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)
[ prequel ] — both can be read as a standalone!
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.
synopsis — you, a girl from the upper echelons of society, fall in love with a charming, older outlaw that goes by the name of dutch van der linde.
warnings — age gap (not explicitly stated — older man, younger woman, though both are adults), familial issues, pre-established relationship, semi-explicit content, mentions of purity culture, set pre-canon, lmk if i missed any!
word count; 5.4k
this is a prequel to dutch’s girl, but can be read as a standalone!! title is inspired by luvcat (my queen) && the pictures are for the vibe of the fic and aren’t a representation of reader!
i have such a love hate relationship with dutch, esp with how he treated molly (i could treat her so much better) but i’ve had such an urge to write about him, so here we go, i hope you all enjoy my work!!
Opulent. Ornate. Lavish.
All words you would use to describe your bedroom. With the main feature; a four poster bed in the centre, decorated in silk sheets and satin pillowcases, furs draped over the foot. With a vanity against one wall, holding makeup and jewels worth more than what most people earn in a year. With a wardrobe containing dresses upon dresses, each one more embellished than the last.
Your bedroom is exactly what one would expect when imagining the youngest daughter of a big city banker in New Austin — spoiled beyond dreams.
What oughtn’t belong in your bedroom, however, is the outlaw sat on your chaise, drinking wine like it belongs to him. Like the whole room belongs to him. But he’s there, lingering like a foul scent clings to the space it inhabits.
But Dutch Van Der Linde isn’t a foul odour. Not in the slightest. He’s your man. The one your heart has clung to despite everything that should send you running for the hills.
You fell for him, not one of your fresh faced suitors, wealthy and green and ready to have a little bride all to themselves. Or even your older suitors, widowers looking for a second wife and even more children. All of your suitors have one thing in common: they aren’t Dutch. They never will be.
They haven’t swept you off your feet with strong arms, toughened from a life on the road, with a silver tongue that made your knees weak and cheeks warm. They haven’t wormed their way into your heart, carving out a hole just for them to live in.
And Dutch has. He lives in your heart, your mind, your soul.
You don’t know when he came in, though you imagine he entered how he usually does. Through your window — climbing up the trellis that leads directly to your bedroom. Perhaps it was fate that brought Dutch Van Der Linde to you. Fate, or the devil.
You’re quick to shut your bedroom door behind you, gently, careful not to draw any attention that could have your mother or father come knocking. That’s the last thing you want. Especially because Dutch is here. Finally. You were beginning to worry something awful had happened since you’d last heard from him well over a week ago.
“My darling dove, more beautiful than all the flowers in the world and all the stars in the sky.” He stands up, stalking slowly over to you as he appraises you with barely concealed lust shining in his eyes like the cat that got the cream.
You blush, giggling at his praise like you don’t quite know what to do with it.
His hand comes up to your cheek, rough and worn, thumb brushing softly against the apple, which has turned rosy under his intense stare. “I missed you.” You tell Dutch, lips drawn into a slight pout — so that he knows you’re upset. Well, as upset as you can manage with him looking at you like you’re the only girl in the world.
He pecks your lips and your pout disappears, no matter how hard you try to maintain it. Then, he presses a lingering kiss to your forehead, and your knees feel weak as your heart swoons. “I missed you too, honey. More than you know.” He whispers against your forehead, like a secret meant just for your ears.
Well, Dutch is your secret, something no girl like you could be keeping.
You snake your arms around his waist to tug him impossibly closer. He’s so warm and solid and real and you sigh contentedly in his hold. “Where’ve you been?”
“I had to.. be with the gang. We had a big job, lots of money for the taking.” His hand moves from your cheek to brush through your tresses, framing your face in the candlelight of your bedroom. The flames dance in Dutch’s dark eyes. You swoon a little harder.
You don’t press him for details, because he rarely gives them. “Did anyone get hurt?” Is what you ask every time he mentions a job, because you don’t think your heart could bear anyone Dutch cares about getting hurt, not when he does so much for them.
He shakes his head no, and the weight on your shoulders eases tenfold.
“So.. are you gonna make it up to me?” You bat your eyelashes as you peer up at him, arms moving up his chest to rest on his shoulders. Now that you know the job went well, you don’t feel so bad teasing Dutch.
“Oh.. absolutely.” He stares down at you, dark, intense.
You lean up on your tiptoes to kiss him, but he presses a finger to your lips. You pull back, brows furrowed in confusion, and a little hurt at his sudden rejection.
There’s a crooked sort of smile on his face as he reaches into his coat pocket and fishes out a little black box. Now, you’re even more confused.
With one hand— the other holds your waist to keep you pressed up against him— he flicks the box open. You breath hitches in your throat and your mouth parts at the sight you are met with. A ring. The gold band, engraved intricately with flowers and swirls holds space for the shimmering ruby that sits in the centre. It’s bright and beautiful. The most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.
You’re never going to take it off.
It slides easily onto your left ring finger, and you only remember to breathe again when it sits firmly on your hand, dainty and delicate and yet ostentatious in a way only Dutch can manage.
“What..” you begin, breathless in your awe, “Where did you get this?”
You’d never seen anything like it.
“I saw it, and, well, it reminded me of my darling girl.” He takes your hand in his own, one of his fingers brushes softly against your ring. “I knew it was meant for your hand the second I laid eyes on it.”
His answer, while vague in a sense you do not notice, makes your heart flutter furiously within your chest.
You have more questions. Endless. Burning. What does this mean? Is this a proposal? Does he want to marry me? Why now? Is it just an apology for him being gone for over a week?
He kisses all the questions from your lips, hand tightening around your waist. Your eyes shut, eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks. His mouth moves against yours, slow, purposeful, savouring the taste of you. His thick moustache tickles the skin below your nose.
Dutch likes to take his time with you whenever he’s been away for a period of time, making it up to you in the best way possible, by making you feel loved and wanted and desired all at once.
“I love it. Thank you, Dutch.” You say with a breathless sort of smile pulling on your lips when the two of you part for air. His forehead rests against yours. You hold your ring-clad hand against his chest, the ruby gem matching the crimson of his vest beautifully. Now you really look his. The notion makes you smile a little wider.
His lips twitch in a way that suggests he knew that would be your reaction. “Oh, but I’m not done making it up to you yet, my love.” The grin on his face is nothing short of wicked as he sweeps you off his feet and into his arms, holding you bridal style.
You gasp at the sudden movement, burying your face into his chest, “Dutch.. you’ve got to be careful— my parents. If they hear anyth—” You dread to think what would happen. Nothing good at all.
“Relax, my darling. They won’t hear a thing.” He lays you on your bed, atop silk sheets and far too many pillows. His countenance darkens as he takes in the sight of you, splayed out just for him, “not if you promise to be a good girl and stay quiet for me, hm?”
Dutch Van Der Linde certainly lives up to his reputation for being a master thief, because he has so effortlessly stolen the breath from your lungs.
You don’t know how long you’ve been staring at him, lips parted like a fish out of water. But it is long enough for your outlaw to repeat his question. “Do you promise, baby?” His hand brushes against the side of your face as he hovers over you, sat on the side of your bed.
You nod, untrusting of your mouth to form words.
That isn’t enough for a man like Dutch.
“C’mon, use your words. Ain’t got all day.” He coaxes exactly what he wants to hear from your lips, and you are helpless to do anything but oblige to every demand.
“I promise, Dutch.”
“Atta girl,” he praises, kissing you softly, rewarding.
He doesn’t stop stroking the side of your face, soft, peaceful, serene.
“So, what’d you get up to today?” He asks, as he turns you onto your stomach with cajoling hands.
You think about your day. You woke up to the sound of your maid, Sierra, entering your room. You’ve been waking up far too late for a respectable girl like yourself, but it was hard to sleep when all you could think about was Dutch and how you missed him something terrible. Then, you got dressed for the day with the help of Sierra — it’s impossible to lace yourself into some of the dresses you own. You like it best when Dutch helps you, kissing your shoulder blade with every lace he ties.
He unlaces your dress with soft hands. You like that even more, especially with what follows.
After you dressed, you’d had breakfast with your mother and some of your siblings, as well as their husbands. They’d all arrived not long ago to help with your debutante ball in the coming weeks, something which you’ve been dreading since you learned what it meant. You spent the rest of the day trapped up in your room, sewing to take your mind off of things. You’d only left in the evening to have a meal with your family, everyone at breakfast, and your father. It was a nice enough meal, your mother is a great cook, but the endless talk about your debut into society made you want to disappear into your chair. You had been scolded for slouching.
“I did some sewing.” You tell him eventually, resting your face on the mountain of pillows as he finishes undoing the laces that prevent him from seeing you wholly.
“Yeah?” He urges you to keep talking as he strips you bare.
“Mhm,” you hum, already feeling warm and fuzzy and he’s barely touched you. “I’m working on a dress. And— before you ask, you’re not allowed to see it. Not ‘till it’s finished.”
He huffs out an amused chuckle. By now, you’re in your undergarments and he’s still fully clothed. That’s something you’re going to have to remedy sooner rather than later. “Okay, sweetheart.” While his tone is humourous, the only thing showing in his eyes is desire. He doesn’t take his eyes off you as he goes to slide your cream coloured chemise from your body, but your hands wrap around his wrists, stopping him in his tracks.
