur groaned at your fucked out expression, the vibration causing the coil in your stomach to wind tighter and tighter. He could feel you squeezing around his fingers, sensing your orgasm was approaching as your thighs shook with increasing intensity. This spurred him to fuck his fingers into you harder and faster, unrelenting with his tongue.
At that, you shattered, unable to hold back your cries and moans as you shook violently, delicious warmth running from your head to your toes. Arthur worked you through your high before pulling back, lips and chin glistening with your arousal as he smiled up at you. “So damn perfect. Makin’ such a pretty mess for me.”
Rising to stand, Arthur pulled you from the couch, supporting your limp, blissed-out body as he led you to stand by the armrest. Arthur pulled your shirt over your head, kissing your neck and shoulder as he began working at your bra before casting it to the floor. You reached a hand behind to tug at his shirt, Arthur immediately complying with your silent plea. You were desperate to feel his warm, strong chest against your back, but you silently prayed he would keep the pants on. Something about him fucking you in those damn gray sweatpants turned you on.
When his shirt dropped to the floor, he pushed you forward until your forearms fell against the armrest, your rear settling between his thighs. Arthur released a heavy sigh at the feeling, desperately fumbling to once more free himself from his clothing. One hand gripping your ass, his other grabbed his length, running his tip through your folds. You pushed your hips back, hoping desperately your motions might force him to slip inside you.
“So impatient,” Arthur teased, your breath catching as his tip settled against your entrance, lingering just to torture you.
“Oh my god, fuck,” you whimpered, Arthur’s grip against your ass stilling your attempts to fuck yourself fully onto him.
“What do you say?” Arthur questioned, voice gravelly as he fought to hold control, just as desperate to feel himself inside you.
“Please, Arthur, please I’ll be so good,” you blurted helplessly.
“That’s right darlin’, so fuckin’ good for me.” At that, Arthur pushed himself inside. You savored the stretch, too much and not enough at the same time. Arthur’s landed a slap to your ass, his hand joining the other to grip you tightly. He spread your plump rear apart, allowing him to fully see himself disappearing inside you. “Takin’ me so well. Perfect fuckin’ pussy.”
“Fuck, I love your cock,” you groaned, encouraging Arthur to pick up the pace, hips snapping against you.
“Yeah?” Arthur spurred. “Show me how much you mean it.” As Arthur stilled his movements, you were quick to fuck yourself back onto him, not wanting the sensation of his thick, girthy cock splitting you open to stop for a second.
“Fuuuuck me,” he groaned as you set a brutal pace, one hand snaking down your body to find your bouncing tits. His large, thick hand squished your breasts together, long pinky and thumb spread to touch either nipple. Your backward movements caused his calloused fingers to rub against them, ripping a guttural moan from your chest. “Perfect fuckin’ tits, too. All mine.”
You were struggling to remain standing, finding it progressively harder to maintain your pace against him. Arthur felt your legs trembling underneath you, pulling your upper half up to lean against his chest. He pulled himself out of you before grabbing your legs, drawing each up until you were in a standing full nelson, your back against his chest.
Arthur pulled you up as if it were nothing, the realization alone drawing a breathless moan from your lips. Arthur pushed into you again, bouncing you up and down on his cock with ease. The angle was just right, his tip dragging against the spot with a new, heightened pressure.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whimpered pitifully. Just when you thought you couldn’t take any more, Arthur shifted his grip, resting one side of your body against his forearm as his hand worked its way up to your clit, finger drawing tantalizing circles over the puffy, slick skin. “Oh my- god- fuck- Ar-Arthur,” you stammered, nearly incoherent as you felt your orgasm steadily approaching once again.
“You’re gonna drench this fuckin’ cock, ain’tcha? Takin’ me like you were made for it. So fuckin’ tight, makin’ a mess already.”
His words sent you plummeting over the edge, eyes snapping shut as you moaned louder than you ever had, pussy clenching around Arthur’s length over and over. Hot fireworks of absolute bliss shot through you. It wasn’t long before Arthur found his own high, hips jolting uncontrollably as you felt his white, hot load coating your walls, filling you to the brim. Arthur would’ve kept himself inside you longer, but he wasn’t sure he could remain upright much longer. Pulling you off of him, he laid you to rest gently on the couch before taking a seat next to you, sinking into the cushions as sweat ran down his forehead.
You sat for a while, breaths slowing as your awareness settled back to the room. You turned to look at each other, letting out breathy laughs before leaning in to plant your lips against his.
“So, you really have a thing for these sweatpants, huh?” Arthur teased.
“Was the message unclear?,” you chuckled. “Cause I’m not sure I can show you again tonight. I’m happy to clarify later.”
“Loud and clear,” Arthur laughed, equally exhausted. “But you might have to remind me again tomorrow,” Arthur winked. “Why don’t we get you cleaned up?”
warnings : breeding kink, creampie, overstimulation (reader cries cause of it), this is just filthy smut y'all
You swallowed hard, feeling your throat dry. Your tired eyelids fluttered slowly, revealing signs of sleepiness. However, Arthur didn't want that to happen, as he quickly cupped your chin with one hand, forcing you to look at him.
“There is no time to sleep, darlin'.” His hoarse voice echoed in your ears as you stared blankly at his features. “Not when ya are take ma cock so good on your lil n tight cunt.”
And to emphasize his words, Arthur moved slowly, causing sensations of pleasure throughout your body. You moaned and pressed your body closer to him.
Ah, you remember now. He was still inside you. Stretching you and filling you, so he could keep his cum deep inside you.
Arthur laughed and kissed your warm cheek.
“My sweet girl is so lost in pleasure. Can't even think clearly.” He laughed hoarsely against your ear, causing you to squeeze his member with your wet walls. He moaned loudly. “All you can think about is my cock, isn't it, sweetheart? What a good girl I have.”
“Arthur... 'S too much.” You said breathlessly, feeling the tears of overstimulation slowly trickle down your eyes. God, how many times had you come? Three? Four times?
However, nothing seemed to stop him. In just a few minutes to catch his breath, Arthur was ready to shoot another load of cum inside your sensitive cunt.
He smiled and slowly sealed your mouth with his. “C'mon princess, ya can give me another one, can't ya?”
Well, you were still completely wet. So you looked at him and nodded. With your confirmation, Arthur smiled slyly and grabbed your two numb legs, placing them on top of his strong shoulders.
And after that, he wasted no more time. His quick and merciless thrusts returned, completely violating your small, hot heat. It seemed he was trying to intimidate your cervix. You moaned loudly and scratched his firm arms, trying not to lose your breath completely.
Tears of pleasure ran down your rosy cheeks, and Arthur bent down to kiss them. At no point did his thrusts stop. “Look at'chu. I knew you could take it like a good girl. Doin' so good f'me.”
Your fingers moved up to his brown hair, gripping it as if trying to find some kind of support. In contrast, his fingers moved to your clitoris, stimulating it once again.
“Arthur! I'm... I'm so close...” You stared at him, lost in the words that came out of your mouth. He smiled and moved closer, wrapping his strong body around yours, as if it were some kind of fortress.
“Me too, sweetheart. Me too. Jus... Jus a lil more f'me. C'mon.”
You joined your mouth to his, causing a confusion of tongues, teeth, and saliva. But neither of you cared.
And so, after a few seconds, your orgasm swept through your body like an avalanche, making you moan loudly. Then Arthur came too, filling your wet pussy once again with his liquid, this time deep inside.
You fell onto the bed, tired and full. Arthur followed you, panting, and nestled into you. At no point did Arthur pull his cock out, and when you asked him what he was going to do, he replied.
“Need to keep it deep inside you, darling. No waste here.”
Well, it's a good thing you were in a hotel, after all.
summary : reader is shamelessly gawking at arthur when he starts chopping some wood at camp ‧₊˚✩彡
wc : 1.7k words
cw : fluff, gets sliiiiiightly suggestive but it's all in reader's head
a/n : first ever post here, starting with something simple and short... i'm scared and excited at the same time !!! i'll, of course, be starting with arthur my beloved (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ
If only you had done all your laundry yesterday. Then maybe you would've had all the time in the world to watch this scene unfold from start to finish.
You were sat by the campfire, a glass of water in hand. The weather had been scorching these days, and the slightest movement caused a sheen layer of sweat to appear on the skin. Because of that, the camp's activity had slowed considerably, hitting an all time low, as it usually happened during the hotter summer days.
Most were hiding under the shadows of trees round camp, or in their tents, save for a few brave souls who took it upon themselves to keep the camp running.
Well, you wouldn't exactly call yourself brave; it just so happened you were Mrs Grimshaw's favorite this week. And that meant all the laundry was assigned to you. Great.
You had just finished rinsing a batch of clothes by the lake, which, mind you–"you were supposed to be done with yesterday", apparently– and came back to camp to take a break and get the other. Problem is… You hadn't expected to see Arthur back in camp. And even less while he was getting ready to chop some wood.
So here you were, disheveled from laundering all day, holding a glass of water mid-air, as you watched the scene. His sleeves were rolled up, his blue shirt clinging to his body as he lifted the axe and cut the first woodpiece with a slight grunt. He made it seem so effortless, even in this heat.
You had tried once, to chop the wood on your own, to avoid bothering any of the men after their return from a stressful robbery.
The huge axe's weight already caused you trouble enough, but when you finally managed to lift it and attemped to chop the wood with all the strength you had in you; you had barely managed to make an indent on the piece of wood, and you were already panting.
An embarassing moment you would later think about when you least needed to, that is, if nobody else had seen you.
But, to your dismay, someone had been watching you, which you deduce from the faint chuckle and the soft crunching of leaves coming from behind you.
You feel big hands settle gently on your arms and pull you to the side.
"Whatever you're trying to do, miss?"
You half turn to Arthur, an amused grin on his face.
Oh. It's only now that the embarassment really hit you. You feel your cheeks burn as you mumble an answer.
"Cutting wood, obviously."
"Cutting wood?" he muses, with a raised eyebrow.
He dislodges the axe from the piece of wood you were attempting to cut and contemplates the small indent you had managed to make. He holds back a laugh.
"That wood seems pretty cut alright."
His sarcastic answer makes you groan and you tell him to shut up. But he only found your display of faux anger even more endearing than your initial discomfort.
"Ya should've had one of the men do this for you. No need to ruin yer pretty hands."
"I didn't want to bother." you explain with a sigh.
He turned to look at you, his expression softening.
"Nah, ya ain't ever a bother. Not to me darlin'."
The embarassment that was burning through you was pushed to the back of your mind when those words of his had caused your heart to flutter.
Your mind often drifted back to that moment. He had ended up splitting some wood for you, even offered you some advice on how to do it on your own in case you needed to.
You remember the feeling of his hands envelopping yours as they held the axe, showing you the right angle to hit the wood with, the right amount of strength, the right posture.
Quite frankly, your mind was focused on where his hands were placed more than anything. Because when he had let go of you and had asked you to try it on your own, you were left staring blankly at the axe in your hands, forcing your brain to look for something it might have remembered from Arthur's indications.
Ah, and here you were reminiscing about it again for the nth time. This was getting out of hand.
You refocus on the sight in front of you, and notice Arthur had split quite a few wood pieces already. He wiped the sweat off his brow each time, before his hands firmly gripped the axe again, getting in position.
Those warm and big hands that had gently guided you while he taught you… Those warm and big hands that could guide you while doing something else completely.
