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[sad-sweet-cowboah]

The Heart of Your Home pt 4

Summary: Arthur comes across a woman in need. What he thought was a simple good deed would take him down a much further path than anticipated.

Warnings: Cursing, there is mention of canon-typical violence, bodily injury, and brief smut in this chapter.

Word Count: 8,072

A/N: This chapter was a blast to write...things are coming along nicely!

It seemed to be warmer than usual today. The sun beamed down on the shawl on your back as you quietly trotted down the beaten path toward Valentine. It was beautiful out, and you decided not to waste the day inside. 

You’d told Frederick your plan; restocking simple ingredients in town. The reality was though you just wanted to enjoy being out and about for a little while. Another cold rainstorm swept through New Hanover over the previous days, once again drenching the land in dreary cold wetness. Mud was fresh and splattered against your mare’s hooves and the bottom of your boots, though you hardly minded. 

It was smart to stay inside while Frederick handled business, you knew that well enough. He’d arrived back home just yesterday. After a warm welcome and a desperately needed night spent together, you were itching to be free from the confines of your homestead. Funny, it almost seemed as if you were switching places.

The thought made you snort; you couldn't handle business like him, and you knew he couldn't cook or perform any sort of housekeeping to save his life. Switching places would surely doom the both of you to return to your original home. 

But as he kept assuring you, soon he wouldn't have to travel as much. Soon you would be wealthy enough to acquire household help. Soon, soon, soon. 

You sighed at the thought, reflecting the very same images that danced in your mind just days before. Bright-faced children running amuck in the yard, while you and Frederick watched on fondly from a spacious porch. When he was home, his optimism drove those dreams a bit closer to reality. He’d return from his trips with a few more stacks of money, as well as a gift to adorn you with. This time it was a ruby necklace that sat against your collarbone, the stone heavy against the hollow of your throat. You idly touched it on occasion, not used to having something that large and expensive. It may be worth more than your wedding ring. 

Thundering hooves nearby ripped you from your thoughts. You looked up, expecting to see someone ride past you in a hurry, only to spot a riderless horse. It appeared in the right side of your vision to cross your path just a few yards ahead. Its gray coat shone slick in the sunlight, stirrups flying free against its flank as the beast streaked by, head high in fright and ears forward. 

You blinked in surprise, and then gasped in surprise. It only took you a second to recognize which horse that was. 

Whose horse that was. 

The poor stallion seemed frightened, disappearing into the brush off to your left just as the crack of a gunshot fired somewhere nearby, followed by many more. You flinched, and your mare scooted beneath you in her own sheer anxiety. A shrill cry escaped your mouth as you clung on to the saddle, willing yourself not to slide off into the mud below. She quieted a moment later, although your body was still tense and your heart raced. Gunfire could mean anything... 

There hadn’t been any more commotion following, but sheer concern is what kept you rooted in the spot. Glancing toward where the stallion ran and back to where the gunshot originated, you quickly decided the next move. Whatever caused that gunshot signified danger, and you'd best avoid it for now, even when your growing anxiety for who might be involved gnawed at your insides. 

Steering your mare off the path, you dismounted just before the thicket of bushes and trees, standing on your toes to peer through the leaves and branches in hopes of spotting the runaway horse. Unfortunately it was too thick to see, and you sighed and forged ahead, pushing aside the greenery while half stumbling on roots. It wasn't long until the snowcapped Ambarino mountains loomed in the distance. A sheer cliff dropped into the ravine below. Movement caught your attention, and the stallion appeared in your view, pacing anxiously along the edge. You were thankful he was smart enough to stop before toppling over to certain death. 

“Hey,” you say, gentle but loud enough to catch the beast’s attention. His ears pricked and his head raised, a loud snort expelling from his nostrils. 

You reached toward him slowly. “It's okay, you know who I am,” you kept your voice low and soothing, as if he could understand you and knowing full well he didn't. But to your surprise and relief, the stallion visibly calmed. His head lowered as he approached you, sniffing your hand. You smiled and rubbed his nose before reaching for the reins, tugging him forward. “Let's get you away from here.” 

The way out was more of a struggle than it was going in, perhaps it was because you had trouble balancing while simultaneously guiding Arthur’s horse. You stumbled and stomped, yanking your skirt free of sharp twigs and thorns awkwardly with one hand, while ensuring you didn’t accidentally rip on the bit in the stallion’s mouth. Soon enough you emerged where your mare stood waiting, her blue eyes brightening at the sight of the two of you. She nickered, stepping forward to greet the stallion as soon as he stepped into the open. He reciprocated the gesture, the fear from earlier had all but vanished. 

But then your heart skipped a beat remembering the gunshots, your own anxiety blooming again. Arthur was proficient with a gun, that much you knew, and you hoped it was from his own weapon that discharged the fire. There was that chance it wasn't, and worry roiled in your guts at the mere thought of him laying lifeless on the ground... 

No, stop that right now, you mentally scolded yourself. Arthur would be just fine, he had to be, this was the man that killed a pack of wolves without hesitation and faced a Grizzly without so much as a scratch. You mounted your horse with determination, gripping the reins of the stallion in one hand as you steered them both in the direction of the gunfire. 

You kept moving at a quick trot, soon finding the stallion had a longer stride than your horse. He of course was larger than your compact mare, and any faster gait would guarantee you being left behind as he surged forward. He thankfully seemed to realize this and kept side by side with you, his head high as if just as anxious to find Arthur as much as you. 

The bridge up ahead signaled how close you were to Valentine, although the sight that soon loomed into view was what stopped you in your tracks. 