“You’re still fully dressed.” You remind him, and he laughs again. Not mocking, just quietly amused.
“Ah, well, let’s fix that, shall we?”
You let go of his wrists to remove his black overcoat. He assists. It ends up tossed somewhere on your floor. Next comes his vest, shirt, belt, trousers. He’d kicked off his shoes sometime earlier. Until you’re both in your undergarments.
“Can I take them off now?” He muses, already working at the buttons.
You giggle at his insistence, and the look of concentration on his face.
He pulls the chemise up and off your shoulders, leaving you completely bare before him. His gaze drifts down your exposed figure, from the swell of your breasts and nipples pebbling from exposure to the cool night air, to the soft stomach of someone who has never known hunger, to what he has been aching to see hidden by the position of your creamy thighs.
“How is it that you get even more beautiful every time I see you?” He says, eyes not leaving your body. Not even once.
You flush under his praise. “It’s your turn now,” you tell him with a hand on his clothed thigh. Within moments, you’re both fully naked. You take in the sight of Dutch’s body, of his toned yet lean chest, covered in dark curls you want to run your fingers through, his strong arms from years of gunslinging.
With a soft push to the shoulder, you lie back against the pillows, with Dutch hovering above you. You lean up to kiss him like it’s your favourite thing in the world, and it is. Well, aside from what comes after the kissing.
He talks you through it, he always does. No matter the position, or how many orgasms he’s pulled from you, he keeps talking in that hushed tone you adore, keeps grunting strained half moans of pleasure. You’re forced to bite down hard on your fingers— or are they Dutch’s? To stop yourself from crying out on multiple occasions, lest your parents or your siblings, or the maids for that matter, hear you. He has you in every way he can— squirming on his ring adorned fingers, gushing on his relentless tongue, bent in half, face pressed into the pillows, legs haphazardly on his shoulders, draped across his lap. You lost track a while ago, before your brain oozed out onto the slick, sweat ridden sheets along with your dignity, and whatever purity you had left in your tainted soul. You’re long since past caring, not when it feels this good.
The ring stays on. You remember staring at it sometime between coming apart on his tongue and being bent in half, thighs pressed against your chest. Dutch kisses it at some point, coating it with your slick from his lips. The sight only adds to the wetness gathering around the apex of your thighs.
You fall asleep that night content and sated, limp and exhausted. Your head rests on Dutch’s chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat lulling you to sleep. The last thing you feel before the tendrils of sleep pull you under is the soft sensation of his lips against your forehead.
It doesn’t matter that you will wake up alone, the only signifier that Dutch was ever there is the way his scent, a mixture of cedar, leather and tobacco clinging to your pillows, and a warm patch on the sheets where his body lay next to yours. It doesn’t matter that you won’t see him again for a few days, or that he can never stay the night. You want whatever you can get from Dutch, scraps or crumbs or everything he can give.
You wouldn’t trade your secret rendezvous in the dark for anything.
Well, except being able to hold his hand in public without fear.
—
The next time you see Dutch is a few days after the night he gave you the ring and made you see stars.
Though this time, instead of him climbing up for trellis, you’re the one climbing down it. Dressed in one of your simpler dresses — red to match your ring. You land in Dutch’s arms where he stands on the grass beneath your bedroom window.
“Well, hello, my fair maiden.” He greets you with a teasing grin, setting you down onto your feet, large, gloved hand squeezing your waist. His free hand takes yours in his own, lifting it to his lips. He presses a slow kiss to the ring, and your cheeks warm under the action and the intensity of his stare.
You huff out a small laugh, “I’m hardly a maiden anymore, Dutch. I do believe you’ve thoroughly rectified that.”
He responds by pecking your lips, a proud smile on his face.
You loop your arm in his, and he leads you to his horse. Every time to see Dutch’s mount, your awe for the Count grows — a beautiful Arabian, as white as fresh snow. He’s like nothing you’ve ever seen before. The horse whinnies, and you pat his neck, stroking his luscious mane.
Dutch’s arm loops around your waist, tugging you impossibly closer to him. His lips linger on your temple. You pull out an oatcake, which the Count happily greeds from your palm.
“You’re spoiling him, my love.”
“He deserves it. He’s a good boy, aren’t you?” You coo, stroking his white mane, glistening in the moonlight.
Dutch laughs softly, deep timbre echoing in your ears.
“So.. where’re you taking me tonight?”
“Eager, aren’t you, my darling?”
You turn your head to look at him.
He pecks your lips once more. “It’s a surprise, my dear.”
You groan a little, pulling a pout onto your lips so that he will feel guilty and tell you where you’re going for the night.
He does no such thing. Instead, he ignores your pleading pout to mount his Arabian, before pulling you up with him by the waist. You wrap your arms tightly around his waist, still unused to the sensation of horseback riding. You hide your head in Dutch’s back, pressed against the back of his vest. You feel his chest rumble in a laugh, and your cheeks burn slightly in embarrassment.
As much as you adore the Count, you’re grateful the ride is short.
When the horses hooves finally come to a halt, you gather the courage to lift your head up when Dutch pats your thigh. You take in the sights before you — the beauty of nature. You love it when Dutch takes you to places like this, a stark contrast of the stiff, upper class society life. It feels nice to breathe in fresh air for a change.
“I found this place a few days ago,” he tells you as he helps you down, hands lingering on your hips.
You look around, admiring the waterfall, the water tumbling into the lake, splashing over the jutting rocks. The gentle breeze of cool air wafts the stray strands of hair that have fallen out of place. The trees are old beyond years, weaving roots, looming branches and summer leaves that sway in the wind.
“It’s so pretty.” You say quietly. You aren’t even sure if you say it at all.
“It is, indeed.” But Dutch is only looking at you.
He leads you to a patch of grass beneath a large oak tree, surrounded by flowers of every colour. The two of you sit down, and you instinctively curl up by Dutch’s side, soaking up his furnace like warmth. He wraps an arm around your shoulder, thumb brushing up and down your upper arm absentmindedly, the repetitive motion soothing your troubled mind.
Your debut into society is creeping closer day by day, and with it, your engagement to a man that isn’t Dutch. How will he be able to share your bed when another man sleeps in it? How will you be able to keep Dutch in your life at all? You don’t want to cheat on your husband — but the thought of ending things with Dutch breaks your heart.
“What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, dove?” You turn to look up at your outlaw, catching him already staring down at you with intent, brows edged in concern.
You sigh, eyes fluttering shut as you lean your head on his shoulder. “My debutante is coming up.” You tell him, like that one sentence explains all of your problems.
“Your debutante?”
“My.. debut into society. As a woman.. ready for marriage.” You say through gritted teeth like it pains you. It does.
Dutch hums lowly, taking in your words.
“I’ve been dreading it for years. But now.. even more.” You lift your head to look at him properly, “because I know I do not want any of them. Not— not when I have you.” You place your hand atop his own.
He exhales steadily. “The thought of you.. marrying someone else” he pauses, “pains me greatly.”
“I don’t want to, Dutch. You’re all I want. All I need.” You say it like you mean it, because you’ve never been more serious about something before.
A gloved hand finds purchase on your cheek, and he kisses you, slowly, purposely.
You cannot imagine a life where you will be happy with another man.
You do not want to.
—
All eyes are on you as you walk down the steps to your debut into society. The room is silent, save for the quiet footballs of your heels against the red carpet of the grand staircase leading to the ballroom.
Your gloved hand stabilises itself on the marble handrail. You’d allowed yourself a small rebellion — the ruby ring Dutch had gifted you rests on your left ring finger, hidden beneath the white silk.
Your steps are slow, forced, delaying the inevitable. Everyone is watching you, glasses of champagne in hand, as the harmonious symphony of the live band plays music in the corner. You feel less like a woman and more something akin to a prized cow, prepped and primed and ready to be sold to the highest bidder.
You remember looking into your vanity mirror that morning, and a stranger stared back — dressed in a tight bodice to accentuate your curves, hair curled into a grandiose up-do, fastened with an equally opulent white hairpiece. Every garment on your body is white, a symbol of purity on a person who is anything but.
You smile through the nauseous pit of dread churning in your stomach. You’d perfected the art of faking your emotions over the years of enduring events like this.
Looking into the crowd, you spot many familiar faces; the ones of your family, proud, boastful, watchful; the ones of your potential suitors, leering, appraising; and the other guests, watching on with thinly veiled interest.
You don’t see the one face your heart aches for. Dutch. You wish he were here, holding your hand, kissing your forehead. You wish you and him could simply be. But you cannot, because he does not belong in your world, and your world is not a world from which one can escape. Your world, stiff and arrogant and ignorant. You’ve been drowning under the weight of your expectations for a while now — to marry a man you do not love and bear his children and be seen and not heard like all good girls ought to be.
You spot your sisters in the crowd, each attached to their husband’s arm like a trophy, a symbol. You’re going to be like them, soon enough. The thought upsets you.
You reach the final step.
You linger on the threshold.
The music crescendos.
