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dommedolores-blog · 7 years ago

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Prairie Tempera, Ch. 1

[sfw][fluff and angst][a Dolores Abernathy x fem!reader fic][’off screen’ violence][tw: blood & death]

With cupped hands, river water meets your face, washing away the grime from hours of walking. If only it could clear away the clouds in your mind. Maybe then the tears would cease.

Out of sorts, wandering away from Sweetwater to be alone had seemed like another good idea. The blisters on your feet beg to differ. Stripping down to your bloomers, you submerge your feet and lean back in the grass, braiding together black eyed susans and baby's breath to pass the time.

“You've chosen a mighty fine spot for introspection, friend. I was fixin' to do a bit o' that myself, if you don't mind me joinin' you?”

Introspection, indeed. You're startled by the sudden noise of company, but that passes in a blink. The voice of the approaching rider flows like honey from a smiling face, her hair much the same. Unlike you, she's unafraid to be straddling a horse in a full length dress.

That accent, you wonder. A host?

“I'm sorry,” you say, a bit unsure, “I can go.”

“Nonsense, it'd be a delight to have a bit o' company for once. It's real peaceful here.” She dismounts, setting up an easel after tying the reins to a nearby tree. She spares you another quick glance before going about situating her palette and brushes, grinning. Blushing? “Sun's bearin' down today. I reckon you have the right idea.”

You realize you've been staring once she unbuttons her bodice and folds it, averting your eyes to your legs. Bloomers. Of course she's a host. To her, you've been lounging about in your underwear for all the true world to see. A real, modern woman wouldn't think twice about your lack of layers.

Yet her embarrassment seems so real. Charming, even. She goes about locking her half finished painting in place.

“Judgin' by the get up you've strewn about, you seem like a well off girl,” she comments, keeping her focus on the landscape. “What brings you all the way out to these parts without a horse? I'd be glad to escort you back to town.”

“No, no thank you. There's no one waiting for me there.” Your voice quivers.

“No family? Husband?” You hear her set down her brush, grass rustling beneath her skirts. She squats down next to you, and you can't help but feel breathless at the perfection of her face. Her eyes flit across your own, slight smile disappearing. “You know, my daddy could find some work for you on the ranch, if money's what yer needin'.” She places a gentle hand on your shoulder. Her empathy feels as genuine as her flesh. “Ain't no sense in a sweet thing like you lookin' for work in town.”

Dear lord, she thinks I've run away from the brothel, the Mariposa.

“My so called family took off on a bounty hunt without me,” you correct quickly. “I think they thought I'd slow them down. Told me to go 'get my face painted or go for a hay ride' 'til they got back. Maybe you've seen them? They rode off together, all in black hats.” Your family had cared enough to bring you along on their decadent vacation to play cowboy, but not enough to give you the few moments needed to change into appropriate riding clothes. The elaborate dress you had chosen, complete with a feathered hat, had been a poor choice for adventuring.

She lights up. “Can't say I have. Bet they're just tryin' to keep you safe is all.” She tilts her head towards the tree. “Come sit in the shade before you fry up. If a face full o' paint is what yer lookin' to find, well, maybe our paths were meant to cross, yours and mine.” Standing, she offers her hand.

You take it, toppling into her on legs of jelly, making her giggle before she leads you to the shade, fingers locked. Opening her paints, she considers them while studying your face.

“Now then, how shall we inspire yer folks? What would you like?”

Speechless, you're lost admiring her sculpted features. “Well,” you say, filling up time.

“Don't be shy, it won't hurt,” she reassures you, taking your hand yet again and testing the bristles on your palm. “At worst it might tickle a bit,” she whispers, leaning in and running the brush along your jaw to your lips.

“That's fine,” you tell her, in awe of this sudden situation, one that's far beyond fine. You hope she's not programmed to mind the feel of your veins thudding in your wrist. “Surprise me. Please.”

“Alright, then. I can do that, friend.”

“I'm (y/n), by the way,” you mention, a bit unsettled by how natural it feels to introduce yourself to someone who may as well be no one.

“(y/n). That suits you. I'm Dolores.” She sets about mixing her paints, giving you a chance to observe her freely before she brings a full brush to your cheek. “Is this fine?”

“Very much. I'm all yours,” you say, cheek burning beneath the cold paint. A faint trace of mischief passes across her face.

“Careful now, you may regret sayin' that.”

“I doubt it.”

Relaxing under the birdsong, you allow your lids and shoulders to drop. A breeze rustles her waves, and she's so close that they reach you with every gust, stirring up a sweet fragrance. Either hers or the flowers', you're unsure.

Soon, drying paint is slathered over half your face, and her strokes are starting to dance down your neck, giving you goose bumps. As she reaches your collar bone, she asks, “May I?” while tugging at the strap of your chemise. You nod, allowing her to slip it over your shoulder, nearly exposing your chest. She continues to use your body as a canvas, drawing who-knows-what across your shoulder and far closer to the edge of your chemise than you had anticipated. She takes her time scrawling across your right breast, carefully resting her hand on the left. Your breath hitches when she blows her own across your skin. You shudder.