Carnage. Pure, raw carnage. Bodies littered haphazardly throughout the bridge and on both sides, pools of blood staining the earth. A disheveled wagon was off to the side, indicating whatever animal pulled it was now long gone. A lump in your throat formed and your stomach churned. You’ve only seen a dead body once in your life; a dead grandparent, but in a coffin and appeared as if they were sleeping. Not this trauma... 

You swallowed the bile that rose in your throat as a myriad of thoughts rushed through your head. What happened to these people? Why did they die like this? Who murdered them? And worst of all, was Arthur among them? 

A sound off to the side was enough to rip your attention away. Just beyond the bridge, someone stumbled wildly into the road. A survivor, you hoped, or a killer... 

Whoever it was seemed to have spotted you, as they made a beeline hurriedly across the bridge, skirting around the victims as if they were nothing but rocks in their wake. A spike of fear coursed through you, but the stallion nickered. 

And then your name was shouted through the still air. Relief flooded through you instantly with the recognition, your breath rushing out in a swoosh when you realized you’d been holding it. As Arthur drew closer, you could see he wasn’t unscathed. His hat was off, exposing bloody and bruised streaks across his cheeks. His crimson shirt was stained with mud and what appeared to be a darker red substance, blood. He had a slight limp to his gait, though that didn’t stop him in his haste. 

He stopped just before you, his face full of surprise. 

“What happened?” You demanded, observing him before flicking your eyes back to the battlefield behind him. “Who are these people?” 

“O’Driscolls,” he growled, hands clenching into fists. “They…they ain’t the friendliest of folk.” 

You nodded in understanding. While you thankfully hadn’t had a personal experience of the O’Driscoll gang, you've heard they liked to peruse Valentine and the surrounding areas for unsuspecting victims. You'd once arrived in town to witness a hanging of one of the nefarious members, but you steered away, too squeamish to follow the event through. “Did they kill all these people?” You asked, although you weren't sure if you wanted to hear the answer. 

“No,” Arthur answered. “All them bodies ARE the damn bastards,” he spat on the ground, saliva tinted red with fresh blood. 

You hadn’t expected that answer at all. Your gaze snapped to the carnage again, and the sickly feeling in your stomach returned. It occurred to you now that the lifeless bodies were that of men, their revolvers either in their still hands or resting on the ground next to them, glistening silver and red in the sunlight. It was a bloody battle, but truly, how many of them were victims? How many of them were there in total? At least a dozen, maybe more. Surely they couldn’t all be part of that gang? Taking a shaky breath, you looked to Arthur again. “How...?”  

Arthur didn't answer. He instead approached his horse, reaching to tug the reins from your hand. You let go and watched as he patted the stallion with a smile, as if he weren’t covered head to toe in injuries. He mounted the horse with ease, but you caught the wince as he settled into the saddle. “Thank you for bringin’ him back to me,” he said finally, giving you a quick glance before rubbing the horse’s neck. 

You gave him a weak smile in return, though it vanished when you got a better view of his wounds. The cuts on his face were deep and the skin around them was bruised a dark purple. Streaks of blood meshed with the stubble along his jawline. He looked as if he fought ten people at once. Your heart sank, the concern for him growing. It troubled you to see him in such a state. 

“You should head back home,” he said. “No tellin’ how many more of them are around.” 

You nodded as he began to urge his horse forward, and you couldn’t help but to ask, “Are you going to get looked at?” 

He paused, and then shook his head. “Nah, I’ll be fine.” 

This didn’t sit right with you at all. No one in their right mind would even say that when there was more blood than skin showing. You worried he was worse than he appeared and wouldn’t realize until it was too late. A pit formed in your stomach at the thought. As he tapped his horse into a walk again, your mouth spoke faster than your mind could comprehend. “Wait.” 

He stopped again, looking back at you curiously. 

You should suggest that he at least have himself looked at by the doctor in Valentine, but the following words set a different intention. “Come back home with me,” you offered. When he opened his mouth to answer, you added, “You're a mess, and you need to be patched up.” 

The curious look turned to bewilderment. “It ain’t that bad,” he said dismissively with a shake of his head. 

“You can’t see yourself,” you pointed out. “But you look pretty rough.” 

He mumbled something under his breath. You weren’t quite sure what he said, but it sounded like, “I’ve had worse.” 

“Arthur,” you said sternly. “You just said you weren’t sure if there were more out here...you’re in no shape if they are, they’d be all over you. So if you please, follow me back, and I will tend to your wounds.” You were neither doctor nor a surgeon, only proficient at handling minor injuries. But it would make you feel better to ensure he wouldn’t die from his wounds later. And if they were worse than you could handle, maybe your intervention would persuade him to seek a professional.  

Arthur studied you, as if trying to find a way to deny you. A long moment passed before he finally sighed and relented. “Alright.” 

You flashed him a genuine and grateful smile this time, your uneasiness settling just a bit. Without another glance toward the bridge, you turned and pushed your mare into a lope, leaving the scene behind. Arthur was close behind. 

It didn't take long for you to reach your home; the travel time being cut in half in the urgency to leave the sight of death, as well as your growing concern over Arthur. After depositing the two horses into the barn, you ushered Arthur inside, setting him down at the table. As you bustled about grabbing clean cloth, a bowl of fresh water, and plucking from the meager medicine store you had, you’d only vaguely realized Frederick was not in the house. 

You didn’t take time to ponder this, as you placed everything on the table and turned to assess Arthur. The man sat before you in a slouched position, arms resting on his thighs, eyes turned toward the floor. He almost looked ashamed. 