You see your mothers smile and your fathers outstretched palm, ready to officially welcome you into a society of snakes and false niceties.
You take the step.
It feels shockingly anticlimactic, and nauseatingly natural.
Perhaps it’s because you’ve been prepared for this moment your whole life.
Your mother hands you your dance card, and within minutes it’s almost full. You imagine you’ll be dancing until your feet drop off.
The first man on your list — Russell Lawrence — or is it Richard? dances like he has two left feet. He talks your ear off to distract you from his terrible dancing. It almost makes you giggle. He’s a son from a wealthy, old money family. For all he talks, you take none of it in, his words nothing more than muted sounds ringing in your mind, because his moustache reminds you of Dutch’s, only much more blonde. You cannot help but compare him to your secret lover, and he pales in every way.
The next man, Emmanuel Luther, although thirty years your senior, is a much better dancer. He whisks you around the floor, and you would enjoy it, if his hands didn’t drift southbound from your waist while he lead you around the dancefloor. You’re forced to endure it, to save face. He’s one of your fathers closest associates, after all. Though you want nothing more than to stamp your heel through his foot.
You dance and you dance and you dance some more, with endless men, each vying for your hand, your favour. You’re whisked and twirled and spun around until you end up in the hold of Adam Milton. He’s definitely one of the better options, leading you around the ballroom with practiced ease, filling the space with just enough conversation to keep you entertained, but not enough to make you uncomfortable. At least he’s not unpleasing to look at.
For a moment, you think spending your life with him wouldn’t be so terrible.
But he isn’t Dutch.
And that will have to be fine.
During a slow section of the song, another voice fills the air.
“Pardon me, my lady. Might I have this dance?”
Your heart skips a beat. Your breath stops.
There’s no way.
I’ve officially gone insane.
“We’re actually in the middle—” your suitor attempts to interrupt, but he no longer exists in your eyes.
Because Dutch is here.
He’s here.
Asking you for a dance like he’s one of your approved suitors.
You place your hand in his, he kisses where your ring sits. “Of course you can.”
Adam— or Aiden, or whatever he’s called says something else. But he leaves you and Dutch alone.
You take your rightful place in his firm hold, and he effortlessly leads you across the dancefloor. You wonder where he learned how to dance like this.
“How’d you get in?” You ask him as he twirls you around. You keep half an eye out for your parents, though you hope they won’t look too closely and will simply assume you are dancing with one of the men they have approved for you.
He winks at you, “I have my ways, dove.”
“That you aren’t going to tell me?” You ask, a little coy.
He laughs lowly, and your heart flutters at the melodic timbre. “So, tell me, my girl, how does it feel? Being a lady?”
Your nose scrunches and you glare at him. “My feet hurt,” is the first complaint of many storming through your head.
“Oh, we can’t have that, can we?” He grins, teasing.
You stamp on his foot, not hard enough to do any real damage, just enough to get your point across. He laughs. Your world feels all that lighter, the storm clouds dissipating.
You stare at him for a moment, his darkened eyes, concentrated expression. He’s trimmed his moustache — and cleaned it, no doubt. “Why did you come?” You break the momentary silence, peering at him.
He watches you for a moment, before his gaze flickers to the crowd of other dancing couples.
“Come with me.” Is all he says, breaking away from the crowd of dancing couples to lead you, or rather drag you, into a more private area. You go willingly, if a little confused. Many pairs of nosy eyes watch on you as a mysterious man steals you away. Some, angry they are not the man you have chosen. Others, curious. Some aren’t interested at all.
The two of you stand out of view, gloved hands finding purchase on your hips. It’s quiet here, no one should interrupt you. He kisses your forehead. You watch him with wide eyes and bated breath, wondering where on earth this is going. “My darling girl,” he stars, pulling you impossibly closer, the tight fabric of your bodice brushing against the black jacket of his three piece suit. “I want—” he hesitates. Dutch has never hesitated with anything before. Your worry grows. His head dips slightly. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Dutch.” Your response is immediate, automatic, because you cannot imagine where you don’t love your outlaw.
“Leave with me.”
“What?”
“You asked my why I came. I came to come and get you. To take you home.”
Home?
Home.. with Dutch?
That’s all you’ve wanted, isn’t it? To be able to love with freely, without duty nor expectations holding you back?
You’ve longed for this day. And now it is finally here.
So why does it feel like the rug has been pulled beneath your feet?
“Dove?” There’s a hand on your cheek now, warm, familiar. You lean into the touch.
It feels like home.
You think of sea of people in the room just beyond, the people you grew up with, the people who raised you, who you’ve known all your life. You think about your parents, although strict, they did love you. They wanted what they believed was best for you. But that was never what you wanted. You think about your sisters, how close you all were as children. They all followed the path set out for them.
You don’t think you can do the same.
In truth, your decision was made long ago, when you first let Dutch Van Der Linde into your life, your bed, your heart.
You blink. Dutch is staring at you, concern edged into his expression.
“What about— what if someone sees? And tries to stop—”
He shakes his head. “Your parents are preoccupied. I made sure of that. One of my men, Hosea, is speaking business with them.”
He’s been planning this, that much is obvious.
The thought warms you.
You take a deep breath, steeling your nerves. “I want to.” You tell him, taking another deep breath. “I want to be with you.”
He kisses you, and everything feels like it has fallen into place. His forehead rests against yours as you look into his eyes.
When you part, you loop your hand into his, and then your feet start to move. Slow, at first. You take a final— God, final look around your house, the curved archways, ornate rugs, lavish furniture. Dutch doesn’t try to quicken your pace, but his eyes are on you the entire time.
You pause in the kitchen. “I should write them a note. So they don’t think I’ve been taken.”
Dutch simply nods.
Putting pencil to parchment, your writing comes out in looped scribbles. You tell them that you’re leaving, and that you’re safe and happier than you’ve ever been. You tell them to not come looking for you. You write a section at the bottom for Sierra. You thank her for her service, for raising you.
You place it on the kitchen counter, along with your silk gloves.
Dutch kisses your temple like he’s proud of you. The ring glistens in the light.
It isn’t long before the two of you make it to one of the side doors. You can still hear the music from the ballroom, trying to lure you back into the bubble that is high society.
You don’t listen.
You step out of the door.
Dutch follows wordlessly.
It shuts behind you.
It feels like an ending.
And in many ways, it is.
He leads you to the Count, his bright white coat standing out among the backdrop of the moonlit sky. The crickets start their song. It feels like they’re welcoming you home after a long trip away.
The two of you ride out into the night, away from everything that was holding you back from being together. Your arms are tight around Dutch’s torso, face pressed into his shoulder as the wind whips through your hair.
You don’t look back on everything you’ve left behind.
@/targtrqsh here r the screenshots ^_^ me & some other ppl js noticed how similar these were to parts frm @d0lliesp1t's fic , rearranging words doesn't not make it plagiarism
i didn't want this to turn into a huge thing but seeing as so many people messaged me about it i feel like i have to :( i'm honestly terrified and i've been anxious all morning but aarrgghhh + thank u rosie (original poster and my best friend) for this
i just want to post my silly little fics (that are my work) with no drama, but here we go, i guess. i wasn’t gonna post about it, but i won’t have my name being slandered when i did nothing wrong.
first things first, i’d literally never even heard of this account before this whole thing kicked off so how could i have taken from it if i didn’t know it existed?
furthermore, my fic was published about 6 hours after. explain to me how i could have written basically 10k works in 6 hours?? especially because by this time i was just editing my work, as i had finished writing it like three days before.
i don’t understand how the ‘proof’ shows that i plagiarised?? They’re pretty common phrases and sentences in fanfic.
regarding the second screenshot, deer are such a prevalent part of red dead, and such a common animal to compare people to (especially shy, fem presenting), so claiming i stole that from them is simply not true at all. ‘doe’ eyes are literally everywhere lmao, and so is calling someone ‘sweet’. saying that’s plagiarism is actually a joke. I don’t even know where to begin with the ring, as it’s hardly a rare gift— people give rings to their significant others all the time, especially in proposals. that’s where i got the idea for a ring from, as a signifier to the reader that she belonged to dutch, even though he never explicitly said the words. in my opinion, a ring means more romantically than any other form of jewellery, which is why i chose it, not because i wanted to take from someone else’s work which also happens to include a ring??
the plots of my fic and theirs are entirely different, which is yet another point to show that my work is my own and not ripped off of theirs.
believe whoever you want to believe but i know my conscience is clear.
^ proof of when i created the document, if anyone wanted to see. it’s kinda hard to see, sorry.
hii i noticed a few parts in this fic r the same as one by @d0lliesp1t !! i have screenshots if u need them ,, pls credit her if u used her fic for inspo :3
hii, um, idk what to tell you i’ve never seen their fics before (or even heard of the account) — and i’ve had this as a draft for a while now so must be a coincidence??
if you could send the screenshots that would be great but yeah i didn’t take any inspiration from them.
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.
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)
[ prequel ] — both can be read as a standalone!
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.
⤷ when daemon targaryen heard that otto hightower has taken a new wife, he sees an opportunity to taunt him further. what he wasn’t expecting, however, was you.