How would they feel on your body, you wonder. How would they feel settled securely on the curve of your waist, as he guided you to dance on one of Javier's campfire songs? How would they feel, on your cheeks, cupping your face, to keep your pretty eyes from drifting away from his? How would they feel if they were exploring every inch of your body?
And speaking of bodies, his certainly made you feel smaller than you usually do. His broad shoulders and tall frame often scared people off, you had come to notice. But you only felt excitement— dare you say, arousal, when he was getting a bit too close to you.
How you wished you could simply feel those shoulders of his, see those arms free from the constraints of his shirt. Why not feel them around you too even… Why not feel them wrap around your body steadily, as you grip his shoulders tight while you-
The sound of a wooden basket being dropped near your feet snapped you out of your thoughts.
"Slacking off i see, miss?"
You look up to see Mrs Grimshaw staring you down, hands on her hips with a disapproving look.
Your eyes widen and you attempt to name this awkward situation you found yourself in. She had just caught you shamelessly gawking at Arthur, and you could hear faint snickers from some hidden spectators.
Wow, you surely got into embarassing situations a lot.
"Oh, Mrs Grimshaw! I was just… taking a break…"
She looks at Arthur from afar who had stopped to watch the scene by the campfire unfold, much to his amusement.
She turns back to you, and speaks before walking off.
"Well this laundry ain't gonna wash itself."
You sigh and drink your water, only to spit some out once you realize Arthur was looking at you with a mischevious grin.
Did he… notice your staring?
…
Suddenly, you really wanna go do the laundry.
You quickly stand on your feet, and grab the laundry basket to run off to the lake, praying internally that Arthur won't tease you about it later during dinner.
He watches you scramble to leave fast, a soft chuckle escaping him as he brandishes the axe again, mumbling to himself.
"Can't wait for dinner."
thank you for reading and until next time!!! ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧
Arthur barely spares you a glance as the word, spoken with rigid authority, leaves his mouth, and he’s gone before you can react, striding toward his horse with the arrogance of a man who’s certain there’s nothing left to say.
For a moment, all you can do is stare after him in stunned silence, wondering if the mountain cold somehow scrambled your head, because, surely, you’re seeing things. Arthur couldn’t possibly be walking away from you. Yet as his figure continues to shrink on the horizon, threatening to disappear entirely as he makes his way toward his horse, shock is quickly replaced by acute indignation with the realization that the damn bastard is, indeed, walking away from you.
Well, he has another thing coming if he thinks you’ll just let him.
You grit your teeth as you stomp after him, irritation flaring in your veins. Insufferable, obstinate lout. Who the hell does he think he is, brushing you off like that? With each forceful step, your anger burns hotter, brighter, near blinding you completely, as Arthur’s form comes back into focus.
“This is a damn good lead, and you know it, Arthur!” You explode from behind him, shorter legs having to work double time to keep up with his own, “The house has been empty for days, and folks in town say the family won’t be back for at least another week! The money’s practically begging to be stolen! So, why the hell won’t you hear me out on this!?”
Arthur abruptly stops, so sudden in his movement that you nearly stumble into him. Surprise renders you ignorant of the tension in his body, too focused on maintaining your own balance to notice the tight set of his back, taut muscles thrumming in agitation.
But then, he turns, and it’s impossible to miss. It’s only a small shift, a mere tilt of the head, yet you jerk upright, pierced by the steel glint of his eye shining brilliantly, dangerously, amidst the shadows steeped along his face.
“I won’t tell you again,” Arthur warns in a low drawl, “You ain’t robbing that house, so drop it already.”
He starts toward his horse again, but you’re quick to block his path, skidding around in front of him.
“Not until you tell me why!” You demand, scowling up at him with crossed arms.
“Don’t play dumb. You know why.”
With a scoff, he pushes past you to close what is left of the short distance to his horse, and you follow behind, unwilling to let this go. You stand next to him, watching, waiting for him to turn, to fully acknowledge you for once, but he never does, too busy fiddling with his goddamn horse.
“There’s a train passin’ through here in two days time,” Arthur says, enunciating the last bit with a grunt as he tugs harshly on the tie straps of his saddle, cinching it tight. “And me ‘n some of the others are gonna rob it. There ain’t nobody to go wit’chu.”
“I’ll go by myself then!” You snap, seething in frustration, “We need the money, Arthur. You know we do! Or, have you forgotten that everything we have is buried in a ditch somewhere back in Blackwater?!”
At that, Arthur whips around, his horse forgotten, and with a snarl set in his face, he stalks toward you, narrowed eyes ablaze with fury. The sight lights a crackle of instinctive fear in your belly, and you stumble back, spurs striking the ground in a stammered staccato, only to hit something rough and sturdy: a hitching post. By the time you realize, it’s too late. Arthur’s there, caging you in with his body.
He leans in close, mere inches away from your face.
“How about you let me worry about the money, and you worry about learnin’ how to follow orders, because I’ve told you one too many times already,” Arthur says, “You ain’t robbing that goddamn house. Do you hear me?”
Overwhelmed, your mouth opens wordlessly, an impulsive acquiescence on the tip of your tongue; however, your dignity bites it back. He’s the one being unreasonable, not you, and you’ll be damned before you let him have the last word.
Fueled with fiery conviction, you purse your lips, refusing to answer.
Arthur notes the defiance in your stature, vibrant as ever, but he doesn’t overlook it so easily this time. His hand shoots out, snatching your face and wrenching it upward to look him in the eye.
“I said, do you hear me, woman?!” He bellows.
Heat blooms across your face, your anger twisting with the sour sting of humiliation, as his exclamation draws more than a few astonished looks across camp, and beneath their penetrating stares, you capitulate, mumbling a petulant yes through gritted teeth.
Arthur studies you for a moment longer, his eyes narrowing with distrust, but evidently, he’s placated by something he sees as he relaxes, giving a firm nod of satisfaction.
“Good.” He says, taking a step back.
Striding back to his horse, he swings into the saddle with one fluid motion and fixes you with one final glare from atop it.
“Now stay here, and do as you’re goddamned told!”
With that, he pivots his horse with a click of the tongue, steering his mount toward the edge of camp where a few others have congregated to wait for him. You watch as Arthur joins them, taking the lead, and a chorus of horse whinnies echo back to you as they ride off into the wind, going who knows where. And as Arthur disappears from view, the judgment of camp soon becomes visceral. Tilly subtly eyes you from where she tends to the washing. Kieran gives you a furtive glance over the horse he’s brushing. Even Uncle pauses his day-drinking to stare at you while little Jack none too quietly questions, “Why was Uncle Arthur so mad, Mama?” Though Abigail is quick to shush him and ferry him along, sending an apologetic glance your way, the damage is done. Your hands curl into fists at your sides, a surge of embarrassment and anger coursing through you.
Damn him! Who the hell does Arthur think he is, ordering you around like that? Treating you like a child? You can take care of yourself, and you most certainly don’t need him. Hell, you’d probably be able to rob the house and be back before them.
You stop short as that thought sinks in. You could be back before them. The house is only about a half day’s ride away. If you left now, you’d be back by tomorrow night, a full day before they’re due to return.
The decision is made before you can think otherwise. Perhaps it’s a foolish one, driven only by a petty need to prove him wrong, but that doesn’t stop you from slinking over to your own horse and disappearing out of camp without a single trace.
After all, what Arthur doesn’t know can’t hurt him.
________
Try as you might, you can’t wipe the giddy grin off your face as you ride into camp late the next evening. Everything had gone according to plan, just like you’d said it would...well, mostly. Sure, the job hadn’t been quite as easy as you’d expected (news traveled fast and you weren’t the only one who’d had the bright idea to rob the place), but you managed to take care of the competition and snag a hefty three hundred dollars, all without a single scratch. And if that wasn't something to be damned proud of, then you don’t know what was.
Yet as you approach your usual hitching post, your smile falters, quickly dying off, for illuminated by the light of a stray lantern stands none other than Arthur’s horse. The very horse that isn’t supposed to be here.
Anxiety seizes you hard and quick. What the hell is Arthur doing back so soon? He’d specifically said a few days, not one. You’re sure of it. And yet, somehow, he’s here now, perfectly positioned to catch you red-handed.
Perhaps he already has.
Your hands tighten around the reins of your horse, heart racing as you consider the possibility. No doubt Arthur’s already noticed your absence. He did, after all, hitch his horse right next to where yours should have been. But, was your absence alone enough to tip him off? People are in and out of camp all day, all the time. Surely, he wouldn’t think anything of it.
But what if he did?
You swallow thickly, dread pooling in your stomach. God, you’re dead if Arthur knows. You’d already driven him to fury with the mere suggestion of the robbery. If Arthur finds out you not only followed through but, more than that, blatantly disobeyed him…well, suffice to say, you’d sooner take your chances with a dozen dirty O’Driscoll’s than face him.
You shudder before shaking the thought away. It won’t come to that. Arthur couldn’t possibly have been back long enough to have any true suspicions. Big jobs always bled late into the night, carried out as they were under the cover of darkness. At most, he’d been back an hour, maybe two. And while certainly not ideal, the timeframe was, blessedly, small enough to neither confirm nor deny any potential misgivings.
That is, if he even had any. Considering the late hour, Arthur was probably too tired to notice much of anything at all upon his return. He’d no doubt gone straight to bed, bone weary from the exertion of a lengthy job, meaning you were, in all likelihood, safe despite his proximity. So long as you could sneak back to your tent unnoticed, everything should—would—be fine.
Right?
As you slide down off your horse though, you can’t quite shake the feeling that you’ve already been caught. The fear gnaws at you, twisting your insides, while a voice, your better judgment perhaps, urges you to flee, and with each step you take toward camp, you’re more inclined to listen.
The whisper of the wind, the rustle of the brush, the chirp of the animals - it all transforms into a distorted apparition of Arthur. It’s his breath that teases the back of your neck. His footsteps that shuffle amongst the trees. His laugh that rings in your ear. You sense him everywhere and nowhere all at once, paranoia turning the normally quick jaunt back to your tent into an absurdly long, agonizing trek, full of anxious starts and stops as you jump at every sound.
It’s only as you venture into the heart of camp that the tension begins to lift, for it soon becomes clear that everyone is either asleep or too drunk to notice you at all. And in the stillness, protected by the warm light of the fire, caution gradually turns to confidence. It begins in your back, the tight set of your shoulders falling as they slowly ease back into their natural state. Then, your gaze settles, eyes no longer darting wildly in search of Arthur’s prowling form. Remaining fixed ahead, they instead search for your tent, and upon spotting it, meek, tiptoed steps lengthen into effortless strides, carrying you there in no time at all.
As you approach the entrance of your tent, you resist the urge to break into an all-out run, the promise of safety so near sending one final wave of anxiety coursing through you. You were so close, too close to risk it all now by causing a racket and waking up half the camp. Waking him. Because, surely, Arthur had to be asleep. You’d seen no sign of him at all.
Well, there was one way to be certain.
You glance behind you to spy Arthur’s wagon across the way, the majority of it obscured by a well-placed tree. All it would take is one look and your fears could finally be put to rest. One teeny, tiny look. What harm could it do?
You turn and take a step forward only to stop short. Unless, of course…this is exactly what Arthur wants. Perhaps he’s waiting, just out of sight, for you to stumble blindly, stupidly into his grasp, all of your own accord. You wouldn’t put it past him.