“Got carried away a bit,” she admits, stirring you enough to open your eyes. “Yer too good of a muse. Lemme go wash up, and I'll escort you back to town. Don't want yer rowdy bunch a missin' you fer too long. Might have my poster outside the sheriff's office next.”

In her absence, you finish your chain of flowers, glancing up at her every opportunity. She notices.

“Water's clear! Come have a look at your reflection!”

You wade into the river bank, bending down to catch a glimpse in the ripples. It's hard to see. You lean down further. Flowers. Your face mirrors the field of black eyed susans, and for the first time, you fall a bit in love with yourself.

In an instant, you're drenched, Dolores' laughter echoing through the valley. You want to be angry at the trick, but one look at her smile has you suppressing your own.

“You're asking for it,” you warn, kicking water in her direction.

“I might be!” She removes the powder blue skirt and tosses it to the grass as fast as she can, never taking her eyes off of you as she backs away.

Before long, you're both knee deep, hair soaked and clinging to shimmering skin. When you notice her hard work start to run, you surrender, hands in the air.

“You win!” you pant.

“Always do,” she replies, wading closer. “I can patch it up sometime, if you like,” she references her handiwork, running a finger along your neckline as she pulls you closer to get a look, droplets sparkling in her hair, caught in her web just as you are.

“I'd like that,” you take her offer, closing the gap between you, corset against corset. Green paint bleeds into the white fabric of her chemise, and you instinctively pull away. “Don't worry over that, it'll wash. C'mon, let's catch our breath.”

She laces her fingers in yours and leads you back to dry land, underclothes translucent and clinging. You both collapse beneath the artificial star, connected in silence until you've air dried.

“Sun's goin' down,” she interrupts after a long period of silence. “We best be gettin' back.”

You don't argue, dressing yourself as she does the same.

“Dolores,” you draw her attention as she packs up her easel and readies her horse. She turns. “Would you accept this? You won, after all.”

She lights up and tilts her head down, accepting the flower crown with a wide smile. “I'll treasure it all my days.”

Dolores helps you up onto the saddle before mounting it herself, urging you to hold on. Resting your blank cheek on her shoulder, you slip your arms around her waist and pull yourself close. She gives you little lessons on how to ride a horse throughout the journey, and the closer you get to Sweetwater, the more you hang on her every word.

“Will I see you again?” she asks.

“If you'd like to,” you reply.

“O' course!” She points off in the distance. “Our ranch is that way, just beyond the hill. You're always welcome to come callin', (y/n). Daddy'd love you, I know it. If you'd rather stay with us...”

Your heart twists. “Tomorrow, I will. I promised my family I'd be here when they got back.” You dismount, already regretting your choice.

“Lookin' forward to it,” she tells you, winking.

“Me too.” Taking a chance, you kiss her knuckles before letting her go. “'Til then.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

The sun has long since set, and you're still alone, sitting by yourself in the saloon. It's been so long, you're noticing dialogue loops in the hosts. None of them feel quite like Dolores had. You've had enough. You down your drink and head outside, looking for a horse of your own.

Hooves pounding earth distract you, and you stop in your tracks.

“Dolores?” you ask beneath your breath, catching sight of her hair and dress flying in the wind as she thunders through town. “Dolores!” you yell out to her. You notice the tears streaming down her face, and then the dark streak down her front. Her eyes meet yours, and she manages to stop, falling from her horse more than sliding.

You do your best to catch her, cradling her head. Her tresses are pink and sticky, and you can hear her lungs rattle as she tries to speak. You shush her, choking up. Her crown is still clinging, though most of the petals have fallen, no doubt in a trail behind her, as scattered as your hopes of spending another day with the sweet rancher's daughter you'd met just a few hours previous. There's no way she'd be herself before another narrative loop. This was your goodbye.

“Who did this to you?” you ask, hand hovering above the bullet hole in her rib cage.

Unable to speak, blood streaming from the corner of her mouth as she coughs, she instead runs a trembling hand around the brim of your hat. Your black hat.

You pull her close, giving in to sobs of anger and frustration. You shouldn't feel this way over a thing, a doll to play with, but you've left logic in the saloon. The soluble tempera flows with your tears, washing away what you hadn't been willing to. Dolores clings to you with her remaining strength, as though she had spent all of it to reach you. The thought gives you a lump to swallow as you cradle her face, prints of green and yellow left from your touch. As softly as a true rainbow, she fades, taking her memory of you to a temporary grave.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Thank you for reading! If you enjoy my writing, please consider sending Dolores (me) an ask! She’d love to play with you.

#westworld #dolores abernathy #westworld fanfiction #dolores abernathy fanfiction #dolores abernathy x reader #fluff #angst #tw death #tw blood

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