“Look at me,” 

He did, slowly straightening to meet your gaze. The wounded side of his face seemed to become more swollen in the short time it took you to get back here. Your heart fell at the mere sight, wondering who was wicked enough to even attempt to mar his face. You dipped the cloth in the water and bent down, carefully pressing it to his bruised skin. He flinched slightly, his eyes narrowing in pain. 

“Sorry,” you apologized, slowly erasing the now dried blood from his skin. As you worked, your gaze slowly shifted from the wounds to meet his. You were faintly surprised that he was staring, but you were so close to him, you figured it was hard not to, especially when working in such a delicate area. This was the closest you'd been since the day he rescued you from the wolves, and you never noticed how beautiful his eyes were. Pools of light blue with hints of jade green, like the depths of the clearest pools of water you'd ever seen. Your heart stuttered slightly, and you shifted quickly back to caring for his marred cheek, slightly embarrassed having stared that long. 

He let out a slow breath, the tension slightly releasing from his body. “You a doctor?” he asked quietly. 

You smiled and shook your head, grateful that he didn't question your prolonged stare. “No, but my mother taught me a thing or two,” you explained. As the remaining blood cleared from his face, you were able to properly assess how deep those wounds are. Thankfully, they looked superficial; no stitches needed. Thank goodness, that would’ve been a terrible spot to work on. 

What would work was a salve. Swapping the cloth for a tin, you popped the lid open and ran your finger through the greasy substance before dabbing it along his skin with just as little pressure as you did while wiping. Arthur offered a slightly sharp intake of breath, but otherwise made no other noise or movement. 

“I know it stings,” you say soothingly. “But it helps.” 

He nodded once with the slightest of movement to not mess up your handiwork. Once the angry exposed flesh had a layer of salve, you stepped back to look for any other wounds. It didn’t take long for you to spot the clean rip of his shirt along his bicep, the frayed edges stained dark with blood. 

There were other stains too, although no other rips or tears in the fabric. You just hoped most of the blood wasn’t his. “You’ll, uh, have to remove your shirt,” you pointed out, slightly sheepishly. “That gash on your arm doesn’t look good.” 

Arthur seemed to hesitate for a split second, then did so without question, unbuttoning the shirt to reveal a union suit beneath. The second set of buttons followed, exposing his torso. A glimpse of his paler skin allowed you to realize how clean he was, and as he shifted to gingerly remove his arm from the sleeves, it seemed as if he'd gotten away with much less than it appeared. 

You scooted the chair closer to his side with the cloth in your hand, your other hand braced against the uninjured part of his arm to keep steady. His skin felt warm beneath your palm, and the muscles were taut as you drew the rag across. As more of the wound was revealed, it was plain that this was deeper than you'd like. 

A sigh escaped your lips, and you stood up to retrieve the suture kit. 

“That don’t sound good,” you heard Arthur comment. 

You rounded to face him, a needle and thread in your hands. To emphasize, you held them up to eye level. “Not quite.” 

Arthur grimaced a little but said nothing. Instead, he reached around to the satchel he’d draped across the back of the chair and dug out a bottle of an amber substance. You couldn’t help but notice the way his muscles flexed when he uncorked it, bringing the bottle to his lips and taking a swig. Strong and resilient, you thought, as a flush of heat crowded your cheeks. 

He set the bottle onto the table, and you took your place again, banishing that thought from your mind. Carefully, you threaded the suture material through the needle, your unoccupied hand once again returning to its spot on his arm. Before piercing his skin, you paused, thinking back to the day your mother taught you. How long had it been since you were just a teenager, in the kitchen of your parents’ home? A young stable boy had gotten dragged by a neighbor's energetic stallion and sliced his leg on a broken piece of wood. You watched in awe as your mother made quick work of the nasty gash, closing the skin up expertly. She then passed it on to you with a smaller wound, which even with her guidance, did not look as neat and tidy as hers. 

“You ever do this before?” Arthur’s question snapped you from your thoughts. 

You blinked and took a breath. “Once,” you admitted. “But I remember how.” 

Arthur said nothing, giving you a lingering stare before taking another swig of his drink. The earthy, bitter smell of whiskey hit your nose, and you contemplated taking a drink for yourself to ease the sudden anxiety that welled in your chest. Instead, you sat up straight and delicately pinched the skin between your fingers and made the first pierce. 

He made a small noise at the back of his throat as your slightly trembling fingers made the first knot, though sat as still as a statue as you continued. You were slow, ensuring no mistakes were made. His skin bled slightly from your ministrations, and you were careful to wipe away without disturbing or unraveling your work. 

You took a momentary break halfway through, flexing your fingers for a moment while your other hand simply rested on his arm. Even as Arthur seemed to relax, most likely from the alcohol, you could still feel the hard muscle beneath. Your eyes swept over his arm, noting the defined curves and planes. He was built with the thickness of a tree, a sense of strength and power radiating through his person. It was a result of hard labor, his torso decorated with tan lines and old scars. Your gaze then shifted down slowly to his hands, now resting in his lap. His fingers were dotted with blood, trailing up to the leather of his fingerless gloves. 

The obvious signs of a fight. 

“Arthur?” you spoke his name quietly, wondering if you should be even asking this at all. 

“Hmm?” 

“Did you...kill those men?” you breathed out, though your heart started to race with anticipation. The question had been lingering for a little while. 

