Her Father’s Daughter—Arthur Morgan x Reader Ch 21
When the Van Der Linde gang spots the daughter of Leviticus Cornwall on the train down in Colter, things get interesting.
A/N: I am sooooo sorry this took so long. There was one section that was really hard to write for me because I’d never done it before (I’m sure you can figure out which one) and it just left me stumped. Also the professor of my online class is evil so there’s that.
The first shout reaches camp long before the riders do.
Conversation dies almost instantly. Karen stops in the middle of laughing at something Mary-Beth has said. Pearson looks up from his stew pot, wooden spoon still in hand. Even Reverend Swanson stirs enough to lift his head from where he’d been sleeping beneath a tree.
Then another shout drifts through the trees, much louder this time. And wildly, unmistakably Irish. “Fear not! I know you’ve all missed me, but the joy is back in your lives now!”
The riders break through the trees, Sean crowing at the top of his lungs. He looks a bit battered but rejuvenated somehow, while behind him, Charles and Javier look the opposite.
“He talked the entire way here,” the look in Javier’s eyes is reminiscent of a soldier returning from battle, “The entire way.”
“And you loved every second of it, you grouchy bastard!” Sean, unbothered, hops down from his horse and throws his arms open. No one runs to him.
“What?” he says with mock offense, “No warm embrace for a long lost brother, finally found? I see how it is!”
“You’re lucky we didn’t leave you to those bounty hunters!” Arthur grouses, already clinking beer bottles with Lenny.
“Ah, I knew you lot wouldn’t go that far, even if you are all heartless bastards!” Sean laughs, producing several bottles from his saddlebags, “And look what I nicked from the shopkeep, eh?”
Charles rolls his eyes as he hitches Taima. “We have to use that store for supply runs. Legitimate ones.”
“Awe, quit yer complainin’ and start celebratin’!” Sean’s says, and this time when he lifts a bottle, the camp cheers along with him.
Within minutes, he has commandeered the center of camp, one arm slung around Javier’s shoulders while he loudly recounts increasingly implausible details of his captivity.
“And then there were hundreds of ’em,” Sean insists, “But it keeps more than that to keep down Sean MacGuire!”
“There were dozens at the most,” Charles says calmly. Sean waves him off.
“Hundreds of heavily armed men, Charles. A whole army. Don’t diminish my suffering.”
Laughter ripples through the cam, and music begins in earnest. Javier settles onto an overturned crate with his guitar while Mary-Beth and Karen clap along. Pearson passes around bowls of stew and thick slices of bread. Someone thrusts a bottle into Sean’s hand, which he raises triumphantly toward the darkening sky.
“To Sean!” several voices answer.
The redhead makes his way over to you, and you stiffen, immediately looking for Arthur, but he’s busy with Lenny.
“You must be the infamous Miss Cornwall, eh? Sean MacGuire, at your service! I have to say, you look much prettier in person than in the newspaper, if such a thing was even possible!”
“Leave her be, Sean.” Charles grabs his arm and tugs him away, and you give him a grateful smile.
You linger near the edge of the gathering, uncertain of where exactly you belong. And suddenly Arthur is beside you with two bottles.
“Oh, no thank you. I tried beer earlier tonight and it was horrid.” You say politely.
Arthur laughs, holding out a bottle. “This ain’t beer.”
You eye it suspiciously. “What is it?”
“Peach brandy,” he says. You consider it for a moment and he explains further, “Got it at the store while we was in town. Seemed sweet. Thought you might like it.”
You reach out and take the bottle, the warmth from his hand still on the glass. Karen appears at your side, ruby necklace flashing in the lantern light. “Oh, don’t you dare back out now.”
“You said you wanted to live like one of us for a night.”
“And one drink ain’t gonna hurt you!” Tilly adds.
Mary-Beth smiles. “Besides, Sean’ll never forgive us if we don’t celebrate properly.”
Sean cheers. “It’s true, all right! Miss Cornwall, they beat me, burned me feet, pulled out me teeth, and the only thing that might make me truly feel better is seeing you try some brandy!”
You relent and take a cautious sip. The sweetness surprises you, and warmth spreads across your tongue instead of bitterness.
You take another sip, and then another. Arthur watches your expression carefully. “Well?”
“…That is considerably better than beer.”
Before long, the music seems a little brighter, Sean a little funnier, and the knot that had lived between your shoulders since Phee’s death loosens, just for a little while.