Then again… Arthur isn’t exactly known for his patience. He’s a man of action, someone who prefers to strike while the iron is hot. There’s no way he’d sit idly by if he knew. The nerves were just getting to your head, that’s all. They had to be.
You approach the tree, placing one hand against its rough bark. Then, taking a deep breath, you peer around the edge to survey Arthur’s wagon. It stands blessedly still, the coverings drawn and dark, blending seamlessly into the night.
He’s asleep. You’ve done it. You’ve actually managed to pull one over on Arthur.
A loud laugh of disbelief bursts free before you can think twice, exploding into the air and sending a bolt of panic racing through you. A few feet away, Swanson’s snores stutter at the noise, and you tense, holding your breath in anticipation. Please don’t wake up. Please don’t wake up. For a few agonizing moments, he teeters on the edge of consciousness, mumbling nonsense, but then, right when it seems like he’ll be pulled into the waking world, he rolls over, drifting back to sleep peacefully.
You breathe a long sigh of relief.
Unwilling to test your luck any further tonight (god knows you’ve surely used the last of it), you back away toward your tent, eyes sweeping across camp one last time in search of anyone else you might have disturbed. Only when you’re ensconced within, when the entrance flap has fallen and sealed safely you inside, does your vigilance cease, taking the worry you’ve been carrying ever since spotting that damn horse with it. And in its absence, all your earlier giddiness returns, a large grin breaking out across your face, so big you couldn’t bite it back even if you tried.
That is, until you hear a match strike behind you.
You freeze, blood turning to ice in your veins. No no no no no no. It couldn’t possibly be— Turning in quiet horror, you find Arthur resting against your cot, arms draped across bent knees, one hand holding a now lit cigarette. His hat hangs impossibly low, his emotions shrouded beneath it. Not a word, not a look, not even a breath is thrown in your direction.
His silence only serves to unnerve you more.
This isn’t right. The Arthur you know would’ve already torn you a new one, so why is he just…sitting there? You swallow thickly, sweaty palms curling into your skirts. Panicking now would only cost you the game. Ignorance, however, just might save it.
“Back already, Arthur?” You ask, trying desperately to mask the tremble in your voice, “I-I thought you said the job would take a few days.”
Your address does little to rouse him. The silence lingers, leaving you to squirm beneath its weight. Arthur, on the other hand, seems to revel in it. He takes a long drag of his cigarette, releasing the smoke on a deep sigh before allowing the fumes to settle in the air.
“Train was runnin’ ahead of schedule,” He says, voice gravelly as he talks around the cigarette, “so we had a last minute change in plans and pushed everything forward.”
He takes another puff, pinching the end between his thumb and forefinger as he pulls it from his mouth.
“I came back to camp, expecting to find ya here waitin’ to welcome me. Come to find out you haven’t been seen all day. Y’wanna tell me what that’s about?”
At long last, he raises his head, dark eyes locking with your own, and you stiffen beneath their intensity, suddenly wishing he’d never lifted them from the ground at all. He’s looking at you as though…as though he knows. As if he’s…waiting. And beneath his scorching gaze, a confession bubbles up, hanging on the tip of your tongue above a desperate plea for mercy—
“Hunting!” The lie springs forward before you can stop it, yet you, nevertheless, quickly latch onto it. Your self-preservation, it seems, runs farther than the depths of Arthur’s stare. “I-I was hunting.”
Unable to stand the burn of his gaze, your own slides down to settle on a spot just beyond his shoulder.
“You-you see, Pearson used the last of the meat in yesterday’s stew, and with you and Charles gone, there was no one here to hunt. So…I-I took it upon myself and set out early this morning. Those critters were so damn fast though. I didn’t even realize how late it was until the sun was going down, and by then, I’d chased them halfway across the Heartlands. I-I didn’t mean to be gone so long, I promise.”
Arthur gives a noncommittal hum, bowing his head low. And in the silence, confusion creeps in. Is-is that it then? Did he buy it? You take a hesitant step forward, then another, and then one more, overwhelmed by curiosity, and soon enough, you’re reaching out a hand, close enough to touch—
Faster than you can react, Arthur’s hand shoots out, snatching the satchel at your side, and with a deft flick of the finger, he opens it to find the proof of your sin: the wad of bills from the robbery.
Shit!
“Well, well, well,” Arthur says, lips turning upward into a mocking sneer, “Seems you’re nothing but a goddamn liar!”
He rises to his full height, pure, unadulterated fury pouring from every inch of his body. Horrified, you stumble back, desperate to save yourself, but it’s too late.
“Now, all I asked was that you stay put and listen to me!” He snarls, eyes blazing as he stalks toward you. “How hard can it be to follow a simple pair of instructions!?”
“I-I–” You stutter.
“But more than that, you lied to me!” Arthur roars, continuing as though you hadn’t even spoken. “I even gave you the chance to fess up, but you continued to act like a damn fool.”
He hurls the word fool with a venom so potent you can’t help but shrink away from it. Is that…is that truly what he sees when he looks at you? A fool? Well, you suppose it shouldn’t surprise you. Ever since that mess back in Blackwater, Arthur had hardly let you out of his sight, forever insisting that it was in everyone’s best interest to lay low at camp. Although, tellingly, he never spared the breath to lecture anyone but you.
The truth is, Arthur doesn’t trust you.
It bothers you more than you care to admit. You see how he treats the other girls, the way he lavishes them with praise when they manage to snag something off some sorry sod. Just once, you want him to look at you the same, eyes shining with pride after a job well done, easy praise in the form of a murmured good girl falling from his tongue on a low, shiver-inducing drawl. This was supposed to have been your chance. Your one brilliant shot to finally convince him of your worth. Now, in retrospect, it was a foolish thought. Arthur would never look at you that way, or any way, really. You were nothing but another silly, stupid girl in his eyes, and that’s all you ever would be.
You bow your head in dejected shame, all the will to fight now gone.
“I-I’m sorry,” You whisper.
By now, Arthur stands in front of you, chest heaving as the anger courses through his body thick and heavy. A beat of silence fills the air, one, two, three seconds, and for a moment, as he looks upon your sullen form, something flickers in his eyes, perhaps a twinge of mercy. But then, it vanishes, gone so quick it’s questionable if it even existed at all.
“Yeah,” He says, voice a low rumble, “You will be.”
Then, without hardly missing a beat—
“Get up on the bed. Face down.”
You jolt at the sudden command. Get up…on the bed? The words, so simple that even an idiot like MacGuire couldn’t possibly misconstrue them, manage to utterly confound you.
So much so, in fact, that you fail to notice the slow darkening of Arthur’s features, his patience wearing thinner with each passing second.
Until, finally, it snaps.
“Now!”
The guttural boom of his voice cracks along the length of your spine with whiplike precision, sending you stumbling forward in hurried, blind obeisance. You’re at the foot of your cot before you can blink. And yet still, you hesitate, unable to completely follow through.
You swallow thickly, glancing behind you to look at Arthur where his eyes, little more than murky, black pools in the dim light, bore into you, utterly unfeeling.
Waiting.
“Don’t make me tell you again.”
His final warning, dripping with dangerous promise, pulls at something deep in your belly, stirring a subtle warmth that is engulfed all too quickly by an onslaught of dread. This time, you don’t need to be told twice. The undisguised threat in his voice leaves no room for any more squirming attempts to weasel your way out of…whatever he has in mind. And so, despite the heaviness of your limbs, you crawl into the cot, settling face down, just as he asked, on your hands and knees.
In the darkness, blind to anything other than the faded cloth of your thin blanket, his presence rises to fill the entire room, oppressive.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
With each heavy footfall, your heart beats in tandem, staggering against your chest. He’s everywhere. He’s nowhere.
Until suddenly—
You jolt, flinching away, as Arthur slots himself behind you, yet easy hands quickly grab hold of your hips to steady you in place.
“Shh. Shh. Shh. Easy there. There’s no need to be scared now.” He says, one hand sliding down the length of your thigh in a smooth, gentle caress.
You release a shuddered breath, tasting smoke, gunpowder, and sweat as you exhale. He’s close. Too close. It turns your head heady, the smothering heat of him pressing tantalizingly into the curve of your body, made all the worse by the poisoned honey words dripping from his tongue, filling your veins with a syrupy warmth. You’re helpless to deny him. Beneath his practiced touch, your muscles ease, pliant and willing.
“Good girl.” He praises. “That’s it. You’re alright.”
This time, when his hand slides down, his fingers catch on the hem of your dress. Soft muslin glides along your calf, baring first your ankle, then your knee, then— you tense, a rush of cool air shocking you with awareness.
Your head turns, preparing to object, when, suddenly, Arthur’s hand squeezes your thigh. Fingers digging into your skin, his strength, barely restrained, rises to the surface, branding a wordless warning against your flesh: There is no getting out of this, so be quiet and take it.
Any protests you might have offered die in your throat, bitten back as you sense the danger in the air. He’s past the point of reasoning. Only complete and utter submission will satiate him.
Swallowing thickly, your head falls forward, and Arthur’s grip eases, the languid, soothing ascent of his hand resuming as though nothing had happened at all. With it, your skirts rise ever further, soon leaving the thin material of your drawers as the only barrier between dignity and indecency.
But even that he takes, greedy for more.
His rough, calloused palms wrap around your thighs, twin thumbs creeping up your sides to tease the outer waistband of your drawers.
“Now, I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this.” His thumbs dip below, scraping softly against your skin. “But, I’m afraid you’ve left me no choice.”
Slow, achingly slow, he drags his hands down, and you let out a shaky breath, trembling, throat pinching unbearably tight as you’re stripped of that last vestige of dignity and made bare before him. Ravenous, his molten eyes carve along your newly exposed flesh, igniting a trail of goosebumps in his wake. It shouldn’t thrill you, being on display like this, reduced to little more than a fatted calf ripe for the taking, and yet, beneath the scorching burn of shame, something else simmers: desire.
“M’only gonna tell you this once, so listen carefully,” Arthur says, voice rough and gravelly, “If you miss a number, we start again.”
It’s all the warning you get. The next moment Arthur’s hand cracks against your ass, knocking the breath from your lungs as the force of it pitches you forward, lurching onto your forearms. Pain explodes, searing across your skin like a thousand tiny needles, and instinctively, your fingers curl into the thin, scratchy blanket covering the cot, hardly able to keep yourself from crying out.
From behind you, Arthur whistles real low as he surveys his handiwork.
“Look at ‘er.” He says. “Sensitive little thing, ain’t she? Swellin’ real tight already.”
His hand comes up to palm the supple flesh appreciatively, and with it, tears spring in your eyes. Of pain or humiliation though, you can’t tell.
“I know that one hurt real bad, darlin’.” He croons, the slow caress of his thumb soothing your burning skin. “But, you’re gonna be good f’me, right?”
Though his voice stays honey-smooth, Arthur’s hand presses just a little harder, his thumb digging just a little deeper, and with it, the pain flares back to life, eliciting a small whimper from you as that blistering sting radiates outward once more. The silent command in his touch is unmistakable. Count.
“O-One.” You whisper.
No sooner does the word leave your mouth that he strikes again, and this time, you can’t help but cry out, having barely recovered from the first.
All too late you realize your mistake. Arthur wrenches you up, body against body, cheek against cheek. His thick arms band across your middle, just under the curves of your breasts, while his breath, hot and heavy, caresses the side of your lips, so close you can almost taste the tobacco on his tongue.