HARWIN STRONG
what cannot be
⤷ as the prospect of marriage to a man you know you will never love looms closer, you take drastic measures and recruit the aid of your sworn shield to prevent it from happening.
★ RED DEAD REDEMPTION
ARTHUR MORGAN
dutch’s girl
⤷ as dutch begins to pull out of the relationship, you, forlorn and confused, find comfort in the arms of his prize enforcer.
DUTCH VAN DER LINDE
he’s my man
⤷ you, a girl from the upper echelons of society, fall in love with a charming, older outlaw that goes by the name of dutch van der linde
synopsis — as the prospect of marriage to a man you know you will never love looms closer, you take drastic measures and recruit the aid of your sworn shield to prevent it from happening.
warnings — canon typical misogyny, references to arranged marriage, reader has bad opinions on marriage, angst, excessive use of 'princess', virgin! reader, reader is described with valyrian features (silver hair & violet eyes etc) and has pubic hair, fingering, suggestive content, harwin is high-key obsessed.
word count; 4.3k
okay, this is my first time writing for harwin, and writing semi—smut, which is something i want to write, but i want to build up to it, so sorry if it ends quite abruptly. anyway, i had loads of fun writing for my pookie harwin, so if you want more please let me know!! i hope you enjoy <3
likes, comments & reblogs are always appreciated<3
“Princess!”
The deep rumble of your sworn shield’s voice thunders through you, though you do not stop. His shouts of worry do not deter you from your path.
Your footfalls, padding in quick succession against the stone floor of the Red Keep, bringing you further and further away from the Kings solar, are entirely overshadowed by the heavy thumps sounding behind you, the clanking of metal drawing nearer.
You don’t stop running.
You are causing a scene.
Fortunately, it is the hour of the eel. No one is witness to your outburst save the man chasing after you.
“Princess!” He calls again. Louder, this time. Closer, too.
You don’t stop until a firm hand clasps your forearm. His touch sends a shiver down your spine, momentarily distracting you from your goal.
He does not release you, aware you may take off running again if he does so. Rather, he turns you around, gently, always gently, until you are met with his armoured chest. You look down, not wanting your sworn shield to witness you like this, though you know he has seen much worse than a troubled Princess upset about her duties.
Lower lips pulled between your teeth to stop the trembling, your chest heaves as you realise what you have done.
Stormed out of your fathers chambers in a fit of rage and ran away from the man assigned to protect you.
But this is not something he can shield you from.
You exhale shakily and he loosens his grip on your arm, but is reluctant let go.
His gruff voice sounds in your ears, a familiar tone that has come to comfort you in times like these, “what is the matter, Princess?” You can detect naught else but concern woven into his deep timbre.
How can you explain what troubles you? How can you, when the reason for your woes is the sole duty you are to complete in this life?
Marriage.
As the days passed, you were acutely aware that the time you spent unmarried was drawing to a close. You do not want a husband. You do not want to be strapped to a man twice, perhaps even thrice your age. You do not want your entire existence to revolve around a man, when there is so much you have yet to do in this life.
Your heart longs for exploration, not to be trapped in a loveless cage, wings clipped and forced to submit.
Your Lord husband will be your master, and you his childbearing puppet.
That is not the life you want.
But you are a Princess. a Targaryen Princess, at that. It is your duty to marry a nobleman of your fathers choosing. Your line is dying out, and there are few left who can claim their Valyrian heritage. It has been engrained in you that you must bear children, heirs for the continuation of the Targaryen family line. But after what happened to your mother— mama, come back. I miss you. Please— the horrifying thought that your husband may choose to save a babe over you swarms through your mind, a nauseating feeling in your stomach. After all, Viserys Targaryen was widely known for his great love for Aemma Arryn, yet not even that was enough to save her from the blade. The curse that is the unyielding want for a son.
You do not want children. You do not want a husband. You want to be free.
And to make matters worse, he has chosen Jason Lannister, of all wretched people. The Lord of Casterly Rock. A pompous prick who will not see you but instead your Valyrian features, dragon blood in your veins and status as royalty.
He was denied Rhaenyra, and so has come back vying for you, the second daughter, the second best.
And then, Rhaenyra, the child your father favours above all else, neglecting you to give his special heir all the attention, all of the love.
She was given free choice over whom she wanted to take to husband. But not you, no, you have to be bound to a Lannister for the remainder of your miserable life.
It’s not fair. I won’t do it. I can’t. I—
“Princess?” Your watery eyes refocus on his visage, taking in his expression of worry, dark eyebrows knitted together, lips pulled into a firm line. He is stood firm before you, thick fingers remain curled around your forearm, working to ground you in the moment.
“I..” you sigh, swallowing thickly, your weight shifting from foot to foot. Brows furrowed as you try to sift through your complex thoughts, to provide your most staunch protector with a response. No words come to mind, your mouth cannot form words. But you wish to ease his concern, to rest his mind.
Harwin waits, patiently. Not pressing, not pushing you for a response.
He knows what you need, even without you saying it.
He knows you better than you know yourself.
He lets go of your arm, it falls back down to your side.
“He wants me to marry— Jason Lannister,” the disgust is evident from the purse of your lips, the way his name falls from your mouth as though the very thought of him is poisonous. You watch his jaw tick at your statement, fingers clenching into a fist at his side. There is a moment of silence before you continue, “I know it is my, my duty, to marry a Lord, to continue the Targaryen line, but I am not ready to be a wife. To be his wife.”
I do not think I will ever be.
“You need not justify yourself to me, Princess,” he shakes his head, and his understanding makes you pause, filling you with a warmth you didn’t realise you were lacking.
You swallow, nodding your head.
A moment later, you gather your thoughts and begin the walk back to your chambers, much less frantic this time. Harwin falls into suit half a pace behind you, the shadow you have come to know and appreciate. With him, you are no longer alone.
When Harwin Strong was first assigned as your sworn shield, you did everything in your power to make him leave, not wanting to be constantly followed. He persisted every time you managed to slip from his field of view, forcing him to chase after you. You are sure he would hear your cries in the night, when everything was too overwhelming. When all you wanted was your mother back, your fathers love, your sisters attention. No one heard your weeps but him. No one knew of your peril, your constant solitude, save the man who swore an oath to protect you from harm.
He has never mentioned this, but by the way he hovers, ever vigilant and always watching, you know it is more than keeping an oath. Harwin has grown to care about you, but you remain oblivious to what extent. He plans to keep it that way. Though it is growing increasingly difficult with each passing moment spent in your company.
You look back at him for a moment, lavender gaze focused on his deep brown, warm and welcoming. “I do not know what to do, Ser Harwin,” seeking advice from the man who has somehow become your closest confidant. Your voice is quiet, and your expression troubled.
Harwin would do anything to turn your frown into the gleeful smile he has come to grow and love. The way your lilac eyes gleam, the soft, melodic giggles that fall from your plush lips, the way your nose scrunches. It is his favourite expression of yours, and he has dearly missed it as of late.
He shakes those thoughts from his head, “my apologies, Princess, I do not think I can be of aid in this matter.” It pains him to not be able to do anything, bound by his own duty, otherwise he would gladly slay the man if it meant you did not have to marry him.
Matching your pace beside you, his hand forms into a tight fight on the pommel of his short sword. He wishes he could do more, for his sake as well as your own. He wishes to see you contented, and being the wife of a Lannister will not ensure that. Harwin is almost certain your peril will worsen.
You sigh, hand reaching up to toy with the silver curls that cascade loosely down your shoulders, over your cream dress, accented with hints of canary, “I— cannot marry him. I can’t.” Voice broken and uneven. The next words ache as they leave your mouth, resigning yourself to a fate of hollow despair, “but there is no way out of it, is there?”
The heart wrenching sight of you peering up ay him, wide-eyes swelling with tears once again, pains him. The knight must force the feelings of rage stirring within him. Rage at your father for failing to notice, or care how much you are hurting by this decision. Rage at that prick Jason Lannister for daring to try to make you his. He will not treat you like you should be treated. He will keep you caged, a pretty bird to show off at court and to birth his heirs, where you should be coveted and appreciated, but respected above all.
Harwin cannot, will not stand by and passively let this happen to you. He knows how this will be your ruination.
“Jason Lannister is undeserving of you. You should not be strapped to some old Lord.” The gruffly spoken statement, true yet bold, escapes before he has the chance to think about it. He swallows thickly as you pause and watch him carefully, acutely surprised. “My apologies, Princess.” His head dips, “that was too forward of me.” He does not regret his words, still, he is aware of the professional role he must maintain.
Shaking your head, you assure him, “You may speak freely in my company, Ser Harwin,” while tucking a stray lock of pearly hair behind your ear.
How he yearns to run his hands through your pretty tresses.
He is not entirely sure you would appreciate the whole truth of his opinions on this matter, but he grunts softy in acknowledgement nonetheless. He says nothing more and you soon reach the doors to your chambers. A part of you wishes the walk was longer, unwilling to leave the company of your sworn shield.
Yet, his calloused hand turns the doorknob and opens the heavy oak door for you, “good night, Princess. I hope sleep comes easily to you.” He knows it won’t. Not tonight. Not after your conversation with the King.