There’s dancing. There’s music. Abigail and Molly chat amicably by the fire, and best of all, Micah isn’t there. Your corset is much tighter than you remember it being, but that’s a problem for another day. You sip on your brandy, cheeks getting warmer, as you drift through the camp. Somehow you end up sitting beside Arthur on an overturned crate at the edge of the firelight, your glass of peach brandy warming your hands. The sweet burn has left your cheeks pleasantly flushed and softened the edges of your thoughts in a way you find both alarming and strangely enjoyable.
A smooth voice sounds behind you.
“Miss Cornwall.” You turn to find Josiah Trelawney standing there with an easy smile and an exaggerated flourish of his hand.
His gaze moves appraisingly over the gathering before settling on you. “You seem considerably more at ease than when we first met.”
You take another sip of brandy and consider him.
“I suppose.” Why is he bothering you? Can’t he see you’re with Arthur? It’s wasn’t polite to try to engage you in conversation at the moment. His eyes drift briefly toward your neck, and you can’t stop yourself from frowning slightly. “Although I must say, I notice your pearl necklace is absent this evening.”
Instinctively, your fingers rise to your collarbone before you can stop them. “Oh. Yes.”
Trelawney tilts his head thoughtfully, “How curious. Because I believe I may have found one of the missing pearls.”
Your attention sharpens immediately. Abigail could use it as well! “You did?”
“Indeed.” He steps a little closer, extending one hand toward your shoulder.
You freeze. What in the blazes? Arthur watches the exchange with mild interest, clearly unconcerned.
Trelawney’s fingers brush lightly against the fabric of your sleeve before he draws back and opens his palm, revealing a single, perfect white pearl. You blink in surprise.
You reach for it automatically, but the instant your fingers close around it, Trelawney snaps his fingers, and the pearl vanishes. You jerk your hand back with a startled gasp. Beside you, Arthur still seems unconcerned, which you find a bit rude.
Trelawney opens his other hand with a flourish. The pearl now rests between his fingers.“Ta-da.”
You stare at him for a long moment, then you stare at the pearl, then back at him.
“Mr. Trelawney.” You say as politely as you can. Trelawney, to his credit, seems to notice that something has gone awry.
“You cannot simply do that.”
His smile falters. “I beg your pardon?”
“You removed an object from my person without permission.”
Trelawney blinks in genuine confusion. “My dear Miss Cornwall, it was merely a harmless diversion.”
“That is hardly the point.” You straighten your spine, suddenly feeling quite indignant. “A magician ought to announce his intentions beforehand.”
For a heartbeat, there is silence. Then Arthur lets out such a loud laugh that Javier misses a chord.
Trelawney’s expression shifts from confusion to fascination. “Announce my intentions?”
“Certainly. It is incredibly improper to begin performing tricks on unsuspecting people.”
Arthur leans forward, elbows on his knees, laughing so hard he has to catch his breath. “You hear that, Trelawney? You’re bein’ improper.”
You turn to Arthur with a frown. “This is not amusing.”
He lifts his head just enough to look at you, his blue-green eyes bright with tears of laughter.
“You thought he was breakin’ magician etiquette.”
“There is magician etiquette.”
That sends him into another fit of laughter. Trelawney places a hand over his heart. “I assure you, Miss Cornwall, this is the first time I have ever been accused of excessive spontaneity.”
“You practically accosted me!”
He bows. “My apologies. That was not my intention.”
You incline your head graciously. “Thank you.”
Arthur is still grinning at you in open disbelief, his eyes crinkled at the corners. “I ain’t never seen anyone scold Trelawney before.”
“I stand corrected. In future, should I feel compelled to make objects disappear in your vicinity, I shall provide adequate warning.” Trelawney disappears, and you’re finally left alone with Arthur again. You’re close to finishing your glass of brandy and saying something foolish when Mary-Beth walks up. Wearing your pearls. The realization strikes you with surprising force.
“Arthur,” she says brightly, holding out her hand. “Dance with me.”
You freeze. Think of something clever to say so he’ll be so engrossed in conversation he cannot leave! Arthur glances at her hand, then at you. You can’t formulate anything compelling enough, opening and closing your mouth like a fish.
“Aw, hell,” he mutters. “I don’t dance.”
Mary-Beth rolls her eyes affectionately.“That’s never stopped you before.”