“You’d do well to keep quiet, girl.” He snarls softly, “You’re gonna wake up the whole damn camp if ya keep cryin’ like that, and I ain’t nowhere near finished with you.”
Heat flares in your veins, something in you trilling with anticipation at his words. More. You want more. But instead, he releases you, and as you collapse back onto the bed, all you can think about is how the loss of his warmth, of his firm weight pressing into you, leaves you aching.
“Now, do as you’re goddamned told, and count.” Arthur sneers, “I won’t tell you again.”
You swallow thickly, heart racing. “T-Two.”
Smack! He strikes again with whip-like precision, and you slap a hand over your mouth to stifle your cry, shivering yet longing to obey, to please him.
“Three.” You croak out.
You brace yourself for the next blow, but when it comes, something is different. No longer the perpetual sharp stab of a thousand pinpricks, the pain, only a slight tingle now, lasts a mere second before dissolving into the growing pool of heat gathering under your abused flesh. It's almost… pleasurable.
Unconsciously, you shift, angling your hips up.
“Four.” You say, a tad breathless.
And so it continues, for how long you don’t know. Lash after lash, blow after blow, over and over and over again, Arthur falls upon your tender flesh, and that heat grows ever hotter, ever larger. His hand is a brand against your skin. With every searing score of his touch, the flames of desire ignite anew, spreading farther, higher, turning your head sluggish, your veins viscous. And all the while, yawning, aching want salivates between your thighs, throbbing in tandem to each heavy strike of his palm.
It’s a wonder you last as long as you do.
“Eighteen.” You rasp.
And then, because you can’t quite help it, overcome as you are by that delicious warmth rippling through you, a low whine escapes your throat.
All at once, Arthur stills.
“Are you—“ He says, utterly incredulous, “Are you enjoyin’ this?”
Before you can answer, he slides one hand between your thighs, two fingers just barely teasing at your entrance. Yet, it’s enough to give you away completely. Your cunt spasms at the feather soft press, tensing desperately around nothing, dripping, weeping into his touch.
“Goddamn, you are!” Arthur laughs. “Look at’chu, makin’ an absolute mess. Your little snatch is damn near itchin’ to swallow my fingers.”
As though to prove his point, Arthur’s fingers curl against you, sliding languidly into the wet heat of your cunt, and a wave of violent pleasure roils through you. Hungry for more, you greedily clench around him, desperate to take whatever he’s willing to give.
At the sight, Arthur releases a labored breath, muscles thrumming with restraint. For so long, he’s waited to have you like this. On your hands and knees, splayed out before him. He’s dreamed about it. Been tortured by it.
But you just had to play the damn fool.
He’ll give you what you want, in time. But first, you still have a lesson to learn.
His belt buckle jangles, followed by a slight rustle of clothing, and soon, Arthur’s fingers are replaced by the thick length of his cock. With one hand, he guides himself between the slick folds of your pussy, beginning to move in the shallowest of thrusts, teasing, taunting in the slow drag of his cock along your cunt. Up…and down. Back…and forth. And with every pass, tiny, jolting bursts of pleasure wrack through your body, blinding yet fleeting. Maddeningly fleeting.
You shift, desperate for relief as the ache inside, that overwhelming emptiness, becomes nigh unbearable.
“Arthur, please, I’m sorry.” You choke out.
“Shh shh shh. I know you was just trying to help.” He soothes. “But what ya did was dangerous, darlin’. You could’a been hurt real bad. So, I need’ta know that you’ll listen next time, alright? Now, why don’t you use that pretty mouth of yours and tell me what you want, huh?”
Taking himself in hand, Arthur nudges the head of his cock against your entrance.
“Go on. Show me what’chu can do.” He prods.
Tell him what you want? If only that were as simple as it seemed. You’d spent months running from this, from your desire. And even now, spread before him, you can’t help but feel frightened to voice this. To confront what your body has already confessed.
Your heart pounds against your chest, tongue darting out to wet your lips nervously.
“Please,” You whisper, “I-I want you.”
“C’mon, girl, you can do better than that.” Arthur taunts. He pushes just a little deeper, offering a taste of your reward should you please him. “Beg for it.”
“I-I want you to fuck me. Please fuck me, Arthur.” You whimper.
“See, that wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Arthur croons.
Satisfied, he draws your hips back into him, his cock slowly splitting you in two. Wholly unprepared for his sheer girth, your muscles tense at the sensation, mouth opening on a wordless cry. You’ve never experienced such painful, such utterly delicious fullness. It’s as though his cock was made for you, every vein, every ridge handcrafted to heighten your pleasure. It’s too much yet not enough. Helpless, your cunt flutters around him, desperate to pull him deeper, to feel him, all of him.
“Christ, you’re squeezin’ me like a good for nothin’ whore.” Arthur grunts, fingers curling against your skin to steady himself. “Betchu’d earn a real pretty penny up in Valentine, huh?”
As he speaks, he begins to thrust into you lazily, and with each stroke, passing sparks of pleasure flicker through you, gone too quick to take you anywhere as Arthur deliberately toys with you, holding your release somewhere far beyond your reach. This, more than anything else, is the crux of his retribution.
“Fuck, darlin’ that’s gotta be the tightest cunt I’ve ever had.” He breathes out, “I can’t believe I almost lost it.”
For a moment, his words hang fragile in the air. But then, Arthur seems to register what he said, seems to remember what led to this moment, and the anger comes rushing back. His arms tense around you, hoisting you up back to chest as he holds you close.
“Do you have any idea how worried I was?” He snarls, beginning to fuck you deeper, harder as he’s carried away on a sea of rage. “When I came back to camp and saw you were gone, I thought you were dead.”
His hips snap against yours, knocking the breath from your lungs, and with it, you can feel something building, a drawstring pulling tight.
“What’ll it take to get you to listen to me, huh?” He continues, his breath heavy and uneven as he thrusts up into you, “Maybe I oughta fuck a baby into you. That’ll teach you not to leave. Can’t go nowhere if you can hardly walk, and my babe’ll make sure of that. You’ll be forced to stay at camp and sit there like a good girl, all swollen and fat with my kid, waiting to welcome me back with open arms like you should have been this time. You’d like that, wouldn’t ya?”
Your cunt pulses around him, eager to turn his words into reality, and you cry out, nodding fervently. You can’t think, can’t breathe. You’re caught on the brink of ecstasy, stuck on the edge of tipping over. Please. Please. Please.
Eyes drifting over you in appraisal, Arthur hums, “Yeah, I think that’s what I’ll do. I’m gonna turn you into my little breeding bitch.”
He drives his cock deep, shattering through the veil of your release with a force that steals all the breath from your lungs. With it, a thrumming bolt of white hot pleasure cracks down your spine, cresting over and over and over again. Lost entirely to the throes of ecstasy, you convulse around him, hardly registering the warmth of his spend as he spills inside you. It lasts for minutes, for hours, for days it seems like. When the screen of pleasure finally clears, it is only then that you note the slow, soothing caress of Arthur’s finger against your clit, working you through the peak of your release.
“Shh. Shh. Shh. I’ve got ya, darlin’.” He says, quieting your muffled, unconscious whimpers.
He leans down to nip gently at your neck.
“You did so good girl.” He praises, still lazily thumbing at your clit. And slowly, with the help of his touch, the pleasure fades at last to nothing more than a dull buzz. You collapse against him, utterly spent.
That is–
“Bet you can give me another.”
You tense, choking on your breath, as his finger digs a little deeper, sending shocks of blinding pleasure racing across your body once more. It’s too much. Too soon. You can’t.
“Wa-wait, Arthur–”
“You can take it, can’t ya? I know you can.” He coos, gently rocking his hips against yours as his half-hard cock swells inside you. “You will, won’t you girl?”
As he ruts against you, a pleasant, humming warmth begins to build inside, and you cant your hips toward him.
You never could deny him anything.
“That’s my girl.” Arthur smiles, smug and pleased. Then, splaying one hand against your stomach, he says, “After all, can’t let something like today happen again, right darlin’? ‘M gonna make sure it takes tonight.”
summary : you decide to ask Arthur why he doesn't want anything more than light kisses and innocent touches.
warnings : NSFW, +18 MDNI, no use of y/n, f!receiving, nipple sucking, fingering, both reader and Arthur are desperate and horny, suggestive ending
word count : 2,5k
author's notes : first time writing for Arthur, my beloved, so it may be a little ooc. sorry for any writing error in advance (actually i don't write smut a long time ago 😭) and hope you like :)
Gif by Strawberry Milk on pin
It was supposed to be a simple outing. You were tired of being stuck at the camp in Horseshoe Overlook, and Arthur, being the good fellow that he is — or perhaps a little tired of hearing you complain —decided to take you out for a ride. You wasted no time and quickly mounted your horse, eager to finally have some time alone, but mainly to be with the outlaw.
Your relationship with Arthur was unique. Both of you had acknowledged your feelings some time ago, yet it seemed as though your relationship had taken a step backward: he appeared to be somehow afraid to touch you, always avoiding any contact beyond what was appropriate.
You were tired of it. You wanted more than those tender touches that caused butterflies in your stomach. You wanted to feel all those sensations you heard other women talk about with him. And you were tired of using your imagination. After all, you were sweet on each other, right?
So you put your plan into action. After tying up the horses, you sat on a rock while watching him fish, and after some casual talk, you decided to confront him.
Just the question made him look closely at you, with a raised eyebrow and a confused expression. He quickly replied, and you tried not to blush. “Of course, darlin'. What's the question for?”
“Nothin'. Jus wonderin'…”
“That's a dangerous game.” Arthur joked, but realizing you hadn't said anything, he abandoned his fishing rod and approached you. He gently held your chin and lifted your face. Just this simple touch sent shivers down your spine, and you clenched your hands on your skirt. “What's making you so sad, huh?”
You swallowed hard as you stared into his beautiful blue-green eyes. You couldn't lose your nerve!
“It's your fault.”
Surprised, he slowly removed his hand from your chin and placed it on top of yours as he slowly knelt down. Arthur stared at you with lost and regretful eyes, as if he felt guilty for causing you great distress, and you did everything you could not to give up on it all and say it was no big deal.
“I…” For the first time, he seemed to be at a loss for words. “Did I do something I shouldn't have, sweetheart?”
“No, it's not that. It's more something ya didn't do…”
With this ambiguous response, Arthur became even more confused and lost. Something he hadn't done? He cleared his throat and caressed your delicate fingers, trying to get you to explain further.
“Ma sweet girl, I'm really confused. But I'm sorry if I did something to hurt you, that was never my intention.”
With that, he took your hands and brought them to his mouth, kissing them tenderly as if they would break. Your cheeks grew hot, and your entire body seemed to boil. That was the last straw. You couldn't take it anymore.
So you stood up suddenly, once again catching poor Arthur off guard. With each passing second, he became more confused.
You stared at him with a flushed face and took a deep breath.
“Arthur, you don't like my body, is that it?”
Again, the confusion never left his face. However, before he could say anything, you continued.
“Since we said we liked each other, you haven’t tried to touch me even once. Whenever we’re about to get to the point where things get more daring, either something happens or you push me away.” You felt like you couldn’t breathe. “I like your gentle touches and kisses, but I also want more. I don’t want you to hold back with me, Arthur.”
You fell silent and breathed quickly, trying to control the nervousness spreading through your body. You turned away, trying to control your tears.
What a fool. He'll think you're desperate.
The sound of Arthur getting up reached your ears, and before you could pull away, he pulled you against his strong chest and wrapped his arms around your body.