Still, this is your nightly tradition. He opens the door for you, and you bid each other a good night before you disappear inside your rooms and he stands guard like the ever faithful watch dog until another knight comes in his place to allow Harwin his own respite.
“Thank you, Harwin.” Is your reply, head lowered slightly. You barely take a step into your doorway before you pause, turning to face him. His expression both soothes and increases your nerves tenfold as you swallow, “I do not— wish to be alone.”
He seems surprised by your offer, one you have never extended before. You persist, “please?”
Doe-eyed and pouty lipped. How could anyone ever refuse you?
“Alright, Princess,” he concedes, nodding his head and following you inside your chambers, acutely aware of the boundary being broken, the line between professionalism and.. something else entirely blurred with each step he takes into your rooms.
They are grand and lavish and so very you. He smiles.
He follows you to the centre of the room, beside a plush couch, where you gesture for him to sit.
The two of you sit closer than strictly allowed. Not quite touching, but you are close enough to see each stubble the lower half of his face. Your gaze flickers to his lips for a moment, before you realise and correct yourself. If he notices, he makes no mention of it.
Your sworn shield is quiet, watching you, waiting for you to initiate something. You sigh, fingers fiddling with the fabric of your dress. An idea has come to you, but you aren’t sure how to approach the subject. “If I required your assistance with.. something, would you be willing to aid me?”
His response is immediate. “What is it you need help with, Princess?”
Better to tell him outright.
“Lord Jason will call the betrothal off if he discovers I have been,” a beat, you look down coyly, “taken, by another man.”
Seconds, minutes, hours pass, frozen in time. The bear of a man in front of you is completely still.
“Harwin?”
He seems to spur back into life, choking on air before managing to gather his composure, “what?”
“I want you, Harwin. I, I wish for you to take my maidenhead.”
Your words make his heart flutter in his chest, and he feels heat stirring in his loins. But he spurs the notion away, he will not take advantage of you when you are in this state, desperate and frantic, willing to do something you may regret in the morn.
Biting your lip at his lack of response and clear hesitation, you continue, “I would not ask this of you unless I were certain it is what I want.” And it is what you want, you have come to realise. It has taken long to decipher your feelings towards your most stalwart protector, your closest companion, but now that you have, everything has cleared. You want him. In a way you have never wanted anyone before.
He has been waiting, yearning, dreaming of this moment. But yet,
“I cannot make an indecent woman of you, Princess,” he sounds regretful he cannot do more to help you. His morals stand in the way. Gods, he really is unlike any other man you have encountered before. It only makes you desire him more.
You take a deep breath, resting a gentle palm on his armour clad thigh. “If, if my father had given me an option. A, a choice on whom I would wish to spend the rest of my days with, it is you I would have chosen.” Your bare your whole truth to him, something you hope you will not regret.
His mouth parts as he stares at you, taking in your statement, deconstructing every word, every possible meaning. Surely he must be dreaming. A rough hand comes to rest on your cheek, tilting your face closer to his, confirming you are very much real. Your breaths mingle as you find yourself leaning closer, gaze flicking between his deep brown eyes and his lips you want to press your own to.
“Princess.. if we do this, it cannot be undone.” His breath blows softly against your face.
“Do you want to do this?”
He would do anything you asked of him.
His thumb, calloused from the constant handling a sword, brushes over your cheek. Your eyes flutter at the warming action, leaning into his touch. “Were I not sworn to you, Princess, I would have been one of the contenders vying for your hand.” He admits.
Your gaze softens as you take in his words mixed with the comforting rhythm of his thumb dusting against your cheek.
Testing the waters, you inch closer, lips only a hair away from his. Your gaze flickers to his eyes, and he nods, a small, minuscule moment you would’ve missed entirely had you not been watching intently.
When your lips meet, soft, tender, perfect, it feels as though the stars have aligned and everything finally makes sense. His mouth is gentle, always gentle, as it moves in rhythm with yours. Your eyes flutter shut and you follow his lead.
Hands resting on his armour clad chest, you swing one of your legs over his thick thighs, straddling him. You ignore the cold, unyielding metal indenting your legs in favour of kissing him. He grunts against your mouth at the movement, hands moving to your hips to steady you. He squeezes the flesh beneath your dress.
When you both must come up for air, you rest your forehead against his.
“Are you certain this is what you want?” Harwin asks, looking deeply into your eyes, searching for any slight inclination of hesitation.
He finds none. “I have never been more sure of anything, Ser. I have.. toiled with the idea of what this would mean. Of what it would mean to, to belong to you. That is what I want, what I desire.”
His eyes close shut as he takes in what you are saying. What you are implying. Harwin fears this may send him into an early grave. He has dreamed this moment many a time, but not once has he ever believed it would become a reality. You want him. You want him. You want him.
Still deep within his own mind, he barely notices when you shift off his lap, grasping his hand and tugging him to a standing position. His body moves before his brain can catch up. Then, holding his forearm, you make work at his wrist cuffs, fiddling with the latches. His gaze is unfocused as you move his limbs, shedding him of his armour.
“How do you wear this everyday?” You ask while removing his breastplate. It is heavier than you expected. “I think I would go mad.”
This is what brings him back to the land of the living and he chuckles, a deep sound that reverberates through your chest, sending your heart into a fluttered frenzy, “I could say the same about those gowns you wear, Princess.” He gestures to the very one you are still clothed in, the laces of your corset pulled tight.
Although he greatly enjoys the feel of your delicate hands removing his armour, you are going so incredibly slowly he starts to assist you in the final sections, the pile of metal on the table growing larger until Harwin is stood in his undershirt and breeches once you removed the chainmail with his assistance. You can see tufts of deep down chest hair poking past his undershirt.
He is so wonderfully handsome. You think, hand dusting over his broad, broad chest, hardened with muscle.
Though before you can go further, see more of him, he gestures for you to turn around, “s’your turn now, Princess. Let me aid you out of your dress.”
You oblige, turning your back to him. Swinging your silver locks over your shoulder to give him access to the lacing at the rear of your gown, you feel heat stirring within you as his thick fingers pull and tug at the ties and it slowly losses. His hands move across your back in what is akin to a caress, and you let out a shaky exhale at the feeling.
Taking his hand, you step out of your gown and turn back to face him, dressed only in your shift. His fingers seem to toy with the hem, his brow quirking. A silent question as to whether you wish to stop.
That is the last thing you want.
So, you grasp the hem and pull the last piece of clothing hiding your body over your head, discarding it somewhere on the floor.
Harwin’s breath hitches as he drinks you in, taking in your naked form, from the soft swell of your breasts with pebbling nipples from exposure to the cold air, to the unmarred flesh of your stomach, to the dainty patch of white curls that hides what he longs for most, to your soft thighs he wishes to bury his head between.
His hand reaches out to cup your waist, bringing you closer, “you are truly gorgeous, Princess.” It is a great understatement. Never before has he met someone as breath-takingly wonderful as you. You are a Goddess come to life, he is sure of it.
The way you flush at his flattery only fuels the growing heat in his loins.
Harwin makes you feel seen, wanted, desired.
You watch as he removes his undershirt, bearing his chest to you. Thick, deep brown curls cover the expanse of his middle, and your fingers drift over the raised skin of his scars.
“If you wish to stop, you need only say the word,” he breathes as he lays you down on your bed, watching you sink into the pillows and the silken sheets.
You tug on his shoulders, pulling him down so your faces are level. He nose nuzzles against the side of your face, propped up on one elbow while the other explores the map of your naked flesh.
Your fingers move across the top of his back, feeling the taut muscles beneath. "I do not.. know what to do." You admit quietly, dipping your head.
He must sense your nervousness, "it is not nearly as intimidating as it first seems, Princess. But if you wish to stop, say the word and we will never speak of this again."
You nod in acceptance of his words, chest warming at his unwavering care and consideration for you. Your sworn shield always knows what to say to ease your worries.
“Have you touched yourself before, Princess?” Harwin asks gruffly, leaning back to look into your eyes.
“I.. do not know how,” you admit, face flushed in embarrassment at your severe lack or knowledge and experience in this endeavour. “Will you teach me?”
He feels his breeches tighten at your coquettish visage, shifting underneath him, hands moving tantalisingly over his chest. He parts your thighs, revealing the sweetness hidden at the apex. Your pretty cunt clenches around nothing, aching, yearning for his touch. A shaky breath escapes your lips when his large hand cups your mound it its entirety. “Is this what you want, Princess?”
A breathy whine and an eager nod is your response. His finger runs slowly, tantalising through your folds, collecting your wetness on his digit. He circles your pearl. You mewl. “Harwin..” You wriggle beneath him at this strange sensation.
“Does that feel nice, Princess?” His breath is hot against the side of your face. He continues his ministrations on your most sensitive area, two thick fingers circling your pearl, before edging one into your tight hot wet cunt. You gasp, eyes wide, fingers curling tightly around his other forearm at the intrusion.
It is a sensation wholly foreign to you, yet as his finger pushes in in in, the coil in your stomach tightens and you bite your tongue to prevent whimpers escaping your lips.