Karen overhears and immediately joins in. “Oh, come on, Arthur! Sean just got back from nearly being hanged. Least you can do is celebrate.”
Sean points accusingly from across the fire. “Refusin’ a lady? That’s low, even for you.”
The camp erupts into laughter. Arthur shakes his head. “You’re insufferable.”
Mary-Beth simply smiles and waits. Why is she smiling like the world has just been handed to her on a silver platter? Dancing isn’t that big of a deal. Hardly an intimate act, really.
She beams. As if it was some great victory! You give the two of them a polite smile and realize your brandy bottle is empty and reach for another.
“You look like you’re glaring holes into poor Mary-Beth.” You recognize Abigail’s voice.
“I am doing no such thing.” But you don’t take your eyes off the two of them even as she sits next to you. Mary-Beth, unaware of your inner turmoil, giggles at something Arthur says. What on earth could be so funny?
“Arthur’s more of a big brother to the younger girls. Especially Mary-Beth and Tilly.”
“That’s lovely for them.”
Abigail finally tugs on your sleeve and forces you to look at her. There’s a flush on her cheeks that you’re sure is mirrored on your own.
“Just do it, you know? You only live once,” she says, taking a swig of her bottle. There’s a pause. “Just don’t get pregnant.”
“I would never—I was not planning on engaging in anything—”
“Well, start planning it! It was a long time ago, but when me and John first got together…Lo-ord.” Abigail whistles, “Boy, could that man use his tongue-”
Your face turns scarlet red. “You’re drunk!”
Abigail raises a brow. “So are you!”
“I…I am! Perhaps a little.” Everything seems a bit funnier now, like the world is tinted at the edges with something bright and shiny and safe. “And what do you mean, use his tongue? To kiss you?” You hated kissing with tongue. William was just so…slimy and…eugh.
“Sure, to kiss me. Right on my cun-”
“Abigail!” You lean forward, sloppily pressing a hand over her mouth, “My Lord! My…my Lord, you cannot say such things!”
She removes your hand and starts laughing, and then you start laughing, and you’re both laughing so hard you can barely breathe.
The night passes on in a haze of firelight and peach brandy. You float from one group to the next, always somehow aware of where Arthur is.
“Arthur, how come you ain’t never been married?” Lenny asks.
“No one would have me.” He says it in such a mournful tone that you want to go and…and shake him, and tell him he’s being silly, but Karen is grabbing your hand and leading you away and teaching you how to play blackjack, and the loser has to drink, and then the games turns into whoever can finish their bottle first wins, and your mouth is filled with victory and peaches.
And then you’re next to Arthur on a crate again.
Sean is in the center of camp, gesturing so wildly during another story that he nearly spills his bottle. Javier has resumed playing, the melody slower now, while Mary-Beth and Tilly sway together to the music without much regard for keeping time.
The sight of Mary-Beth annoys you, so you say somewhat peevishly, “They’re not even keeping time.”
“They’re just havin’ fun.” Arthur’s cheeks seem a bit flushed too, but perhaps it’s just the firelight.
“You can still have fun when following the rules,” You rise before you can reconsider. “Come here.”
You’d show Arthur what a good dancer you were, all the years spent in lessons with that horridly mean Frenchwoman your mother had hired, you would impress him with your grace and dexterity…
“I am going to teach you.” Why did he insist on ruining your plans?
He lets out a long sigh before setting his bottle aside and standing.
“Well, you don’t have to if it’s going to make you so unhappy. I don’t…I don’t…you don’t have to do things you don’t want to do just to please me.” William’s face hovers in your mind before you banish it.
Arthur’s gaze softens. “I know. I’m just bein’ an ass. I’m sorry.”
The apologetic smile he gives you makes your stomach flutter. You stop a respectable distance away and straighten your shoulders.
“You are standing incorrectly.”
“I’m—” he snorts, “Alright, sure. Show me how to stand right.”
You place one hand lightly against his shoulder, nudging it back. “No, relax.”
“You’re a very aggravating student.”
You reach for his hand next, lifting it gently.
Your fingers settle into his almost absentmindedly. Something sparks in your chest, your lower stomach, your whole body-
Arthur notices your hesitation.
“Yes.” You clear your throat.
“Now…” You hesitate, “Your other hand belongs…”
Your eyes drift toward his shoulder before lowering. My, what a…a finely formed shoulder it was. You were just admiring his figure the way people admire statues.