"Thank you for telling me how you feel. Really. And I…I really didn't want to make ya feel that way. I didn't want to scare ya or anything, so I thought it was better not to rush into things and ruin everything like the stupid bastard that I was. I should've noticed. Sorry, darlin'."
“Oh, Arthur. It's okay. I could have tell ya everything earlier.” You leaned against him and caressed his cheek, feeling his stubble. You stood on your tiptoes and kissed him, watching his cheeks turn pink. “Thank you for understanding.”
“Always, sweetheart.” He smiled and kissed your forehead, running his fingers through your hair. “Actually, I didn't want to scare you.”
You smiled and ran your hands over his broad back. “I would never leave you, Arthur. Never. But why would you think that would happen?”
Once again, his cheeks turned pink, and he tried to cover them with his hat. You laughed and moved your hands up to his shoulders. “I didn't know big bad outlaw Arthur Morgan could be so shy.”
“Darlin', I…”
“What? What can be so bad that ya wanna hide from me?"
It was after that question that it all started. One thing led to another, and before you knew it, you were straddling a rock with Arthur's mouth on your nipples. One of his arms wrapped tightly around your body, preventing you from moving, and the other gently squeezed your other breast.
Throughout all this, he hadn't touched the center of your legs even once. However, that didn't stop the wetness from settling there and increasing with every moment you felt his wet tongue touch your nipple.
Your clitoris throbbed against your drawers, and you, trying to find some relief, began to rub yourself against Arthur's clothed leg. He squeezed your waist tighter.
"Ya don't move, until I say so, alright darlin'?" His husky voice whispered in your ear, making you moan eagerly. God, how much you needed him.
You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, trying to feel his body against yours. Getting no response from you, his mouth enveloped your other nipple and bit it lightly, making you moan again.
“D'ya hear me? I wanna hear your sweet voice, princess.”
You took a deep breath.
“Yes, Arthur. I won't move…”
He kissed your cheek affectionately, making you melt. What did you do to deserve a man like this to call your own?
“That's my girl. My sweet girl.”
The compliments warmed the pit of your stomach, and you nestled into the crook of his neck. It felt so good to receive compliments from him.
His calloused hand left your chest and snaked down to your hip, sending shivers of anticipation through your entire body.
Finally.
Your skirts were lifted and Arthur came face to face with the products of arousal that your pussy had been releasing throughout the lengthy teasing. You bit your lip, embarrassed.
"Look at'chu, what a mess. I haven't even touched you properly yet and ya already all wet. Ma darlin', ya are really desperate, aren't ya?”
You moaned in embarrassment and tried to close your thighs, but Arthur's strong grip prevented them from moving.
"Where do ya think ya are goin'? Let me see that pretty pussy of ya, sweetheart. Ya'll show me, ain't ya?"
You nodded without thinking twice, eager to feel his fingers finally touch you there. Arthur smiled and removed your drawers, finally revealing your pussy hidden between your curls.
You nodded without thinking twice, eager to feel his fingers finally touch you there. Arthur smiled and removed your drawers, finally revealing your pussy hidden between your pubic curls.
You sighed with relief and, fighting your shyness, opened your legs wider, revealing yourself to him. Hearing no response or anything of the sort, you slowly lifted your heavy head.
“Arthur?” You called out in a breathless voice.
However, your voice did not reach the outlaw's ears, who was completely focused on the liquid slowly leaking from your pussy. His mouth went dry and the air seemed to leave his lungs.
A sudden thirst settled in his throat. He looked like a drunk staring at his favorite drink before drinking it. Like a predator staring at its prey before attacking.
“Arthur?” This time, your voice reached him and his blue-green eyes stared at you. He swallowed hard and squeezed your thighs.
“Shit, darlin’. Ya don’t know how much time I was waitin’ for this.” And slowly, his mouth moved closer until you felt his breath against your throbbing clit.
And suddenly, his wet tongue ran all over your pussy, making you scream and shake your whole body. Your screams were music to his ears.
“Arthur…what are you doing!?”
Instead of answering, the outlaw began to suck all over your pussy, alternating between your clit and your little hole. Your whole body arched, and you began to press your thighs against his head.
Sweat accumulated on your forehead, and it became increasingly difficult to control your panting breath. All you could do was moan loudly and grab the man's brown hair so he wouldn't leave.
The only thought in your little head was how his tongue wrapped around your clitoris and licked your inner walls.
At no moment did Arthur cease the abuse of your sensitive pussy. He sucked desperately, as if he wanted to extract even more of the sweet nectar that ran down your thighs.
With each lick, Arthur felt more and more intoxicated and addicted. It tasted like a cold whiskey after a long and exhausting day. God, how long had he been missing out on this?
“God damn, sweetheart, ya taste like heaven.”
His blue eyes, filled with lust, stared at your expression lost in pleasure. You couldn't be more beautiful: messy hair and a few stray strands stuck to your face; rosy cheeks; mouth open in a perfect “o” and teary eyes, which seemed to beg for more of his gentle and precise touch.
Looking like a fucking masterpiece.
Suddenly, he pulled away, causing you to whimper and grumble at the loss of his tongue.
“Why did you stop?”
Arthur let out a hoarse laugh and brought his calloused fingers close to your moist heat. The movement made your clitoris contract with excitement and caused waves of heat to run through your entire body.
“What a desperate darlin' I have. Can't wait a second.” He smiled and slipped a finger inside you, feeling the wet walls squeeze him. He let out a moan, unable to stop thinking about what it would feel like to feel this tightness around his cock. Just that thought was enough to make his member throb against his pants.
He could wait. Your pleasure was more important right now.
“Oh my God, Arthur!” You moaned loudly and squeezed his hair tighter in your sweaty hand. God, a single finger of his seemed to fill you as much as two of yours. You couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to feel his cock there. Would you feel full?
You whimpered, and Arthur added another finger, opening you up and stretching you even more. His other hand moved over your sensitive clitoris, making you writhe with pleasure.
"Look at'chu, drippin' all over ma fingers. Is that what'cha wanted, princess?"
You moaned once more and began to move against the thrusts created by his fingers inside you. With each movement, you could hear the obscene sounds of your soaked pussy. “Yes, Arthur…it feels so good. Don't stop, please.”
“Yeah, that's ma good girl. So sweet n perfect for me. How could a bastard like me deserve someone like ya?”
“You're…You're worth of it, Arthur. God, I love ya so much.” Tears formed in the corners of your eyes from the stimulation you were receiving. God, you couldn't take it much longer.
Arthur grunted and kissed your red cheek gently, then your half-open lips. Your hands moved to his cheeks, feeling the wet stubble of his beard against your warm hands. The kiss was a mess of tongues and saliva, but neither of you cared. You could taste your sweetness in his mouth.
“I love ya too, ma darlin',” he said with his mouth close to yours, feeling your rapid breathing. “Could ya take another one for me?”
You nodded slowly and Arthur smiled slyly.
“Such a good girl.” And so the third finger went inside you, widening the small cavity even more. God, you already felt so full. You moaned against him and your mouths joined once more.
His fingers didn't stop even once, abusing your little pussy once again. Every time they left your warmth, you could hear the wet noises it made.
When you started to feel short of breath, you pulled away and clung to him like a fragile branch as his fingers quickly moved in and out.
“Arthur.” You called him slowly. “I'm not gonna last any longer…”
“Come for me, sweetheart. I got ya.” He pressed your body against his and started kissing your neck, making you moan. "I can't wait until ya take ma cock. Shit, ya are goin' to be so perfect. All open n full of me. What a damn vision."
You moaned at the sight and squeezed the fabric of his shirt until your fingers were almost white.
"This pretty n needy pussy will take me so good. So perfect that maybe ya won't be able to walk straight after that. Is that what ya want, isn't it darlin'?
“Yes! Yes! I want it so badly, Arthur.” You practically screamed as your walls squeezed his fingers. Your mind went blank, and you came against his fingers. You whimpered, and your tired body literally melted against his, recovering from your orgasm.
Slowly he withdrew his fingers and sighed as he lost the tightness between them. Arthur laughed when he saw that his whole hand was wet and brought it to his mouth, tasting your divine flavor once again. “Look at this, all wet and so sweet.”
“Stop it…” You blushed and nestled into his neck, embarrassed. With his other hand, Arthur gently caressed your head.
“You did so good, princess.” He kissed your cheek, making you laugh. Soon after, he joined his mounth on yours.
“Thank you.” You said as you pressed your forehead against his.
"Anythin' f'ya. But sweetheart, next time I'll show you what really means lose your mind. Jus like ya want it."
The sweet promise sent pleasant shivers throughout your body.
word count: 1404 || tag: fluff, light crack (you get teased to hell n back)
summary: the summer heat is getting to you and the lovely gentleman across from the saloon is NOT helping your case. you're gawking. god help you
You feel faint. You've been gawking at the same man for the past hour, and there's this sneaking suspicion that he's probably noticed your staring. The rest of the girls in the saloon definitely have.
One of them bumps you gently with her hip as she swings past you, and you give her a beaten look as you pout at her. You're not doing it on purpose, you swear. You're just hot and bothered, and the man who looks unshaven makes you feel like you're going to lose it. It's not fair. Just not fair. You've gone so long without getting married, after all. It's not a sin to— oh, whatever.
You go back to scrubbing the towel in the washbin. Horrible, really. Summer's heat is bolstering hot, painfully drenching you in sweat, but you're forced to make do. It's rare there are visitors in the area, and it's even more rare a visitor looks as good as this one, so you forgive yourself for gawking obviously. You're simple, after all. Heavens forbid you ever find the love of your life if you gawk at every passing gentleman.
"You really haven't stopped." A girl settles next to you with a new bin, and you whimper.
"It's horrible." You mumble, face so warm you're sure you could probably fry an egg on it. "I'm so warm from the summer heat I think y'could cook an egg on my head."
The girl laughs, arms working at her set of fabric. "Oh, sweetheart."
"I'm weak willed, forgive me. He's a looker, after all." You mumble, scrubbing more ferociously as you get lost in your own mind. "He isn't helping with the heat."
"Not my personal kind, but all yours, sweetheart."
"Save a horse, ride a cowboy or whatever."
Arthur watches you from the other side, mumbling to himself as he listens to the conversation in the building, pausing when he catches wind from your conversation.
"Save a horse, ride a cowboy or whatever…"
The girl next to you laughs so hard she nearly falls off of the seat, but you force all focus onto scrubbing that stubborn stain off of the sheets. You might as well sink into the ground with how hard you scratch at the brown, and you huff. Technically, it was the saloon's fault for leaving this in the back, waiting to be washed, but you weren't some poor old newbie who had no idea how to clean. It would come off with enough warm water, and the metal bucket at your feet was rapidly warming up with the cracklin' sun.
You throw your head back to breathe, sweat sliding down your back. Ough, you can feel the tan already.
When you do, you notice the man staring down at you, raising a brow amusedly as you blink twice to make sure the summer hasn't driven you stupid.
"Hey."
You think you're going to pass out.
"'ello there, sir!" The girl laughs. "Y'need somethin'?"
"y' give baths here?"
Your throat dries up, and you go back to trying to scrub the stain, to which you realize the fabric is stainless from your more than enthusiastic scrubbing, and you're starting to think that maybe this is the universe's way of punishing you for gawking at a man you don't know. God help you for wanting a man.
"We sure do." The girl laughs. "Should we run one for ya?"