He looked at you then, his beautiful eyes searching yours for what seemed like an endless second, the corners of his mouth downturned in a slight frown. Finally, he sighed and looked away, “Yes,” he answered gruffly. 

You knew it. Hell, you had the feeling when you found him back there. You couldn’t exactly count how many of them laid slain in the road. You remember that day with the wolves. A whole pack it seemed, and Arthur took them out effortlessly. Humans were different, but still...one man against many... 

He must’ve taken your silence wrong, because he then said, “It was either me or them. And the world’s better off without them in it.” 

“How?” you asked. “I mean...you took all of them on at once?” you amended when he gave you a look of concern. 

Arthur took a deep breath, taking another swig of his whiskey before looking at you again. “I was ambushed at the bridge. One o’ them snuck up behind me and yanked me off my horse. It weren’t an easy fight, but I managed,” he shrugged as if it were a daily occurrence for him. 

Your stomach twisted. “You’re lucky you’re not dead,” you murmur, turning your attention back to the sutures. 

Arthur didn’t wince when you pierced through his skin again. Instead, he shrugged a second time. “I ain’t that easy to kill,” he answered a-matter-of-factly. 

“You speak from experience?” you countered, peering at him again. 

He hesitated for a second before sighing heavily, “More than I’d like,” he mumbled, his helping of whiskey lasting a beat longer than before. 

You wanted to ask more, your mind sifting through the stories he’s shared with you. The states he’d traveled between, the jobs he’d gone on, the people he’d met. It only made sense that the downsides of those jobs meant...facing potential death. You felt as if you were only scratching the surface of this familiar, yet mysterious man. 

Silence fell. Arthur continued to sit still while you finished the sutures, your thoughts spinning like a tornado. The deeper you went the more the curiosity and a strange sense of admiration welled within you, and while you hated to admit it, there was a small twinge of fear. This was a man that faced dangerous predators and spoke of it so nonchalantly, and now learning he was perfectly capable of taking down a dozen men without any fatal wounds? 

You finished the last suture, and you wiped the last of the excess blood away to admire your handiwork. Fingers traced over the unaffected skin, feeling for any residual issues. Nothing felt taut or uneven. “Anything feel off?” You asked quietly, your fingers lingering, and you realized you'd been tracing the dip of his muscle, where it connected to the swell of his shoulder. So well built... 

You stopped abruptly, hoping he hadn't noticed. 

What you hadn't realized is that he did notice, his eyes first on your hand, then he met your gaze. You froze, heat striking through your cheeks. 

“No,” he answered. “Feels okay.” 

You nodded, promptly standing up to clear the supplies, but to also hide your flushed face. Just as you placed the suture kit back to its home, the opening of the door startled you. 

Whirling around, you were half surprised and half relieved to find Frederick strolling in. The thumping of your heart slowed just a fraction, until you saw your husband’s eyes land on Arthur, who was already half out the chair. Arthur froze immediately. 

Frederick’s gaze snapped to yours, confusion and alarm clear on his face. 

“Frederick!” you exclaimed after the uncomfortably long moment of silence. “Uh...where were you?” 

“l heard those gunshots, and knowing you were out there, I got worried and went to find you,” he explained, his eyes constantly shifting back to Arthur. “Who might this be?” 

You looked to Arthur who met your gaze. The man looked quite uncomfortable and sheepish, as if he was caught doing something he shouldn't have. You took a breath and looked back to your husband. “This is Arthur,” you started. “He...well, he got caught up in that fight. I came across him and offered to bring him back here to fix him up.” 

You watched as the two men now stared at one another, Frederick’s scrutinizing gaze studying. Arthur hadn't adjusted his clothes, and his half-bare torso and newly stitched arm was out, solidifying your story. 

“They were O’Driscolls, the ones who caused those gunshots,” you added in the tense air, purposely keeping out the detail about Arthur killing them all. “Arthur was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.” 

Frederick frowned, and his body seemed to relax a touch. “O’Driscolls,” he repeated, shaking his head. “I've heard they're nasty work. You're quite lucky you escaped with just a few wounds, even luckier that my wife came across you.” 

“Yeah,” Arthur mumbled in agreement, adjusting his clothes to cover himself back up. He flinched ever so slightly when the fabric grazed over his angry skin. With his shirt back in place, he began to stand up. “She's quite somethin’ with them stitches.” 

The two men standing side by side caught your full attention, and your gaze flicked between them in curiosity. Frederick was not petite by any means, but Arthur had a few inches on him, and harnessed a thicker build. Broad shoulders and toned arms, clothes that were generous in outlining his strength. Your husband’s clothes, while kept neat and tidy, sagged in a few places. He’d also put on a few pounds since moving out here, indicated by the slight strain in the buttons of his shirt. Complete opposites. 

“Say, you look quite familiar,” Frederick said thoughtfully, peering at Arthur. 

You could have sworn you saw Arthur tense, but you said, “He’s the one who fixed our roof.” 

“Ah!” Frederick’s face lit up with a smile. “Well, no complaints here. You did some fine work!” He clapped his hand on Arthur’s better shoulder. “Why don't you stay for dinner? My wife’s cooking is simply divine!” 

You hadn't expected Frederick to invite what was, to him, a complete stranger. Regardless, his offer was a pleasant surprise. You hid a smile, knowing Arthur was very aware of your cooking skills. When you glanced over, you observed a slight frown on Arthur‘s lips. 

“I wouldn't wanna intrude any more than I have been,” Arthur awkwardly explained. 

“You're not,” you said quickly, and when Arthur turned to look at you, you added, “You went through a lot today, at least rest up for a bit before heading back out.” 