He studies you for a moment before resting his hand, almost cautiously, against the middle of your back. Like he’s afraid to touch you. And that should fill you with relief, but the feeling that floods your chest is disappointment. You want him to touch you, to hold you tighter, to pull you close—
He shifts it upward. “There?”
“…Yes.” The warmth of his hand seems to spread through the fabric of your dress. Your heart gives one traitorous little flutter.
“There,” you say, perhaps a touch too quickly, “Now we move. The waltz is a…a 1,2,3,4…”
“Oh, you’re leading?” There’s a hint of a laugh in his voice.
“The man is learning.” You correct him.
“Right. Yes ma’am.” There’s a twinkle in his eye. It’s not even funny, but something about it makes you let out a girlish giggle. It’s so undignified, so unbecoming. But Arthur’s face only softens further.
“You got a real sweet laugh.”
Your eyes go wide as saucers. Your laugh was not something you practiced or refined or trained. It was not taught. It just…it was just yours.
“Thank you,” you whisper, cheeks turning red. You try to lead him, but end up stumbling, which makes you laugh again.
“Guess you’ve had a few, huh?” Arthur says, that impossibly soft look in his eyes again.
You can’t stop giggling. “So have you!”
And then he laughs, and you’re both laughing, and you’re trying to teach him the proper steps but it’s hard to get a word out, and then you’re tripping and stumbling into each other which only makes you both laugh harder. It’s 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3–stop, you’ve stepped on my foot, it was an accident, I know, it’s alright, don’t laugh at me, I’m not laughing at you I’m laughing with you, then you were both laughing, 1-2-3-4, 1-...1-2, no try again, yes that’s it, you’re a good student, well you’re a good teacher. The firelight casts shadows that should make him look dangerous but only make him look handsome. You trip and stumble and twirl as people call out that it’s been real fun but they ought to tuck in, that they’ve got to be up in the morning, that they’re worn out from all the dancing but you don’t look at them and don’t respond because you’re looking at Arthur and Arthur is looking at you.
And then you trip and there’s strong arms around you hauling you against a warm chest. There’s no laughter now, only heavy breathing and a charged stillness between you as you stare into his eyes.
Arthur steadies you, one arm around your waist, the other still holding your hand. “You alright?”
You nod and neither of you moves.
His hand loosens, as though preparing to let you stand on your own again. Before he can, your fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around his. His eyes meet yours, his voice almost pained, “Clara…”
“Don’t.” You insist, “Don’t.”
You can feel the rise and fall of his breathing beneath your hand. The music from the fire has faded into little more than a pleasant blur somewhere behind you, swallowed by the chirping of crickets and the distant laughter rolling across camp. The whole world seems to have narrowed to the space between the two of you.
“You’ve had quite a bit to drink,” he says at last, his voice rougher than before.
“I know. We already spoke of it.” But it didn’t seem as funny now.
Another silence settles between you as his thumb shifts almost unconsciously against the back of your hand.
“Tomorrow,” he says quietly, “you might wake up wishin’ this never happened.”
You search his face, heart dropping. “Would you?”
Arthur lets out a small, humorless laugh. “That’s not what worries me.”
Something twists painfully inside your chest. “Arthur…”
He looks as though he’s fighting himself. “You deserve someone respectable,” he murmurs. “A fine gentleman, someone who’s your equal. Not…” He gestures vaguely toward himself.
“Someone like my husband, you mean?” You ask quietly.
I hate the fine gentlemen in New York,” you burst out, “I hate them. They’re…they’re empty.” All of them were empty, with whatever was fashionable pasted on the outside of their hollow shells so no one could see the deadness behind their eyes. They dressed as one, danced as one, thought as one, marching blindly along to whatever had been deemed desirable. Was there a real man among them? Was there one who pursued something for no other reason than that he enjoyed it?
Arthur liked to draw. He wrote in his journal. You saw him talking to his horse when he thought no one was watching. He did not pick his friends based on their color or sex. His hand was warm. He was real.
“They’re empty,” you insist again, “I hate them. I want you.”
For the first time since he caught you, Arthur’s composure slips entirely. His eyes search yours as though looking for some sign that this is a joke, or the brandy talking, or a dream from which he’s about to wake. He doesn’t find one. Very slowly, as though giving you every opportunity to change your mind, he lifts one hand and brushes a loose curl away from your face, his knuckles grazing your cheek.