Arthur nods, and you make eye contact with your colleague as she gives you the most devious grin on earth.
"I do NOT do that kinda service." You mouth.
"Y'do now." She grins.
She hums and heads in and leaves her bin, and you think you're going to return to nature.
There's a considerable amount of silence as you reach over to take the girl's bin and swap it for yours before Arthur speaks up.
"So… what was that'about savin' horses?"
"Oh, you heard that?" You whisper, mortified as you turn around, and Arthur laughs, chest shaking.
"Sure did, sweetheart." He tips his hat, and your face flushes with warmth as you think about sinking into the earth and returning to mother nature.
"'s the offer still open?"
You think you mishear him, looking up at him and blinking, jaw dropped like a fish out of water.
"Saving a horse?"
"riding the cowboy, darlin'"
You're going to pass out.
"Bath's ready, sir! You want a girl in there with ya?" The girl makes direct eye contact with you, and you think you might actually die on the spot.
"Can I request one?"
You're going to die.
He makes eye contact with you, and the girl laughs.
"She'll cost y' extra."
"Mary Ann!" You gasp, horrified as she laughs. "Y' sellin' me like some hog in the barn?"
"Come awn! You'd do it for a pretty penny!"
Your eye twitches, and she tilts her head at you.
"I don't mean to be rude, ma'am. Just askin'." Arthur stares into your eyes, and your heart shakes. Oh, curse that dammed heart of yours.
You sigh, giving in as you kick the bucket over to her, and you fan your neck, craning it back, exhaling.
"I'll get ya washed, sir. C'mon in." You lead him in, closing the door behind you as you wait for him to strip, and once enough time has passed, you head on in to scrub him. He smells of musk and dirt, but nothing you haven't seen before, so you push your sleeves up to get scrubbing, ignoring the way his eyes stay lingered on you as you move around. Your hands are rougher than the other girls, he assumes it's from the cleaning fabric rather than men, and when he kicks up a leg for you to scrub, he notices the way your ear turns a shade darker as you scrub closer and closer to his pelvic region.
Unused to it, probably.
You're unused to it. You don't remember the last time you had washed a man rather than the beat up towels used to dry the men off after. Yet, you persevere, cleaning him down until the water is murky and he's clean, wiping your forehead when you do finish, squeezing out the water as you nod at him. You try to ignore the fact that he's hard and remind yourself that it's unprofessional to fuck one of the customers. Wretched mind.
"Y'er all clean, sir." You hum, exhaling when he pushes his hair back to get the water off his face.
Arthur checks to make sure, and you look to the side, sure that the color on your ears has got to be ten shades darker than it ought to be. You're trying your best to ignore the very obvious erection he's got, and you know some of the girls might help the poor man out, but you'd rather he say it aloud than assume that he might want help. You're the one who had made the rather horrifying comment to him about saving horses and riding cowboys.
"Thank you, darlin'"
You nod, getting ready to leave.
"Will… y' wash up later?"
"Hm?" You turn around, glancing as Arthur swallows.
"Ah, don't… don't worry 'bout it. You seemed to be sweatin' up a storm earlier."
"'s what the summer does to people down here." You mumble.
"Ah… alright."
You wonder if you should just throw yourself accidentally into the bath, but you're certain that's just the heat speaking and not your right mind. Oh, you poor soul. Haven't gotten bedded in so long that y'start wanting to fuck a cowboy— alright, alright. Out the door you go.
Your hand finds the doorknob, and you take a seriously heavy inhale before you twist to try to leave, but the sloshing of water cuts you off before you're pressed against the door, and oh, whatever. Your poor clothes will need washing already anyway.
"Tell me to stop whenever." He mumbles, resting his face in your the crook of your neck, fingers tugging at the buttons on your chest as your heart races in your chest, and by dear god you think you might be wet enough for him to just slip in. You turn around to let him mouth at your neck as he continues popping the buttons down, and you whimper.
and, well, if you have a story to tell after it all, then god forgive you for sleeping with a customer.
a/n: i luv ignoring my wips and going feral and emerging from a doc 48 hours with this
word count: 6.3k
synopsis: Once upon a time, a high-society girl, you were to be wed. Two years on, you live a much different life alongside Arthur Morgan, an outlaw life, despite your squeamishness to blood, killing, and the like. But when the past won't stay buried, you learn just how far you'll go to protect the man you love.
hurt/comfort, mutual pining, friends to lovers, period-typical sexism & canon-typical violence
By all accounts, according to Arthur, the two of you should not be friends.
Not that you weren’t lovely company! And nor was it that you couldn’t stand his long, sullen silences, even if he had trouble believing you were enjoying yourself, just sitting by him.
But there was a clear difference between you — one that Arthur felt sorely.
He hadn’t wanted to call you innocent, ‘cos you weren’t the naive type and you weren't stupid neither. But for running with a gang of outlaws? Your hands were remarkably clean.
See, you hadn’t killed a thing, ever: man or beast.
You got squeamish if you were on cooking duty when Pearson was butchering up the latest hunt, eyes hastily averted. You had pouted all day when John tread on a butterfly, even if it was entirely by accident. You passed off darning shirts to Tilly if they were too blood-soaked, nausea evident on your face.
Well, passed off is the wrong wording. More like, tried to sew without looking at your hands til Tilly took pity and offered to switch with you.
You weren't naive, you just didn't like to see things die. Not an awful hill to die on, Arthur had to agree. Neither did he in most cases.
Micah liked to grouse that you were definitely not cut out for gang life—said with a predatory curl of his lip, eyes shining with malicious intent. Probably was dreaming up all those ways to frighten you, or ruin your "innocence", just for the hell of seeing you shriek.
But Micah was a bad man. You knew that.
It’s why Arthur didn’t understand why the hell you tolerated him.
Watching you over the fire, the air bending in the heat, Arthur relents with a sigh. You did much more than tolerate him. If he wasn’t feeling so sour-faced, he probably go as far as to say you liked him, good and proper.
Besides, he could admit he was a better man than Micah; even if only in the faintest of ways.
He killed just as much. He’s beat men to death with his bare hands, blood flying and bones crunching. He doesn’t hesitate to send a bullet into any unlucky bastard getting between him and the next score for the gang.
Arthur knows feeling guilty doesn’t absolve him of nothin’.
At least he helped people too. Stopped when a lonely straggler needed a ride, retrieved stolen bags, and hunted down herbs and flowers. He enjoyed being the good thing riding into town, even if at time it took a hell of a lotta patience.
That was something he had, that Micah did not.
It just wasn’t enough for Arthur to understand why you might care for him.
But Arthur Morgan is not one to look the gift horse in the mouth and so despite how unlikely it should be, the two of you were friends.
It means being greeted in the early morning with a cup of coffee, the cup pressed into his hand before he’s even wiped the sleep from his eyes. You don’t linger, not any longer than you need to make sure he’s not gonna drop the hot mug.
The first time you had offered it, Arthur had been so surprised he had nearly dropped it.
You had laughed, hands darting out to steady the cup, and looked up at him through your lashes. “Hold tight, cowboy. That’s important stuff in there.”
Arthur had wondered then if this was what it was like to be struck by lightning. Each atom of his body fizzed, coming alive with a hum.
He had opened his mouth, then closed it, uncharacteristically flustered by the gesture.
You had laughed again, softer this time. Arthur finally reined himself in and tipped his hat in appreciation—mainly to hide the colour on his cheeks.
“Thank you kindly, miss.”
“You’re very welcome, Mister Morgan.” You had mused, amusement in your smile. Then you departed, other chores calling your name, with nothing more than a smile thrown over your shoulder.
For him, your friendship means finding the little gifts of the world to bring back. He hadn’t thought too much of it before, passing through homesteads and general stores with only fleeting glances.
However, after a week of hand-delivered cups of coffee, Arthur had begun to hunt for something of equal calibre he could give in return.
Several flowers sat in his tent, wilting and drying in the sun, in the grasp of a man too unsure of himself to gift them. He bought sweets, an extra chocolate bar in his satchel, before it was eaten in gnawing worry of what you’d think.
He was a brute. Trying to gift you nice things from his violent hands was downright laughable.
It wasn’t until he found a hair-pin, silver and slender with a delicate flower atop it, did Arthur manage to finally give back. He’d bought it before he could chicken out and once he had it, he thought it would be far stranger to keep it than to gift it.
You liked wearing flowers in your hair. That had been why Arthur picked them for you—but this, you could wear always, without it wilting.
He’d handed it over as you had passed him his morning coffee, pressing it into your palm as nonchalantly as he could manage. Then he hid his smile behind his coffee at your delighted gasp, your joy infectious and unmistakable.
You had thanked him profusely, for the first time not calling him Mister Morgan, but instead Arthur. His name had never sounded sweeter than falling from your lips
And that there… that was the one other, really good reason that you and him shouldn’t be friends.
Because as sure as the sun rose every morning, Arthur Morgan rose with it, undeniably in love with you.
—
You had been engaged once before.
Not by choice—an important distinction you hold fast to. Even if Karen likes to make passing jokes about you being a woman already spoken for, you’re thankful when Abigail quickly shoots her down with a piercing glare.
There is, after all, only one real reason a woman like you ends up on the run.
Rufus Hugo is your particular reason. A man up to his neck in wealth, pilfering the land for oil, and, as last you knew, looking for a fourth wife.
You’d once thought him unlucky, your poor fiancé.
How is it one man can be followed by such tragedy? Three young wives, in the space of a couple years, each found violated and slaughtered in the back alleys of Saint Denis, red smiles cut into their throats.
You’d once been a fool.
The papers and Sheriff had to be under his thumb, considering the blind eye and frilly stories they turned out. The rumours told a different, darker tale — ones that fell on deaf ears, too twisted up in your own plastic assurances.
Your father wouldn’t have organised this if he knew. And— and he couldn’t know, because it simply couldn’t be true.
Rufus treated you like a jewel, plying you with expensive gifts and decadent clothing, more than you’d ever had before.
When the nag in your gut didn’t leave, he had coaxed it out of you — the fear of some maniacal killer, out for the blood of Mister Hugo’s betrothed — and then he assured you with a feline smile of a wolf.
No one’s going to lay a hand on you, treasure. The only man who gets to touch you is me.
Adoring at the time.
Stomach-churning in hindsight.
You’d overheard entirely by accident, a fact that makes your heart skip stutter if you think about it too long.
Pure luck saved your life. Pure chance that you’d overheard them, wandering the halls at one of the many parties held in the honour of your engagement.
His nasty habit revealed to you in a manner of words, floating out the keyhole.
His sickening tone, lusty and humorous at once, you heard him tell the other men at the party how there was nothing better than how tight their cunts had got when he dragged the blade across their jugular.
Your stomach had plummeted. Bile crawled thickly up your throat.
The version of the world you knew contorted painfully, upside down and suddenly all wrong.
And like the vicious pain of stepping into a bear trap, the hinges of it sweeping up with sharpened blades, you knew if you stayed that you would undoubtedly be next.
You ran.
With nothing but the clothes on your back, frenzied like an animal being cornered, you ran. It was thankful you managed any coherent ideas as you tore down the stairs, pushing through the party, uncaring of the cries that followed you — but stealing a horse was probably the only reason you survived.
Though you sparsely knew how to ride it, you rode for two long, hard days before exhaustion caught up.
No amount of distance felt safe enough to slide off your dead-tired horse but you were given no choice. Your stomach ached with the growl of hunger and delirium had begun to creep in from your lack of sleep.