Arthur stared at you for a moment, and then offered a half shrug. “Sure.” 

You set to work after that, immediately diving into dinner prep while Frederick and Arthur spoke to another at the table. Your husband was chattier and more enthusiastic, countering Arthur’s quiet responses. He wasn't uncomfortable, you could tell, but it was evident the previous fight took much more out of him than he was letting on. As you bustled around the kitchen, Arthur’s tired frame would linger in the corner of your eye. He didn't seem to be uncomfortable, which you were thankful for. 

A pot of stew was simmering on the stove, the aroma slowly filling the air of your home. You stirred, occasionally adding a pinch of the last of your herb stash, realizing you'd completely forgotten about your shopping trip to Valentine in favor of coming to Arthur’s aid. How ironic was it that you came to his rescue like he did that day when you met? You even brought his horse back to him. The roles had been reversed, you realized, and you giggled quietly to yourself. Although you hoped it wouldn’t become a common occurrence between the two of you. 

A few more moments passed before you retrieved three bowls from the cabinet, ladling generous portions in each. You carried them carefully to the table and set them down before sitting at your usual spot. Arthur went to move, obviously thinking he was in the wrong spot, but Frederick grabbed the chair you were in earlier to sit on one end. It left Arthur sitting across from you just like every other visit, even though it was Frederick’s normal spot. 

“Eat up, now! You won't find anything better for a hundred miles!” Frederick encouraged as he began to help himself. 

Arthur briefly met your gaze, a small smile touching his lips as he spooned in a mouthful. It was the same stew you'd served him the first time he visited your home, and you hoped he recognized that. 

As he swallowed, Arthur sat up straight with a grin on his face. “You're right, this ain't half bad!” He exclaimed. 

His enthusiasm made you smile, and it was obvious he was putting on a show to appease you in front of your otherwise unknowing husband. Frederick then added, “As I said, you will find nothing else like it!” 

The remainder of the meal was quiet after that, save for the spoons scraping the tin bowls. Arthur was the slowest to finish his meal, which you couldn't help noticing. Normally he would scarf it down in a heartbeat, but his eyes were heavily lidded, and often times he’d pause to yawn. You could hardly blame him after today. 

He sat back from his now empty bowl, stifling another yawn. “Thank you,” he groaned, stretching and rolling his bad shoulder with a slight wince. “That hit the spot.” 

You inclined your head in response, your eyes flicking to the window next. It had significantly darkened since you'd arrived back home, and you wondered exactly how much time had passed since. Something twinged in the back of your mind, almost like a silent warning. You weren't sure exactly why, but the thought of Arthur venturing out there so fresh after his injuries didn't sit right with you, even though you were well aware he had every capability to take care of himself. 

“Arthur, why don't you spend the night?” You offered. “Rest a bit more.” 

Arthur stared at you, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “I—” 

“We do have a guest bedroom,” Frederick interrupted, gesturing to the closed door next to your bedroom. “You ought to, I can see you're in need of a good rest.” 

Arthur was shaking his head. “It ain't necessary.” 

“I insist,” you said gently. “Please, you're practically dead on your feet.” 

Arthur opened his mouth to argue, but whatever argument he had was interrupted with a deep yawn. He rubbed his palm along his face and sighed heavily. You knew he couldn't deny that, from the look of plain exhaustion and reluctance to debate even further. He didn't even have to say anything, just nodded. 

You smiled inwardly in relief, and then bustled toward the guest room. Upon opening the door, you were greeted with a slightly musty smell from the disuse, but not overpowering enough for the need to open the windows. You stepped in further and reached for the silhouette of the oil lamp on the nearby nightstand. A few seconds passed before the darkened room was bathed in amber light. The wash basin was full of water and had a clean rag next to it. The bed was neatly made with sheets that were hardly used. As you were finishing your brief survey to ensure everything was in order, you felt a presence hover in the doorway. 

You turned to see Arthur standing there, waiting patiently as he leaned slightly on the frame. His entire body sagged despite what you guessed to be his best efforts at hiding it. Your heart lurched at the thought of him denying your offer instead, heading out in the darkness like this. 

“The bed’s ready for you,” you gestured. “And the basin...” you nodded toward the porcelain piece. “Please make yourself comfortable.” 

Arthur nodded again, silently. He stepped in further, closing the already small distance between the two of you. He stopped, staring down at you with an expression of mild concern. “Y’ really don't have to do this,” he muttered. “You've already done so much.” 

You peered up at him, staring into those gorgeous, steady eyes. They were almost hypnotizing. “I don't have to, I want to,” you said with a warm smile. “I don't mind.” 

Arthur let out a small, humorless chuckle. “You're too sweet for your own good.” 

Sweet. You were thankful for the dim light, because your face flushed. You broke his gaze, eyes drifting to the bed again. “Sometimes people forget to be kind,” you explained. “It never hurts to remind the world.” 

He hummed shortly in response, and your eyes locked to him again. His face displayed thoughtfulness. 

You wondered what he was thinking, but your curiosity was staunched by the greater need for his recovery. Instead, you took a breath and said, “Goodnight, Arthur. Frederick and I will be just next door if you need anything.” 

As you turned, you caught his nod in your peripheral. You headed out of the room and closed the door behind you, although you could feel his lingering stare just before the knob clicked into place. 

—- 

Arthur awoke as something shifted around him, a gentle movement that didn’t rouse him until there was a sudden weight upon him. His eyes fluttered open, facing the room swathed in a dim glow of the oil lamp on the nightstand. Something on his thighs felt heavy, and his gaze fell upon a pair of legs straddling his. Panic struck him as his eyes blinked rapidly in the desperate attempt to see who was trapping him. 