You don’t know whether it’s the brandy, or the music, or the way he says your name like it’s something precious, but every lesson in propriety your mother ever drilled into you suddenly feels impossibly far away.
When your lips meet his, there is nothing accidental about it. It is only a soft, lingering kiss, hesitant enough that either of you could still retreat. Arthur pulls back briefly, cupping your face in his hands, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something. And he must find it, because he pulls you in and kisses you.
His mouth moves against yours, his hands nearly shaking as he cradles your face. The force of it makes you lean backwards, but he’s got you. He’s got you. Hesitantly, you try to mimic the motions of his lips, and you swear you can feel him smile.
You pull back to catch your breath.
“Arthur,” you say, “Arthur.”
“You alright?” His brow furrows in concern. His hands haven’t left your face.
“What you said in the carriage about things being enjoyable…I want it. I want it. Show me.”
He closes his eyes, leaning his forehead against yours, taking a deep breath.
He groans, and then his mouth is on your neck, kissing and nipping and biting. You swear it’s the best sensation you’ve ever felt in your life. You gasp, arching into his touch.
“Gonna give you whatever you want, sweetheart,” he murmurs between kisses, “But we gotta go back to the tent.”
You grab his hand and pull him towards the tent so quickly he huffs out a “Jesus!”
But he lets you lead him there.
Once your inside and the flaps are secured behind you, everything becomes a tangle of limbs and clothes. You both end up kneeling, facing each other, while Arthur lavishes your neck with attention once more.
“Gonna give you whatever you want,” he murmurs between your gasps, “But you gotta be quiet. Can’t have the whole camp hearing.”
You bite your lip, the feeling of his lips on your neck sending a tingling sensation down your spine. Your whole body is alight, and the pressure between your legs is worse than ever before.
“I’m quiet,” you whisper, “More, Arthur more.”
You clench your thighs together, shifting, squirming, trying to relieve some of the pressure. Arthur’s gaze goes straight to it and he groans. “Jesus.”
His hands travel down to your waist, squeezing once before he’s pulling you up with him. He sits on a crate, wedging his leg between both of yours, so your core sits right on his thigh.
“What are you-” you start, and then two strong hands grab your hips and grind you against him. Oh! You move on your own, just to feel the sensation again.
“Atta girl,” he says, going right back to your neck, “Take the lead. Make yourself feel good. S’all right.”
You were feeling more than good. The alcohol had you riding his thigh shamelessly, and each drag against it shot sparks along your nerves and made you clench around nothing.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, “Tell me to stop if you need it. Won’t be mad none.”
“I know,” you reassure him, “I want more. Please.” You grab his face and kiss him again, trying desperately to mimic what he’d done and failing.
“I suppose I’m not a very good kisser,” you say with a breathless laugh.
“You’re perfect.” Arthur doesn’t hesitate. Your eyes meet his and the look on his face is so utterly sincere you want to hold him and kiss him and cry.
“You’re perfect too,” you murmur, and he shakes his head.
“Ain’t you a sweet girl,” he says, lavishing your neck with attention once again, “Tryin’ to make an old cowboy feel better about himself.”
You open your mouth to rebuke him for that nonsense, but he whispers in your ear, “You ever come before?”
“Come where?” You ask, but you can already sense that he’s not talking about arrival in a literal sense.
“You know,” he says, his stubble faintly tickling your neck, “Hit a peak. Felt real good.”
“Things like this have never felt good,” you admit, “Not until you.”
“I know, sweetheart. I know. Ain’t your fault.”
“But you,” you accuse him, “You make me feel all funny. You’ve been doing it for a while. I think—I think you’ve been chopping wood on purpose, to set me off!”
He laughs, but it’s not condescending. “Watching me chop wood sets you off? Poor thing,” he coos, thumbs going in circles around your hips as he pushes you down on his thigh, “What the hell they do to you up in New York, huh?”
“Nothing as fun as this,” you sigh, throwing your head back. Your hands are greedy, greedy, grabbing everything you can touch—the soft cotton of his shirt, the muscles banding his arm, the slightly curled ends of his hair.
“And when you say you feel funny, you mean down here, don’t you?” He emphasizes his words with another push of his thigh, and you whimper.
“You’re alright, girl,” he soothes, “I’ve got you.”