His locks brush against your face as he presses his forehead against yours, his finger now knuckle deep inside of you. *Seven Hells, you are tight.* He knows he is going to have to stretch you out, prepare you properly so you feel as little pain as possible when he takes you, breaks you open on his cock, carves a home for himself inside of you.
Your soft little whimpers you try to hard to repress fall prettily from your lips, a melodic tune, when he edges a second finger in, his thumb still circling your pearl.
His digits part inside you, eliciting a sharp gasp followed by fingernails digging into his forearm. Thick fingers slowly thrust inside of you, all while Harwin utters soft praises into your ear, speaking your name in reverence as though it— you are the only thing that matters in this world.
“Fuck..” the curse falls from your lips as the ache within you grows, bleeding into pleasure as he stretches you out.
A coil tightens deep within your gut, his ministrations edging you nearer and nearer to falling off completely.
Your eyes shut as your mind begins to haze at overwhelming pleasure taking over your senses.
“That’s it, Princess,” he urges as you teeter over the edge, preparing to fall into the abyss. Your breathing is uneven as you cling to your protector.
The coil threatens to snap. You daren’t open your eyes. His fingers don’t stop.
Suddenly, you are overcome by a forceful surge of pleasure. White-hot and dizzying. You do not know whether or not a cry of ecstasy tumbles from your mouth, or if your reaction is entirely silent. You legs move, unable to stay still with the force wracking through your body.
Still, his intruding fingers do not stop. They continue to work until you are spent and panting in the aftermath of the wave.
Breathy and uneven, dazed and confused, you cannot lift your head to look at him, “what.. what was that?”
He chuckles at your lack of knowledge, and withdraws his digits. You feel empty at the loss of contact. “That was your peak, Princess. The height of your pleasure.” His voice is gruff and ever so comforting.
He intends to bring out many more from you this night, and all the nights to come.
Your head falls to the side as you absently note that Harwin has unlaced his breeches and stripping them from his body.
Then, he is atop you again, handsome face merely inches away from yours. “I liked it,” you tell him, and he smiles.
“I’m glad, Princess.”
The face you make when you reach your peak is one he wishes to have the privilege of seeing, of causing, for as long as you will let him.
The remainder of the night is spent with your most valiant protector delivering upon your wishes, fulfilling your desires and making you feel things you never thought to be possible.
And now, as you succumb to the allure of sleep, warmed by the bear of a man by your side, you think that being a wife won’t be so bad, so long as Harwin is the man you can call husband.
synopsis — when daemon targaryen heard that otto hightower has taken a new wife, he sees an opportunity to taunt him further. what he wasn’t expecting, however, was you.
warnings — none, really. foul language. otto is an absent husband. age gap (reader is mentioned to be a few years older than alicent & gwayne). angst. suggestive content towards the end.
word count; 5.4k
this is my first time publishing any of my writing on this app!! and my first time writing in general (excluding the slop i wrote when i was 12 lmao). but there’s a severe lack of daemon content on this app and i finally had the motivation to write, so here we are. anyway, i hope you enjoy!!
likes, comments & reblogs are always appreciated<3
When you were a little girl, hidden and sheltered from the cruel, unforgiving reality of the world, you dreamt of happiness.
You envisioned fields of luscious green that stretched for miles in every direction, decorated with flowers of every conceivable colour. The sun would be shining down, illuminating all, not a shred of darkness or gloom to be found. And in the centre of these meadows, a small, yet homely cottage would stand proud, welcoming.
You would see yourself, older, wiser, though with a bright smile and laughter lines from years of contentedness. Upon gazing down, you would see merry babes clinging to your legs, happily calling out for their mama. And looking back up, a man, who’s face you could never quite make out, would chuckle at their unabashed actions, their clear love for their mother.
These dreams would come to you, calling to you, showing you the life you could have, the life you thought you would have.
But that was before you were stripped of your viridity.
You know now that life is not how you once dreamed.
At least not the life of a woman who’s worth derives solely from the man she marries.
“Dear? Are you well?” The soft cadence of Queen Aemma’s voice brings you back to the present moment. You oft find yourself shrinking into the comforts of your own mind, losing yourself in the endless stream that is your conscience.
“Yes,” you reply, shifting your gaze from the window overlooking Blackwater Bay, a remarkably serene sight as the gentle wind causes a rippling effect on the surface. You look down at the forgotten embroidery in your lap, where you were stitching hyacinths into the cream bodice of the gown. “My apologies, Your Grace. I was.. lost in thought.”
A breathy laugh falls from the Queen’s lips, accustomed to your behavior with all of the time spent in your company since you moved to the Red Keep. “And just what are you thinking of this time?” She seems eager for a distraction away from her swelling belly, growing with a babe. She is in constant discomfort these recent days, and you can’t help the pity that swells within your heart for the woman. Perhaps this is why you feel inclined disclose what has been troubling you as of late, rather than keeping it trapped inside as you have always done. Though, before you can muster a response, Queen Aemma seems to remember something, “how many times must I request you call me by my name, dear? We have known each other near six moons now. There is need not for formalities.”
Your face flushes pink at her tone, and one of your hands instinctively twirls through one the loose curls that cascades down your shoulders. You pause when you realise what you have done, and your hand falls back into your lap.
Your head bows slightly. It is truth that the Queen has become something familiar to a friend in your time in the Capital. You oft find yourself in her chambers after breaking your fast in the morn, helping distract her from the pains of growing a child. A pain that you do not know. A pain that you wish to know. She tells you stories of her and her family, of her life in the Vale before she married Viserys, and in turn you share stories from your own youth, as a daughter of a minor house in the Reach. You share tales of childlike wonder, playing in fields with your brothers and sisters.
A mixture of solemnness and nostalgia bleeds into your tone whenever you discuss times when you truly knew what it meant to be happy, to not feel as though your very soul is withering and dying each day you spend in this place, lying alone at night, sleeping in different chambers to the man you are tied to forevermore, but would rather pretend as though you never existed. As if you weren’t a part of his life.
Spending time with Aemma Arryn provides temporary respite to your never—ending despair, all encompassing chains of iron surrounding your very being, which you are entirely grateful for. But alas, she is the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, with bigger priorities than a girl from the Reach who married far above her station. You are reminded of your place when Princess Rhaenyra saunters into the Queen’s chambers, and you note silently that she dons the distinguishable scent that comes from one riding a dragon, a combination of both ash and musk as you return to your embroidery.
Aemma’s attention is immediately diverted from you to her daughter, a fact you cannot fault her for. You imagine you would be the same should you ever have a child of your own. You imagine they would take the role of the axis your world spins upon.
Behind the Princess is Lady Alicent, your step—daughter, despite only being a few summers your junior. She lurks in the doorway, greeting the Queen politely when addressed. You smile softly at her, a gesture which she returns. A mere formality. Forming a relationship with Alicent is a difficult task. Not because she is hard to like, no, but because of your sudden role in her life, taking the place where her mother should be. The girl is still grieving the tragic loss, much like her father.
It appears every Hightower wishes you were Alyrie Florent.
Mayhaps it would be easier if you were.
Mayhaps it would be easier if she never died and you never took her place.
But, Alas, ‘tis not the case. You are destined for loneliness and isolation within the house that you should now call your family.
You partially listen to the conversation between mother and daughter, one of the duty of noblewomen alike across Westeros, that of child bearing. Of how it is a woman’s battlefield. There is a significant part of you that longs for this endeavor, despite the dangers that lurk even for the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Yet, your womb remains barren, and you see no future where this changes. Otto Hightower believes he has sufficient children from his late wife, so sees no need to sire any further heirs from you. The Hand of the King has no time for his young wife, never mind squalling babes.
Your dreams of motherhood are squandered, and a melancholy resides within your bones, stitched into the fabrication of your lachrymose existence.
When you take your leave from Queen Aemma’s chambers, you realise that you never shared your woes with the kind-hearted woman, leaving them once again trapped within your mind, festering.
—
You move swiftly through the halls of the Red Keep, intent on returning to your chambers to freshen up before supper. It had grown rather humid in the Queen’s apartments, and you find yourself in need of a bath.
Keeping your head down and gaze trained on the floor in front of your feet, a flash of silver catches your eye, causing you to look up. Your pace slows slightly as you take in the sight of who you can only assume to be Daemon Targaryen. His silver hair reflects in the sunlight that bathes the hallways, a glint in his violet eyes as he scrutinises you, looking you up and down, taking you in entirely.
In the six moons where you have resided in the Tower of the Hand, you have never once crossed paths with the Rogue Prince. He failed to attend your wedding, though that came at little surprise considering it is no secret the discontent your husband and he harbour towards each other.
You expected him to be harsh and imposing, from the tales you have heard of his violent brutality, his penchant for chaos and savagery which seems to follow him whenever he goes. From what you can see of him, the way his calloused hand rests on the pommel of his Valyrian steel sword as though the position is entirely natural, the stories may be more than mere fiction.
View fixed back ahead of you, you resume your usual pace and intended journey, not wanting to incite anger from the irascible Prince. You feel his piercing gaze lingering on you a second longer before you disappear into the Tower of the Hand.