His vision adjusted, and your name slid from his mouth in surprise. “What’re you doin’?” He gasped; voice still rough with sleep. His brain seemed sluggish as he scrambled to comprehend what was going on. 

You smiled down at him, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. “You seemed kind of lonely, Arthur. I thought I might give you some company,” you explained softly. 

He opened his mouth to reply, confusion only growing. Instead, he seemed to focus on what you were wearing. The thin white material of your nightgown was bunched around your waist, exposing your thighs. Your figure was silhouetted in the light, accentuating your shape. 

You knew he ought to look away, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. 

You might have taken his silence for acceptance, because you leaned down until your face was only inches from his with a whisper of his name on your lips, a hand rested on his shoulder slowly descended to his chest, where his still hammering heart thudded against your soft palm. Your mouth hovered over his neck, dangerously close to his pulse point. The sweet scent of perfume surrounded him like a silk scarf. He inhaled quietly, breathing in the delicious aroma— 

His hands at his sides balled into fists. What were you doing? What was he doing?! You are a married woman, and him? How was he allowing this? His mind screamed at him to stop, to push you off, to rush out of that house and never darken your doorstep again. 

But he couldn’t find it in himself. “Wh-what about your husband?” He managed to say, hoping his last saving grace would be for you to realize your infidelity. 

Your body straightened up, and your smile turned impish. “What about him?” You asked in an innocent voice, your finger tracing the opening of his union suit. Even with just a few inches of exposed skin, your touch felt like fire, just as much as it had before when stitching him up. 

Something pooled deep in his belly. An old, yet familiar rush of excitement and arousal. He gritted his teeth, guilt seeping into his mind. 

“Don’t think he’d appreciate this,” Arthur pointed out, his eyes immediately falling to your hand. Why couldn’t he just reach up and grab your wrist? 

You giggled softly, your hand dragging along his abdomen. “What he doesn’t know,” you began, stopping where the blankets covered him, just above his navel, to peel them away. Arthur tensed, realizing now there wasn’t much else between the two of you. Your palm continued its journey down his body until resting on his now obvious, traitorous, erection. “Won’t hurt him.” 

The weight of your hand against him, even when only blocked by the fabric of his union suit, felt wonderful. He couldn’t help the groan that rumbled from his throat, his thoughts melting away. 

It didn’t stop there. Your other hand began to unbutton the line down his suit, slowly exposing more and more before his length sprung free from the constriction, upright and ready. His body pulsed with want, the burning need to feel your skin against his. 

You granted his unspoken wish, wrapping your fingers at the base. You pumped once, experimentally, before picking up a smooth rhythm. Another moan bubbled from his mouth, quiet, desperate. Your touch felt like pure heaven, soft and warm and just right. 

“Fuck,” he sighed out, tilting his head back. Any lingering resistance faded with his resolve. 

“I’ve wanted you, Arthur…” you murmured breathlessly, your hand still working him from root to tip. “I know you want me too.” 

His breath came in a shudder. “I…” he trailed off, unable to muster up even a denial. His better senses told him to refuse, to stop you, to leave. But how could he with you here, exploring him so freely, so intimately? 

His thought became clouded with the slow build of his pleasure. A carnal urge awakened within him, a desire to claim you in a way he hadn’t done with anyone in so long. Another groan escaped, low and quiet. His hand reached for you, resting on the warm skin of your thigh. It took every inch of restraint to not flip you over and bury himself within you at that second. 

“I told you,” you cooed, the smile remaining on your face. “I knew you couldn’t resist me.” 

Any following words failed to leave his tongue. All he could think about was your soft touch, your warm body, how good it felt to be… 

His eyes snapped open. What faced him was the same room, although your absence was more than obvious. The oil lamp was off, and the room was almost pitch black, save from the beginning rays of dawn turning the sky a cobalt tinge before the sunrise. 

It was a dream. A silly, stupid dream, he thought to himself. Though the ghost of your body on his seemed to linger, too tangible for it to be just a figment of his imagination. The uncomfortable strain in his pants brought him further into reality, as he shifted and winced from the acute onset of pain that reminded him why he was here in the first place. 

His entire body ached, his muscles stiff. He groaned and slowly sat up, trying his best to ignore his hard length and the simultaneous pain plaguing his limbs. His head was swimming, both from the recent dream and the memories of yesterday flooding in. It'd been such a busy day, Arthur had been hunting when those damned O’Driscolls ambushed him at the bridge west of Valentine. He’d fought multiple men before, but not without a toll on himself. The pain was familiar, the scars baring more stories than any normal man could holster. Health cures usually took the edge off, along with a bottle of whiskey and a good night’s rest. 

He wouldn't have even given his injuries a second thought if you hadn't shown up. 

He rubbed his sore face with his hand, groaning deeply again. Shame welled in his chest for even having that dream, the way it felt so real, the way his body responded to you... 

Arthur had to get out of there. 

He jumped up at an instant, ignoring the protests in his body as he grabbed his hat and gun belt which were resting on the bedposts. He adjusted himself, although he doubted anyone would be awake at this hour to even notice. The floorboards creaked and the hinges moaned as he moved to open the door, slowly pulling it open to face the kitchen. 

To his surprise, a soft glow painted the room, just barely illuminating the furniture. It emanated from the fireplace, he realized, and saw a figure sitting in front of it. He blinked as his vision adjusted, and his heart skipped a beat. It was you. 