“Yes! Yes, there!” You admit, cheeks blazing from alcohol or embarrassment or something else entirely, “Arthur, the…thing, the peak, what you were talking about in the carriage about enjoying it, even now I still don’t quite believe you!”
“Can I show you?” He leans back from your neck to make eye contact and you nod.
He leans in for another kiss, a real one on the lips, and then to your jaw, and then down, down…his hands rise up from your hips to your waist and then to the buttons on your shirt. He hesitates for half a second, and you huff “Ar-thur!”
You feel more than hear his laugh against you as he mumbles a “Yes ma’am.” For each button that’s opened, he presses a kiss to the newly exposed skin. His touch is intense but almost reverent. The cool air hits your skin with each button freed, and you eagerly pull the sleeves off and discard your shirt in a crumpled heap somewhere.
You’re still in your corset, but it’s also the most bare you’ve been in a long time. Your shoulders are exposed and the tops of your breasts peak out, which Arthur wastes no time lavishing with attention. His hands are warm as they travel around your back to work on the strings of your corset, and the heat of his lips and tongue as they work on your breasts is divine.
“Arthur,” you gasp again, insistent. Couldn’t he hurry?
“I know, sweetheart, I know,” he huffs against your skin, making you shiver, “These damn strings…”
You giggle, and then he laughs too, resting his forehead against your collarbone. You run your hands through his hair, marveling at the softness of it. And then you grab his head and plant a kiss on his forehead, just because you can. He doesn’t hesitate before attacking you with a flurry of pecks and kisses across your forehead, your cheeks, anywhere he can reach. Each press of his lips coaxes out another giggle, and he cups your face and gives you one final one on the lips, before turning you around on his lap so your back is to his chest. He works at your corset again, more successful this time, but you freeze as you catch sight of yourself in a mirror at the other end of the tent. Oh, no. Oh no no no.
“Arthur, I…I had a baby.”
His hands freeze just as they’re about to take the corset off. “I know it. What’s that got to do with anything?” He seems confused.
“Well, I don’t…I don’t look…you ought to turn the lamp off.”
“Why in the hell would I do that?”
He crushes your lips in a fierce kiss, only pulling back to breathe. “Don’t you talk about him right now.”
“Don’t apologize neither,” he murmurs, kissing down your neck now. You open your mouth, instinctively about to apologize for apologizing, but a sharp nip stops you. Arthur looks up at you as if he knew, and you close your mouth.
You feel his hands running up and down your bare sides, slipping beneath your corset without letting it fall fully, and you offer your last defense. “I’ve gained weight since I’ve been here,” you whisper, mortified.
Arthur pulls back slightly, looking down at you. “You have,” he says, not sugarcoating it, but instead of disgusted his voice sounds…excited? He runs his hands up and down your sides, “Yeah you have. Ain’t nothing wrong with that.”
To your utter confusion, he’s eyeing your new figure like a dog eyes a steak, his pupils blown wide. You eye him, thinking for a brief moment this is some horrible joke and he’s about the laugh, but the only thing on his face is raw desire. His hands inch up towards your breasts. “This okay?”
There’s an odd note of pleading in his voice, and you nod your assent.
He grunts something that sounds like fuck yes before throwing the corset off and kneading them with a fervor that surprises you. It’s not long before he’s pulled you back you’re facing him again. He starts to kiss and lick his way down, giving your chemise, your final barrier, a light tug upwards, a silent question. You lift your arms up and allow him to pull it over your head, baring your chest to him.
All the air leaves him in a quick exhale as he looks at you. “Now ain’t you just the prettiest thing I ever seen?” he breathes, tracing a hand back up to your now exposed breasts.
You’re still confused. Doesn’t he see the stretch marks on them? Shouldn’t he be putting up a front, politely pretending to not be offended?
He pauses, sensing your hesitation, and looks at you. “You don’t gotta do nothing you don’t wanna.”
“I do, I just…you’re so…enthusiastic.”
“Hell yeah I’m enthusiastic,” he says, before seeing the look on your face and sighing, “Listen, I don’t care about none of the bullshit the people in New York care about. I like you, and I like what I see. Okay?”
I like you, and I like what I see. “Okay,” you whisper back, giving him a tentative smile. He beams back at you in response, pulling your face in with both hands and smattering it with kisses. “C’mon, girl,” he says between his kisses and the giggles they bring on, “What you got to be all shy about, huh? You’re perfect.”