You were parched beyond relief and still in your god forsaken party dress, when you let your horse slow to a stop in a shallow river.
Then you’d fallen off in one spineless lump.
Caught somewhere between physical exhaustion and sleep, the freezing water had been quite the wake-up. More so when you surfaced, spluttering, and there was a man standing before you — muttering something about a strange damn woman.
It was the very first night you laid your eyes upon Arthur Morgan—soon after which, you promptly fainted from exhaustion.
The same night you disappeared from Saint Denis — becoming a ghost before you were doomed to become one at the hands on your to-be husband — you were reinvented in the warmth of a gang on the run.
—
Two years on, you stop wondering if Rufus Hugo still hunts for his fourth bride.
There would have been search parties for you, you’re sure of it. Even if half the party could attest to you fleeing of your own accord, a rich man doesn’t give up his prizes so easily.
But somewhere along the way, you’re not sure when, you stopped looking over your shoulder. You no longer tensed at every new, unfamiliar figure on the horizon, certain it was your past crawling back.
You’re not sure when—but you sure as hell know why.
Sliding off his horse in one fluid motion, Arthur hitches the reins on the post out front the general store with a grunt.
It’s a blazing day in Rhodes, the desert sun overhead. A mirage pools in the distance, along the main road. There’s little wind to cool you, just the buzz of flies around the horses.
It’s just you and Arthur travelling today.
An unnecessary journey for the sake of enjoying each other’s company; under the guise of camp work, of course.
You two are friends. Arthur kept his distance from most gang members, happier on the outside of the circle, which you knew.
It meant that when you got these moments — Arthur inviting you along for a journey to a town, the myriad of gifts he seemed to find for you — you couldn’t help but… hope.
You steal a glance at the cowboy, drinking in his rugged profile. He’s due for a shave, his beard a little longer than you know he prefers, but you gladly enjoy the sight.
Men in the city were groomed and clean-shaven. There’s something much more real about the ruggedness of Arthur’s appearance, his blue eyes flashing your way from beneath his hat. You catch the hint of his smile too.
Watching him subtly, he takes a moment to coo his praise to his mare, Hypatia. She nickers affectionately, searching for a treat that he dotingly gives. His rough voice whispers lowly of how he spoils her, even as he brushes her neck gently.
Sometimes, you really think Arthur likes horses more than he likes people.
It doesn’t bother you—how could it? How could you feel anything but soft-hearted when you see him dote on his horse, all his corners softened?
Besides, you think it’s a good show of character.
You’ve heard how he talks to himself sometimes, self-deprecating mutterings of how he’s a bad man, unworthy of your kindness.
But you’ve met worse men before.
Arthur may have killed, but never senselessly. Never for pleasure.
“I think,” Arthur says, his southern drawl thick. He tips his hat to the general store ahead of you both. “The spices will be second floor.”
Can’t hunt, can’t kill, can’t thieve — but god, can you cook.
It had been nice to have something to bring to the gang, considering your general squeamishness. Arthur decided long ago it was worth heading further south for the better spices closer to the city.
“I gots to pick up some more ammo, but I’ll meet ya in there.” His gaze finds the gun store across the street before tracking back to yours. He checks, “That alright?”
You nod to him, as your own mare butts your shoulder gently, making you laugh.
“Yeah, that’s alright, Arthur.” You affirm, reaching back to give her a pat. The sweet smile you wear is equal parts for her as it is for the cowboy before you.
“See you in a minute,” you say. Arthur nods, boots kicking up the red dirt as he begins to make his way down the main street.
The worn steps of the general store creek underfoot as you make your way up them, already mentally flicking through what you’d wanted to buy.
Salt, oregano, thyme… maybe some cumin, knowing how much Arthur seems to like it. Nodding politely to the shopkeeper, you head for the second story stairs — missing the flash of someone familiar through the window, peering in.
These wooden stairs are far less worn than those outside, but the traces of countless boots are evident all the same. Hand on the railing, you ascend slow, mind wandering off easily.
It’s venison for dinner, if you aren’t mistaken, from the latest hunt Charles brought in. Maybe tonight you’ll make convince Pearson to make the stew your way—spiced heavily and just the way Arthur likes it. (He hasn’t told you that half the reason is because it’s you making it.)
You approach the lined shelves with a hum, eyes dancing from colourful tin to colourful tin. Spotting your first target, a trusty tin of salt, you miss the creek of the floorboards behind you as you reach for it.
“Treasure.”
Your hand falters, fingers outstretched, halted in the place. There’s the unmistakable heat of a body behind you— but even so, the scrape of a knife leaving its sheathe confirms it.
A shuddering exhale forces from your mouth as the knife is suddenly beneath your chin, hovered above your throat. You lock in place, hand still held out. A hurricane of harrowing dread howls through you.
It couldn’t… it couldn’t be him.
No way could he have found you now, after years of your disappearance — no way was he still fucking looking for you.
The well of horror in your chest caves in, growing like a sinkhole, as your mind repeats the same word over and over: no, no, no, no, no.
The blade moves up, the cool edge of it pressing to your chin. You inhale sharply and feel a tremble start to take your body as your face is forcibly turned, pulling your gaze to a sickeningly familiar face.
“My, my,” Rufus croons. “My little bride to-be. Been lookin' for you a long time.”
Your nose wrinkles at the title, one you’d renounced the minute you'd fled, all those months ago. His dark eyes narrow at the motion and travel to your outstretched left hand, eyeing it with a glint.
“No ring.” He tuts, letting the knife fall back against your throat and resting it there.
You snatch your hand back in, hands flying to his arm and pulling with all your might—a fruitless battle against his strength. All it earns you is the sharp edge of the blade pressing further into your skin and you stop moving quickly, another gutted gasp pulled from you.
"Do you even know," He hisses into your ear. "How much goddamn money I spent on you? On trying to track you down?"
The venom in his voice leaks out, replaced by a charismatic purr you're far more familiar with. Once upon a time, it had voiced believable assurances from a man who would happen to be your husband.
Now, it only widens the sinkhole in your chest.
"You've cost me a fortune, treasure. Now I've come to collect what I'm owed."
A finger draws an idle line on your back, creeping forward along the stroke of your waist. Try as you might to suppress it, a shiver skitters through you and your throat presses ever closer to the knife again.
It's enough to pierce the skin, just a sliver, before the finger on your waist turns is joined by four others, clamping tightly.
Your balance wavers as you're forced back, the hard line of his body pressing flush up against you.
Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck are you going to do?
Eyes screwing closed, you force your breath to remain even. You— you have your own revolver but if you move, you don't doubt Rufus has any qualms with painting the shop-floor with your blood.
If he wants you, he'll have to move you- he— he'll have to leave the shop and then, you can try—
A loud clatter sound and your eyes fly open, catching on to what's been dropped — your stomach following suit quickly. Your revolver glints back at you.
"Here's what's going to happen," Rufus begins, as if he's merely discussing the weather. "You and I are gonna—"
His voice drops at the intrusion of noise, a squeak from the stairs behind you. In an instant, you remember the person you're waiting on. Arthur.
A desperate mixture of terror and relief shoves up your throat. It's a warning and a cry for help simultaneously.
When the knife shifts, you have no choice but to shift too, your body and Rufus twisting deftly—his other hand drawing his revolver in an instant, the barrel directed at Arthur. He's already drawn back the hammer.
There's no keeping your breathing even now. Not as you get to watch Arthur's distracted gaze tug upward, seeing the horror seep into his expression. His body becomes deathly still.
You don't come along on jobs for good reason. Even so, you aren't so naive as to think being an outlaw has no risks. You know Arthur has been on the barrel-end of innumerable weapons, that he risks his life on the daily.
You've just never had to see it with your own eyes before.
The scene unfolding before you feels like a honest-to-god nightmare, ripped from the most fearful parts of your mind and thrust into reality.
A slush of hysteria churns within you at the realisation you may very, very well watch Arthur die today. The man who had been the first to hold out his hand, to offer you aid, to pull you from the life you were running to escape.
The one you hold too closely in your heart, in your affections.
The thought triggers something to seize terribly in your heart — and you know suddenly, without doubt, you'll do anything to stop it from happening.
There's a long moment where nobody breathes. You watch as Arthur's sharp eyes dart from the gun, to the knife on your neck, up to your face in rapid succession. You watch his horror bleed into a vengeful fury, one like you've never seen before.
"You don't want to do that."
The words come out so low it's nearly a growl. Arthur's hand moves, drawing back to his holster when Rufus interrupts.
"Uh, uh, uh," He taunts, quickly turning the barrel of the gun to your head. The barrel of it butts against your temple.
Arthur freezes.
"That's right. You're going to drop your revolver."
It's a staggeringly long moment as Arthur wrestles with what to do, his hand still hovering, fingers twitching. Then the knife nudges closer and the single trickle of blood down the column of your neck is enough to have him complying.
It lands with a thud against the floor. It feels like the nail in the coffin.
"Why are you doin' this?"
The revolver in Rufus' hand lolls forward to aim back at Arthur, the motion almost lazy. He smiles.
"She didn't tell you?" His attention switches to you, using his thumb on the knife to stroke along your neck. "Is this who you replaced me with, treasure? He's hardly an upgrade. Hell, he looks—"
The words die off as Rufus' head snaps back to Arthur, his passive grip on his gun changing in an instant.
For one long moment, he studies the outlaw across from you both and then, horribly, you feel the moment he starts to laugh.
"Oh, treasure," He all but coos at you. You see Arthur bristle across the room. "You're precious. Runaway with the outlaws, did you? This day just gets better and better."
He focuses his gaze back on Arthur and lines up his aim, hand steady. "I've seen your wanted posters, Mister Morgan. A fine five thousand to bring you in. My bride and my money all in a day's work."
He grins like the goddamn cat that got the cream, finger adjusting on the trigger.
And even though you know he knows, even though you know you told him, you can't help how your focus snaps to Arthur's reaction. Your stomach swoops in a horrible twist.
Because you can't but wonder if you're worth the trouble. As if you think, that now, as he realises who this man from your past is, he'll relent. He'll hand you over.
Understanding flickers across Arthur's face, the word bride sinking in with a sting. Then, somehow, the lethality rippling from his very being grows, expanding tenfold.
He's downright murderous, looking every bit of the immoral, malevolent man he believes himself to be.
He is never going to hand you over, you realise, the fear dissipating in the air like smoke.
Another one takes its' place. It's a terrible truth; he'll get himself killed trying to save you.
"Best of all?" Rufus hums. "You're wanted dead or alive, Mister Morgan."
He'll kill him.
You act without thinking. Distracted enough, Rufus' strength is beaten as your wrench the arm holding the knife back far enough to bite down into it, hard. Blood springs up beneath your teeth, the hard lines of sinew snapping beneath the force.
Rufus howls in pain. The revolver drops Arthur from its' sights as Rufus shoves against you fiercely, the butt of the gun slamming against your temple in a loud knock. You both hurtle to the ground in a desperate struggle—and all you can think of it the blade in his hand.
It presses forward, aimed for your neck, and you rip your teeth out of his arm, taking a pound of flesh with it. Rufus wails again and the knife surges forward, intended for your heart.
You twist frantically and escape the hold, scampering up and with nothing but pure instinct, your urge the blade into his own chest, pressing with all your weight.
It sinks in with a satisfying, bubbling gurgle. Blood rises quickly to spew from the wound, a river of red spilling out.