Your figure bathed in the glow of the dying fire, swathed in a nightgown. Upon his entry, you turned to look at him. 

Arthur froze under your gaze, suddenly feeling guilty. The memory of the dream still too fresh, he looked away. “Uh, I’m headin’ out,” he announced quietly. 

“Oh, alright,” 

Your voice caught his attention. It sounded thick and raspy. He looked at you again, this time noticing the glazed appearance in your eyes. Your cheeks shone wet. You’d been crying. His stomach churned at the sight, although he couldn’t exactly place why. “You okay?” he asked against his better judgment. 

You took a deep, shuddering sigh, looking down at your lap. In your hands was a small piece of paper. “No, not really,” you mumbled with a sniff. 

Arthur frowned. He wanted to inquire more, but his other thoughts urged him to just leave. However, he stayed rooted in the spot. “I’m...sorry to hear that,” he awkwardly replied, unsure what else to even say. 

You wiped your palm across your face, a pained smile crossing your lips. “It’s my husband. He left for another business venture.” 

Of course, that was usually the story. It was so often that Arthur sometimes forgot you were even married. Regardless, you seemed to be so cheery even without Frederick’s presence. Why was now any different? 

“You’d think I’d be used to this by now,” you continued. “But it doesn’t get any easier. I just...miss him,” your voice broke slightly. “Seems like he spends more time out there than he does with me.” 

A swell of sympathy gathered in his chest, along with annoyance. Your husband left you alone too frequently, without protection, and the run-in with the O’Driscolls solidified your potential danger. If you’d arrived just a few minutes earlier at the bridge yesterday, then you would have been unknowingly caught in a massacre that you wouldn’t have survived. Hell, it was a miracle you’d been out here this long and only had that one encounter with the wolves, as far as he knew. How long would that dumb luck last? 

A lump formed in the back of Arthur’s throat. He swallowed it silently, pondering where this spike of anxiety came from. He cared about you, he realized, a little too much. “How long ‘til he’s back?” he asked. 

“I don’t know,” you answered sadly. “After you went to bed, a colleague of his stopped by. They were speaking amongst themselves, I didn’t really listen. He told me not to worry about it but then I woke up to this...” you held up the piece of paper. 

Arthur reached for it and plucked it from your fingers, leaning in to read in the fire light. 

My dearest, 

I deeply apologize for having to inform you like this. I will be traveling to New York this morning for an opportunity that I could not refuse. If all goes well, this may be the biggest financial success I’ve achieved since first arriving here. We will be one step closer to the life we are destined to live. 

I’m not sure how long this will take, but I promise to write frequently with updates if this lasts longer than a week. 

With all my love, 

Frederick 

A pit of frustration grew in his stomach. The persuasion of money was an all too familiar tale he'd acquainted himself with many times, often with another price to pay. That being said, Arthur was careful when it came to plotting heists, whether it was by himself or with others. 

You and Frederick were far from the outlaw life, but leaving you here on the promise of money for the unforeseen future, in the wake of a large O’Driscoll attack so close to your home, was beyond reckless. 

A curse bubbled in the back of his throat, but he kept it down. As much as he’d like to curse the bastard out, he knew it’d make you more upset. Instead, he said, “At least he let you know where he was goin’, but I know it ain't easy for you right now.” 

You nodded slightly in agreement. “I'm sorry you found me like this,” you laughed humorlessly, wiping your face again. Your other hand settled on your neck, which he realized held a ruby necklace, your fingers toying with the pendant that seemed to almost harness its own fire within the facets. He hadn’t noticed it before. 

Was that the kind of man Frederick was? Adorn you with gifts in the wake of his absence? Arthur bit back a sigh, the sympathy only growing beneath his ribs. “No need,” he said quietly. “I get it.” 

You met his gaze again, the silence other than the faint crackle of the fire encompassing the room. It held for a beat too long, and you stood up and closed the distance, wrapping your arms around his torso in a tight embrace. Arthur tensed from the unexpected contact and readied the automatic response to back away. 

But...he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He allowed strangers to hug him for reasons beyond his understanding, and he could barely reciprocate when they were too lost in their own emotions. This however, was different. The tension eased from his body, but keeping himself neutral he didn’t return the hug, instead raised his hand and placed it on your upper back. 

The warmth of your body seeped to his. Your scent wafted to him, still smelling like the floral perfume he detected earlier when you were tending to your wounds. A flood of memories suddenly came rushing back, from those quiet moments in the same room, to the damning dream he had. 

Suddenly, you stepped back, eyes snapping to the ground as you tucked your hair behind your ear sheepishly. “I’m sorry, how silly of me,” you spoke with a flustered tone.  

Arthur couldn’t find a response, finding himself empty when devoid of your touch. He breathed out, fingers flexing at his sides. “It ain’t silly,” he murmured finally. 

You offered a watery smile to him, the sadness etched deep in your face. “I appreciate it, but I’ve held you up long enough,” you admitted. “Don’t linger on account of me.” 

He’d almost forgotten that he was in a hurry to leave, a hurry to get nowhere other than to avoid his own embarrassment. In the past five minutes, the energy shifted so drastically it was almost surreal. That rush to leave stretched further and further away, and the urge to stay for your comfort was beginning to overwhelm him. 

But he knew he couldn’t. What else could he do than to just sit and watch you cry? He had no advice to offer, no other words of encouragement. It wasn’t his responsibility. 

Arthur finally nodded. “’M sorry,” he simply said, reaching out once again to place his hand on your shoulder. Another sentence hung heavy in the back of his throat, but he kept it to himself. You deserve better than him. 