—
When Daemon Targaryen heard whispers that his brothers cunt of a Hand has taken a new wife, he imagined a stony-faced creature, one with an uncanny resemblance to an ogre. A female version of the repulsive man himself. It brought the Prince great joy to envision Otto Hightower in an even more miserable marriage than his own with his repugnant Bronze Bitch.
He was already conjuring ways to make his life worse, perhaps this would be the perfect thing to lift his spirits.
What he failed to expect, however, was you. A pretty thing, with long flowing curls and a pleasing countenance. There was a certain innocence about you, a coyness in the way your mousy gaze fixed upon the Keep’s floors, as though they were the most interesting object you had laid eyes upon.
When he first laid eyes upon you, he knew he would make an effort to find his way up your skirts. But, when you entered the Tower of the Hand as calmly as if it were the very place you laid your head to rest every night? Oh, how he delighted.
Killing two birds with one stone. Seducing a pretty girl who just so happened to also be Otto Hightower’s new little wife. He would rejoice in this. Why hadn’t he thought to return to do this sooner?
It wouldn’t take much to turn you against him, that much he is sure of.
—
The room is silent. Oppressively so.
Naught but the shrill scraping of silverware and the smacking of lips can be heard in the Tower of the Hand.
On the rare occasion you aren’t left to dine on your lonesome, supper is always like this. Lord husband and Lady wife sat at the intricate wooden table, surrounded by an all encompassing silence. Otto never initiates conversation with you unless there is something absolutely necessary for you to know, which is almost never. That responsibility solely rests upon your shoulders.
A soft sigh escapes your lips as you set your cutlery down on your plate of half eaten venison and green beans you have yet to eat, a much more lavish diet than what you had grown accustomed to in your childhood. Yet another thing you ought to be grateful for.
You do not wish to be a stranger to your husband. It needs not to be true love, you are no longer that naive, but this semi tolerance bordering on dislike is something you can accept no more.
Your actions catch Otto’s attention, and his sharp gaze shifts over to you. A brow raises, emphasising the wrinkles in his forehead.
“Husband,” you begin, quietly hoping the words will come to you soon. Otto is a man of patience, but you would rather not draw out this gauche discourse. “How was your day?” Starting off with something simple, easing your way into conversing with the intimidating Hand of the King.
You hope this time will be different than the last.
Otto betrays no outward visual response, but you have watched him long enough to pick up on his cues. A small clench of his jaw. He has no desire to speak to you. To gossip with who he views as a guileless little girl.
You persist, anyhow, your tone refined. “I spent the afternoon with Queen Aemma in the drawing room, working on my embroidery. Her labours grow nearer each passing day,” a small, pleasant smile on your lips, trying to invoke a response. It feels like pulling teeth. “I hope they are quick and easy. She deserves that at the very least.”
Fingers tighten around his fork. A minute dip of the head, not out of respect, but growing irritation.
“Would you like to see what I have been working on? Or shall I wait until it is finished?” Perhaps giving him a choice will persuade him to reply.
He doesn’t. He looks like he is holding himself back. From what, you are unsure.
“Are you quite well, husba—”
“Stop.”
His baritone voice stops you in your tracks. Eyes widening slightly at the suddenness of his interruption.
“Cease with your prattling,” he utters your name, exhausted and vexed, worn fingers massaging his forehead as though you have caused him some great pain by merely existing in his vicinity. “Perhaps it would be best if you retired for the eve.”
Your stomach knots and twists and curls within itself. Dismissed by your own husband for merely trying to make conversation? A futile, foolish attempt you shan’t try again for the foreseeable future. For six long, grueling moons you have swallowed every snide comment made about you, taken each instance you have been disregarded in stride, telling yourself it will remedy in time. No, ‘tis not the case.
Swallowing your pride, you gather your skirts and stand, the jarring screech of your chair amplified by the oppressive silence, “very well. If that is what you wish.” Tone sharper than initially intended, forcing itself past your pursed lips, but you can’t find it within you to care at this moment.
You reach the heavy oak door, hand clasping at the doorknob. Your head turns for a last look at your Lord husband, still seated at the table in the forefront of the grand room, reflective of his status as the second most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms, though there is a distinctive lack of life in the chambers. Everything is placed meticulously, the lavish bed always made, no articles of clothing strewn carelessly across the clean tiles of the floor. The only telling sign these rooms belong to Otto Hightower are the deep, emerald green accents coating the walls. Hightower green. A blaring sign that you do not belong, no matter how hard you try to change your shade.
No further words are spoken.
You turn your back.
It feels like an ending.
—
You do not see your husband until the tourney overmorrow.
The morning of the grand event, you stand before the mirror at your vanity. These chambers you reside in are significantly less opulent than those belonging to your husband, but are by no means small or dreary. A bed designed for two but houses only one resides in the centre of the room, pressed up against the stone of the Tower.
Your ladies dressed you in your best, a gown that bears a distinct lack of green. Instead the colour reminds you of the morning sky, a beautiful shade of cerulean. There is lace sewn into the bateau neckline, with matching arm cuffs of silver, which drape down elegantly past your arms. The bodice is tight fitting, but not unbearably so, you are comfortable in your seat in the observation box, with a clear view overlooking the grounds of the tourney.
The kings booming voice rings loudly in your ears as you stare forward, one hand resting on the arm chair, tapping absentmindedly as you ignore the sight of your husband in your peripheral vision. You didn’t greet Otto as you usually do, with a warm smile and a respecting bow of the head, in fact, you do not address him at all. The hollow ache in your chest intensifies.
Princess Rhaenys and her husband, Lord Corlys take note of this, for you could hear whispers of your name, and what other conversations would your be involved in, if not on the topic of the Hand of the King?
You are wholly preoccupied by this incessant yet upsetting notion, that you fail to notice the tourney has commenced and the knights have begun to joust. Though the clanking of metal, the rhythmic hoofbeats of the galloping horses and the jeers and exclamations from the crowd of onlookers are little more than background noise to the war present within your mind.
What are you going to do? How much longer will you be forced to accept your fate that you aren’t good enough? You have tried tirelessly for the entirety of your marriage to appease him, yet whenever he gazes upon you, there is always a hint of disappointment.
Disappointment that you are not, in fact, Alyrie Florent.
So here you remain, stagnant. A lonely wife to an absent husband, who cares little for your wellbeing, or your existence for that matter. He is someone who have naught in common with, being half his age, a mere few summers older than his own children who came from a woman he loved far more than he could ever love you. I can’t keep this up. I can’t. I can’t—
“—mon Targaryen, Prince of the City, will now choose his first opponent!”
That spikes your attention, for some reason unknown to your conscious mind. You are back in the present moment now, so you shift in your seat to improve your view of the tourney grounds, intending to watch the Prince joust. There you spot the man himself, sat upon a stallion as dark as the night, the creature itself sporting armour representative of his dragon mount, Caraxes. The Three Headed Dragon, the sigil of House Targaryen proud on his escutcheon. His helmet is extravagant, with metallic wings sprouting from the sides, and a trail of ebony feathers spiking out.
Prince Daemon rides back and forth along the line of possible opponents, before he pauses in front of a knight, and raises his lance.
Ser Gwayne Hightower. Your step-son whom you have met a grand total of once, on the day of your wedding. Your Lord husband shifts in his seat, shaking his head at the Prince’s unwavering need to worsen everything to do with him and his house. He is anxious for what is to come, you can tell. So, instinctively, you spare him a sympathising glance, before you remember that he would not extend this same courtesy for you should the roles be reversed. You avert your gaze back towards the tourney, forcing those horrible, gnawing feelings of inadequacy deep within you.
The knights line up at opposite ends of the grounds, while the others who had not been selected ride off. There is a pause before the bout begins, and you see the Prince’s piercing stare bore towards the Hand of the King, quickly shifting over to you. You see him smirk smugly before spurring his steed into action.
Your breath hitches as you watch them speed towards each other, never having been one who understood the allure of unnecessary shows of violence Prince Daemon in particular is known for.
When the knights collide, Daemon is knocked back, though he remains firmly seated on his horse and quickly rights himself. Not one to be pleased at being bested, especially by a Hightower of all foul creatures, on the second run he aims his lance down, sending Gwayne’s horse to the ground with a loud cry. The crowd cheers when the knight is knocked off his stallion, and you are reminded of your dislike for the events once again. It pains you to see horses treated so cruelly.
You are not surprised when the Prince strides over to the observation box, partially to silently gloat to your husband and to request the favour from who you presume would be his niece. Though, you are surprised when it is your name he calls out.
“Lady Hightower!” You can do naught but rise from your seat, gathering your skirts as to not trip. As you hesitantly step towards the bannisters, you try not to shrink under the critical eye of your husband and others in the box, watching you keenly. “Now,” Daemon begins once you are in clear eyesight, “I believe I can win these games, my Lady, but having your favour would all but assure it.”
It is not a question as to whether you will slide your wreath onto his lance, you are not in a position to refuse a Prince, especially not when requesting you to bless his next bout. A part of you is glad for this opportunity, for you know your husband is watching you bestow your favour onto his nemesis. You feel a twisted sense of satisfaction when you place your wreath of flowers and greenery upon his lance.