He's going to kill him—he's going to kill Arthur. The manic thought has your hands prying the knife out and driving it back in again, over and over, his body making soft squelching as gutted sounds drag from his mouth.
Blood sprays wildly, coating your face and clothes, but you can't stop. You can't stop, he's going to kill Arthur and take you away from him. You can't let it happen— you can't—
Hands pull at your arms and you seize wildly, dropping the knife and thrashing away, but in doing so, Arthur swings into vision.
It's him. He's alive. He's the one touching you. He's speaking, his lips moving, but no words are reaching your ears.
Your chest is heaving, hyperventilation wracking your body. Your ringing ears finally tune back in.
"—alright, you're alright. It's me. He's dead. He's dead. You're okay." Arthur murmurs, almost nonsensically, his hands held out, palms up. He's crouched before you and he barely knows what he's saying, but you're staring at him like a wild animal, drenched in blood.
"It's okay," He says again, desperate to help you in any way he can, blue eyes locked on you. "You're okay."
There's still blood in your mouth from the chunk you've taken out of Rufus' arm and a bright red splatter of it sprayed across your face.
"I—" The word coughs out of you.
Your gaze falls into horror as you take in the body growing cold on the floor next to you. Arthur watches the panic set in as the realisation of what you've done sets in.
"I- I had to, I had to," You begin to babble, terror threaded in your tone. "I had to, he was— he was gonna kill you."
"Hey, hey," Soothing sounds fall from his lips as Arthur shifts forward, reaching for you desperately. You grip his forearms, eyes wide, as if you need to make him understand.
"He was gonna—" Your words are interrupted by your own choking sob, breathing coming too fast. "Arthur, he was gonna kill you, I-I had to."
"I know, I know," Arthur croaks out, his throat thickening as his own realisation dawns. This hadn't been an act of rabid self-defence, as he thought. You had killed Rufus for him.
You, who can't stand the sight of blood, who gets queasy at the butchers, who doesn't like to hunt or kill — but will for him. To protect him. If he wasn't already there, the sheer display of love would send Arthur crumbling to his knees.
But he just moves his hands, his violent hands, to cup your face. The blood smears. "I know, sweetheart."
You’re staring him, your eyes still wide and wild, looking frantically for something in his face. Forgiveness? Absolution?
Arthur will gladly absolve you of this, a crime that was barely a crime at all. Saving his life and your own, at the cost of the life of a killer.
There's blood on your eyelashes and in your hair. Your breathing slows but your bottom lip quivers with a fierceness. In the smallest voice he's ever heard from you, you whisper, "I had to," then crumble.
Arthur's large body cradles yours easily, one hand tucking around your middle and the other shifting to cup the back of your head as you sink into him. Your head tucks away in the crook of his neck, soft sobs spilling out easily now, and something awful aches in Arthur's chest.
"I got you," He repeats, a promise, a goddamn oath he swears to keep. "I got you, you're okay. You didn't do nothin' wrong."
He feels downright evil to move you so soon but his ears prick at some commotion below. Casting his eyes back to dead body, Arthur knows the large pool of blood has made its way through the floorboards. It's only a matter of minutes before the Sheriff will be here.
"Shit." He curses. He strokes a tender hand along your hair, calling gently for your attention.
"We gotta move. People are comin'. Can you walk?"
You dig your face out of his neck, movements sluggish. The exhaustion from the terror has drained you, your eyelids already drooping, limbs heavier.
Arthur makes the call for you.
Hoisting you softly into his hold, he keeps you nestled against his broad chest, arms tucked behind your back and the bend of your knees. He's almost thankful you can't stand, if only so he can feel the puffs of breaths that escape you against his neck, a reminder you're still with him.
Arthur eyes the locked door in the back corner. It'll lead around the back of the general store and out to the street but Hypatia and your own horse were still hitched out the front. Gritting his teeth, he prepares himself for a wild run, hoping the element of surprise is enough.
It will be enough. It has to be enough.
It's with a charging sprint that he makes it down the stairs, his boots slamming against the wooden floorboards. He doesn't pause to take in the shop-keepers aghast reaction, nor the sprinkling shower of red from the ceiling.
He bursts out into the daylight. Eagle eyes scanning the streets, it's clear that, for now, he's ahead of the law.
With less gentleness than he'd prefer, Arthur pushes you up onto Hypatia's saddle, keeping one hand on your waist to keep you upright and on. His other reaches for the reins hitched over the post and he snags them free, quickly doing the same for your horse.
There's a yell down the street, loud and demanding. Arthur doesn't spare a glance, vaulting himself up onto the saddle behind you.
With a hyah! and a loud, practised whistle, Hypatia breaks into a sprint, quickly followed by your own horse.
Two horses tear down main street, hooves thundering, a fearsome and unstoppable silhouette against the western sun.
The townspeople bleat their fear, barely leaping out the way in time as the horses rush by. Dust kicks up a red-dirt storm. Soon, when it settles, gone will be the only proof you were ever there.
Arthur rides.
The weight of you, slumped back in his chest, is less of a comfort than he would like.
He wants to— no, needs to see your eyes, needs to intercept every foul, wicked thought running rabid in your mind. You’re clawing at your soiled conscience, he’s sure of it, trying to tear the new stain on it from you.
Ruined yourself—for him.
A spidering guilt cloys in his chest, darker than ink and sharper than any blade or bullet he’s ever felt before. His chest aches.
Arthur knows he’s a bad man. He just never imagined he might drag you down to his murky depths.
Swallowing heavy, he grips the reins tighter. Leather bites into his palms. He welcomes the punishment.
He feels, more than hears, your sudden shuddering gasp as you come back to yourself. Your exhaustion must have dipped away enough and it’s clear, for a moment, you struggle to place yourself and your surroundings.
The jostle of a horse beneath you is a giveaway but even so, Arthur feels your hand curl across his toned forearm. Your grip is tight, nearly masking the tremble in your fingers. Nearly.
“It’s me,” Arthur assures, raising his gruff voice loud enough for you to hear over the rumble of galloping. “I got you, it’s Arthur.”
The grip on his arm loosens, his works sinking in, and you nod wordlessly. You let him cocoon you in safety, surrounded in his arms.
Unknown to Arthur, the ride is far too reminiscent of the journey you’d taken all those years ago; the long, hard ride with no goal but putting distance between you and where you were running from. Who you were running from.
Except this time, the one you're running from is dead. He’s dead and you killed him.
It’s unclear how far he travels, the sun sitting lower in the sky, a pinkness blooming on the horizon, before Arthur pulls Hypatia into a slower trot.
You hadn't been followed out of Rhodes, he knows, but he’d still taken you as far as he could, likely further than necessary.
But now, out of physical danger, his priority switches on a dime, all of his senses zoned in to you before him. You, still wordless, still vacant, still painted in a glaze of scarlet.
The decision come easy, Arthur using his keen skills to trot towards the sound of water. A thorough check ensures you'll have no company and Arthur wastes no time, tugging the reins to a halt with a quiet click. He dismounts, large hands reaching for you before his boots even hit the dirt.
You’re willing, your hands seeking him, finding his shoulders and allowing him to help you off Hypatia. There’s a dulled look in your eyes and Arthur knows he will do anything—anything— to change that.
Feet on the ground, you’re level with his chest and you blink slowly, staring forward.
For a moment, Arthur waits, his brows drawn together in his concern. He gives you the moment. If you need to cry, to scream, to blame him — he'll take it, weather whatever storm you have brewing within you.
But you only drag yours eyes up to meet his, voice still small, "I got blood on you."
Another fracture in his chest, another ache of misery. Arthur sighs, gaze softening immeasurably, his hand coming up to cup your cheek tenderly. The blood smears beneath his touch.
"That's alrigh', sweetheart." He murmurs, sweet as he can. He tilts his head slightly, towards the lazy, roving river, blue eyes never leaving you. “Will ya let me clean yer up? In the river?”
You seem to just notice the riverbank you’re standing upon, head twisting to peer at the roaming water of the river.
A nod, minuscule and unnoticeable, if he wasn’t tuned into your every movement.
His hand on your face shifts, reaching down to tangle with your own. It's an anchor in unsteady seas, solid and unflinching.
Your eyes take in your hands, intertwined, and trail up to his face — and you know, with a sudden burning intensity, you can't regret what you've done today.
Not if it means having him. Not if it means saving him.
Arthur leads you down to the water, slow and steady. You follow, hand clutching his tightly, like a devoted follower who trails a messiah, your salvation ahead.
Stopping only to remove your boots and his own, along with his hat, Arthur bites back his hiss at the chill of the water as he wades his way in, fully clothed. The water licks up his calves, thighs, rushing around the sudden intrusion. When it reaches above his waist, he pauses, letting you catch up.
The sun kisses the horizon in the distance, a mellow and amber light cast far across the landscape. Strange how much had happened, had changed, in a manner of hours.
Crickets chorus. In the nearby trees, an owl hoots a soft lullaby.
Arthur doesn't let go of your hand. With the other, he brushes it across the surface of the river and then reaches in, letting it pool into his palm. He brings it your face and lets its run across your hairline, loosening the blood that's crusted there.
It's a slow, dedicated process.
Hands, scarred and calloused, pass over your skin the softest of touches. His thumb works gently at your hair, washing the blood away into the river. You close your eyes when he asks you to, in a low murmur, and the cake of sin is cleaned from you in the most tender of motions.
"Will I ever be clean again?"
A whispered question, eyes still closed. The blood may be leaving but you can still feel it spraying across your face, hot and thick. It's sunk in, you're sure of it—evidence of your crime just an inch beneath your flesh.
"You are not unclean." Arthur grunts, his hand still moving as he speaks. His thumb passes over your jaw. "This— what you did, it don't dirty these hands, you hear me? You did what you needed to do. You did nothin' wrong."
The assurances feel heady and heavy and you want to shake them off. You're not yet sure if you deserve them.
"I'm not mad he's dead." You say. He has to know this.
"I'm not mad I—" Your voice wavers terribly, even if your mind is set. "—killed him."
Eyes fluttering open, you gaze up at Arthur, reverent and resolute. "I... I would do it again, Arthur."
The for you is unspoken.
But if he looks, if he peers between the lines, you know Arthur would find it, beside the I love you hidden within your earnest words.
It's barely a secret—not when you want him to see it. You've been torn open today, a festering wound split down your middle, and somehow nothing feels more crucial than him knowing.
Him knowing and loving you still, seeing you unchanged, despite it all.
The water rushes around you, carrying your transgressions away, and his hand in yours, dwarfing it, does not falter. Arthur's eyes graze across your face. He seems to find what he's searching for.
"You won't ever have to, sweetheart." He says, voice nearly a whisper.
His lips find your hairline, scraping a delicate kiss against the clean skin there. Then he presses his forehead against yours, soothing and intimate, a lifeline. An understanding and a reciprocation.
A sudden urge possesses you, the words clawing up your throat in a frenzy.
You need to tell him, need to say the words aloud and make him understand, as you had on that shop floor.
What if he doesn't know?
His forehead shifts against yours, the tips of your noses nudging together, your interwoven hands grasping each other just as tightly as the other. A warmth rises in your chest, glowing and fizzling, and despite the day, your lips twitch with the hint of a smile.
turnnoffyourmind
janainaart
pixelskylines
jbbartram-illu
discoholicmusic
prguitarman
kianamaiart
dededos