You let the compliment wash over you, relaxing in his arms, and he trails a featherlight finger up your side, inching toward your breast again, “You gonna let me take care of you?”
You give him a shy smile. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?” he repeats, pressing more kisses to you that draw out more giggles, “Yeah?” You nod again, feeling flushed and girlish and silly, and Arthur dives in like a man starved.
He takes a nipple in his mouth and sucks. You moan, running your fingers through his hair once more, pulling him closer. His thigh is still working between your legs, more insistent now, and one of his hands is kneading the breast his mouth isn’t on, circling your nipple in a way that makes the peak harden.
His other is slowly traveling up your leg. He pauses to readjust occasionally, sometimes stroking or massaging your thigh in reassurance, but up it goes. As his hand gets dangerously closer to the apex of your thighs, he releases your breast with a wet pop, looking up at you for silent permission. You part your legs open wider, and he nods, going back to working on your neck.
The first brush of his fingers over your sex is featherlight, almost as if he can’t believe you’re allowing him. You nearly roll your eyes, rocking your hips against him, trying to get some friction. Why did he spend so much time winding you up if he was just going to go slow?
“Alright, alright,” he mumbles, and you can practically hear the smile in his voice. His thumb circles your entrance and then traces your slit, parting your folds as he drags it upwards. Your neck has been abandoned and there’s a slight frown of concentration on his face as he looks down. What is he—
Oh. His thumb finds something that makes your entire body seize.
“Mhm, there we go,” he murmurs, circling it gently. He works you into a rhythm that has heat coiling low in your gut, like a rubber band ready to snap. His thumb gets more insistent as you pant, practically whining and squirming under his ministrations.
“I know, I know,” he soothes, “But you gotta be quiet, remember?”
You bury your face into his shoulder, inhaling the scent of soap and tobacco and something woodsy as you allow his strong body to muffle your cries. There’s something building in you, a strange sort of pressure and ecstasy, and you swear it’s been building for years.
“Atta girl,” he pants as you start to shake around him, “Give it to me.”
“Aaa—aaah!” You muffle your cry into his shoulder as the band snaps and your entire body jerks, waves of pleasure washing over you. It’s so overwhelming you’re not in control of your muscles as you tremble and not in control of your voice as you moan.
“Good girl,” Arthur soothes as you come down from your high. You feel his lips against his forehead as you sag against him, and his soft murmurs telling you you’d done so well, that you were so pretty, that you were so, so good grounded you as you navigated the alien feeling of so much pleasure all at once.
You freeze at the sight of him straining against his jeans. William. The sight of that in his trousers always meant something terrible was about to happen. And it’s Arthur, you know it’s Arthur, the smell of the campfire and the warm gentle glow of the tent are nothing like your sterile room in New York, but your heart seizes all the same.
Arthur follows your gaze and puts a finger under your chin, turning your head so you’re looking into his eyes. “This ain’t about me,” he says softly, “Ain’t gonna make you do nothing. It’ll go away on its own in a few minutes. I ain’t mean to scare you, sweetheart.”
You relax the death grip on his shoulders you hadn’t even realized you’d had, feeling foolish and small. “I’m sorry.”
“Ain’t nothing to apologize for,” he reassures lowly.
“It’s not you,” you have the sudden urge to reassure him, “It’s not…it’s not you.”
“I understand.” Another kiss on your forehead, and then he’s slowly pulling you off his lap, helping you discard the rest of your clothes and pulling a nightgown over you. His jeans are normal again as he steps out, this time not bothering to leave the tent so he can change. You sit on your cot and watch, looking curiously at his bare torso, broad and strong and covered with scars and sunspots.
You would touch it later, when you weren’t so tired, you decided.
“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” Arthur says easily, buttoning up his union suit and you blush as you realize you’d voiced your desires out loud.
The two of you end up in a tangle of limbs on one cot, Arthur’s arms tightly around you. You speak a little bit of everything and nothing at all, and that’s how you fall asleep, with your head tucked under his chin and one hand entwined with his.
AN: Guyssss writing smut is so hard for me and I still feel like it’s not that great! but fun fact, according to my research, “clitty” was something people called the clitoris back then, so i have spared you from that. clara is changing but at the end of the day she’s still a wealthy socialite so i enjoyed writing her a bit bratty and insistent, which I’m sure will ramp up the more time passes. and Arthur is such a giver, I feel like he’d be so good in a situation like Clara’s.
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