Daemon notes the gleam in your eyes for later as he rides off to continue, though not before smirking wickedly at Otto, an action he is sure not to miss.
There is a scowl on the Hand’s face, his aura exuberating enmity when you return to your seat at his side. Usually, you would show your support in small gestures, ones that went disregarded, but as of now you aren’t sure if you can find it within you to care.
—
You stand alone in a hallway, the light from the setting sun bathing you in an amber glow.
Otto left with the King when the tourney concluded. It did not come as a surprise.
Usually, you would return to your chambers, lying alone, turning and restless until the tendrils of sleep would bring you into slumber. But not tonight. Where you plan to go, you are unsure, but you won’t hide in your rooms.
You take to wandering aimlessly through the grand hallways of the Keep, hands clasped in front of you, admiring the lavish architecture. The Red Keep is always loud, bustling with activity and raucous chatter during the day, but at this time, when the moon replaces the sun in the sky, the world quietens. It is serene. Peaceful.
“Wandering alone? At the hour of the bat?” Comes the tantalising voice of the Rogue Prince, an all encompassing lilt that resonates in your chest, leaving behind a strange fluttering sensation.
You turn to face him. He is stood, weight resting on his right leg as his hand rests on the pommel of his sword, the same position you had seen him in days prior. His lavender eyes are entirely honed in on your countenance, and you find your face flaming at the sudden attention.
You do not get a chance to muster a response, “and just where is your dear Lord husband, hm?” A silver brow raised in amusement.
“My husband is.. indisposed, at current, my Prince. Your voice is quieter than you would’ve liked, but the King’s roguish brother is rather intimidating.
“Indisposed?” He parrots, a smirk tugging on his lips.
He seems rather jovial for a man who lost a tourney just mere hours ago.
You nod in confirmation, though you realise that the action was unnecessary, the Prince was not asking. “He is the Hand of the King. He has duties.. responsibilities.”
None of such involve you.
“Ah yes, of course. responsibilities.” There is still a smug grin on his visage. why, you do not know. “Though he seems to not be performing his.. husbandly duties, no?” With that, you pause. Mouth opening and closing again as your eyes dart up to his. This serves to solidify his beliefs. An amused laugh escapes his lips, “I thought so.”
Your shoulders shrink. “Is it so obvious?” You don’t try to deny it, though a part of you wishes to to keep your pride in tact.
He responds with a shrug. Your face burns a deeper shade of crimson, matching the dragons embroidered onto his doublet.
He takes a step closer, looking down at you. You find yourself not wanting to step back, to maintain a proper distance between a man who is not your husband. He stands closer than Otto ever has, aside from your wedding day.
“Does he leave you wanting, little girl?”
little girl. the term sounds much more appeasing falling from his lips than that of your husband. But it is not that which catches your attention it is the rest of his question which is more of a presumption.
How do I respond to that?
You do not exactly wish to disclose your marriage, or your marital activities (rather the lack of) with Daemon Targaryen, a man you know by his poor reputation alone.
Yet, for some reason, perhaps it is the way he looks at you, like you are real, like you matter, or perhaps it is because you long for someone, anyone to talk to, to care, you respond to him, instead of leaving him stranded in the darkened hall. “Wanting for what?” A squeak, high-pitched and coy.
“You know exactly what.” His calloused hand from handling weaponry holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your head upwards to meet his piercing stare. “Now answer me, riñītsos I don’t like to be kept waiting.” He is much too close now to claim any semblance of propriety, but neither of you acknowledge this.
You do not know what he calls you, but that is not what you focus on. You do not think you have ever felt more humiliated than being forced to look into Daemon Targaryen’s eyes and being made to admit that Otto Hightower fails to merely acknowledge your existence, never mind touch you in all the ways a husband should touch his wife. So, instead of forming a verbal response, because you are not entirely convinced you could get the words out if you tried, you shake your head in a nod of confirmation.
“I want to hear you say it.”
Insisting and demanding. You have no choice but to comply, “…yes,” you exhale, eyes downcast.
“Yes, what?” He tugs your chin gently upwards, compelling you to meet his gaze.
“Yes— he leaves me..” you pause, swallowing thickly, “wanting.” The last part is little more than a hushed whisper, but from the roguish smile on his face you can tell he is pleased.
“Very good,” he commends, a wicked gleam in his eye that you fail to notice from the swarm of butterflies that erupt in your stomach at the praise. A feeling wholly strange to you, yet it is not unpleasant. Is this how Otto is supposed to make me feel? If so, he has utterly failed.
“What, what do you want from me?” You stammer, shifting your weight as he stares down at you smirk widening at the opening you have provided him.
He leans closer, no more than a breath away from your lips, “your dear Lord husband, does he touch you like this?” He is gentle, far more than you originally thought the Rogue Prince to be capable of.
You shake your head, “no,” your cadence soft, quiet. You find yourself subconsciously leaning into his touch. It comforts you in a way you weren’t aware that you needed. You cling to that feeling.
“Ah,” he begins, “it seems there is much you are missing out on, riñītsos.”
You peer at him, wide-eyed and curious.
“Shall i show you?” He offers, inching closer, lips almost touching. You can feel his breath on your face. “Do you wish to see how a real man treats a pretty thing like you?” The jab towards your husband goes unnoticed by you.
Pretty. He thinks I’m pretty.
Without thinking, you agree to his invitation.
His grin broadens.
—
Within minutes, the door to your chambers is kicked shut behind you and your husbands worst enemy.
You are pushed up against the cobbled wall, rough hands exploring your figure, taking in every inch of you. You have never been handled in such a way, like you are wanted. desired. It makes your heart swoon within your chest, and you find yourself arching up into his touch, a breathy sigh of contentedness falling from your plush lips.
“Let me kiss you, riñītsos.” his voice is coarse, urgent.
You nod eagerly, any hesitation you previously had flown out of the window.
His lips crash onto yours, desire pulsating through every movement of his mouth against yours. It is searing, breath-taking. If kissing is like this, I never want to stop. You succumb to his captivating touch, following his lead. One of your hands curls through his long silver tresses, keeping him close. The other rests on his broad chest, while he cups the back of your neck, drawing you impossibly nearer. His tongue curls into your mouth, and you feel your knees buckle at the sensation.
A knee pushes between your thighs. You feel heat begin to pool in your stomach as though your very insides have been set alight. A foreign sensation, yet wholly welcomed.
He is so impossibly close you can feel the hardness of his muscles pressing against you. Neither of you come up for air, entirely consumed by the kiss.
Until the swinging of a door sounding throughout the chambers echoes in your ears. You freeze, the realisation of what you are doing, of what crime you are committing in this very moment. Otto Hightower has just entered his own rooms, the ones directly next to yours.
What were you thinking? Kissing a man you are not married to when your husband resides in the room over? No— no, this is wrong. Very wrong.
But why do you feel better than you have in a long time?
“Daemon,” you say breathlessly, eyes wide.
He cares little for this fact. Let him come in. Let him come in and see how I am defiling his little wife.
“Gods, yes, little girl. Say my name.” His kisses move down your jaw to your neck, nibbling softly at the tender flesh as little whimpers fall from your mouth, needy and trembling. He wants to mark you, to show your cunt of a husband how you have let him ruin you, but he refrains. For now.
You whine when free hand squeezes the supple flesh of swell of your chest, “Daemon, we— we cannot.” But you make no move to push him away.
“Tell me to stop, then.” He says, staring intensely into your eyes.
No words leave your mouth.
He smirks. You are precisely where he wants you to be.
Toughened hands find the laces to your dress. He pauses, raising a brow, a silent question.
You don’t stop him when he begins to unlace your cerulean gown.
The fabric falls to your feet, leaving you in naught but your shift, doing little to hide your body from the Rogue Prince. He stares at your figure in a way you have never experienced before. You feel coveted. Desired
His warm hands wrap around your waist, leading you towards your bed. You go willingly, quietly as to not alert your husband of the betrayal you are committing. For the first time, your bed will house two rather than one. The thought fills you with a warmth.
Daemon shreds his doublet along with his undershirt, discarding them carelessly, his entire focus harrowed in on you as you settle yourself on the middle of the bed. He is even broader than you imagined, toned muscles from years of training, scars and burns littered across his map of flesh. The Prince is a warrior much unlike your husband.
He climbs atop of you, nose nuzzling against the side of your face, peppering kisses.
That night you spend entirely consumed by Daemon Targaryen, wrapped up in him, unable to think about anything other than how he makes you feel, how he played with the instrument of your body like a master musician. All thoughts of your husband long gone from your mind.
He explores your body in ways that you had never even imagined possible, he made you feel things you’ve never felt before, opened your eyes to a whole new world of pleasure.
A world where you realise marriage should not be as hollow as yours.
A world where marriage should be fun, pleasurable.
A world where marriage should not make you feel as though your soul is withering and dying, with no one to care and nurture you.
This is the world Daemon inadvertently introduced you to, a world you do not wish to leave, to return to the shallow, hollow existence you had been forced to live through since you stood at the altar to be bound forever to Otto Hightower.
Every ending is a new beginning. Perhaps Otto doesn’t treat you as he should. It matters little when his nemesis is more than willing to fill that role.
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