Your face turned to glance at his hand, and then back to him, a flicker reflecting in your eyes. No more words were exchanged before his hand slid away, and he turned to leave. 

Maybe he should stake the immediate area out for the next day or two, just in case. 

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

2 types of arthur morgan fans, one treats him like a pet hamster and the other wants to suck his dick till his stomach caves in like a caprisun

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

my husband

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

embers

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader

Word Count: 9.5k

Rating: Explicit

Summary: You're engaged to be married to a man you've never met. Arthur Morgan is supposed to escort you across the country to meet him. You should keep your distance, but the dangers of the road bring you closer and closer together with each passing mile.

Warnings: smoking | drinking | canon-typical violence | allusions to rape | reader is a virgin | loss of virginity | descriptions of injury and medical procedures (Arthur gets stitches) | reader has hair that can be pulled | hand job | oral (m receiving) | masturbation (f and m) | mutual masturbation | dirty talk | voyeurism | exhibitionism | praise kink | fingering | (unprotected) p in v sex

Notes: So there's this post ... and It has been on my mind for months so I had to write this exact scenario with Arthur, naturally. Again, this is way longer than it was supposed to be, but working on this fic allowed me to daydream a lot, so I can't complain. As always, I wouldn't have been able to do it without Dani @alexturner, who pushed me in the right direction and came up with the ending (because I'm not good at writing those)!!

***

You’re not pretty. At least that’s what everyone told you from the moment you could understand those words. Your mother, the maid she hired to look after you, the boys working for your father, the marm, the people in town. Since you were little, you’ve been hearing it over and over again. “It’s such a shame she ain’t pretty, what’s she gonna do with brains?”

The thing is, you also don’t feel very smart. If you were, you’d have found a way to leave your godforsaken town for one of the big cities in the east as soon as you could read the timetable down by the train station. You would’ve found a way to get out of this marriage your father arranged for you. Ambrose Longabaugh was his name. Ambrose Longabaugh. From what you have heard, he shares your lot: anything but handsome, but at least he has money.

No one was sad to see you go, save for your little brother, who held you tight and made you promise to come back if you didn’t like your betrothed. You had promised, knowing you were lying. It didn’t matter if you liked him or not, he was the man you were going to marry. You weren’t getting out of this. Your father had made sure of that.

Mr. Morgan is riding ahead of you, sitting in the saddle with his shoulders slumped, a cigarette dangling between his lips. You can smell the smoke on the crisp fall air, even though you’re trying to keep your distance. It’s not that he scares you – not as much as other men do, not as much as your future husband does – but you don’t like him very much. Your father is paying him to take you out west where Ambrose Longabaugh will one day take over his father’s cattle business. And Mr. Morgan is doing it without complaint, hardly acknowledging your presence. He talks more to his horse than he talks to you.

You let your eyes wander across the mountains around you and sigh. The first time you had seen them, your mouth had hung open in awe. Now you feel trapped by them. You can’t go back, and there’s only one way forward. You sigh again. No, you’re neither pretty nor smart.

“Break?” Mr. Morgan asks from up front. It’s only the fifth word he has said to you today; the others were good morning and let’s go.

“Yes,” you agree, not because you need it but because it gives you something else to do.

You stop near a small river with a shallow bank where Mr. Morgan can refill your waterskins. While he’s busy, you stretch your legs and pick up a few rocks from the riverbed to toss them into the water. The rushing of the water fills your ears, drowning out both thoughts and sounds. You take a deep, calming breath and close your eyes.

When you open them again, Mr. Morgan has taken off his lambskin coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He’s washing his face and neck in the cold water of the river, a wet stain forming on his collar, drops running down his lean, muscular forearms that are still tan from working outdoors all summer. Your face heats up with an emotion you don’t quite understand, and you turn away from him, pretending to be interested in some moss-covered rocks. You’re not supposed to look.

He startles you when he touches your arm lightly, making you turn around. You hadn’t heard him coming over the sounds of the river. His coat is back on, but you can see his neck glistening in a few places still.

“You shouldn’t wander, ma’am,” he says. That’s four more words for today.

You look around. “Indians, right?” you ask with a small laugh.

His face remains serious. “No. White men. Gangs. They like to hide out here.”

You watch his Adam’s apple move as he swallows and your throat immediately mimics his. “Then why are we taking this road if it’s so dangerous?”

He shrugs. You realize he hasn’t let go of your arm yet. “It’s fast.”

“My father –”

“Your father planned this route.”

You swallow again. “I’ll be careful, sir. Thank you.” He lets go of your arm then, and you walk back to your horse, your face now heating up with an emotion you definitely recognize: embarrassment.

You make camp later that day where the trees are standing close together. While he builds a fire, you pick at a pine cone you found on the ground. Somewhere in the distance you hear a howl, but you’ve learned that if it’s not loud enough to make Mr. Morgan look up from his task, then it’s nothing to be worried about. And he stokes the fire, eyes fixed to the flames.

After dinner, he hands you a small bottle and when the sharp taste of whiskey makes you cough, he smirks. So you take another sip, holding his gaze. He looks away first, pulls a torn-up pack of cigarettes from his coat, and offers you one. You accept, surprised.

“Don’t let my father find out you’re corrupting me,” you tease.

He only makes, “Hm,” in response.

The smoke from the cigarette burns your throat, just like the whiskey, but this time you manage to suppress the cough. “Do you have family, Mr. Morgan?” you ask, watching how he uses a branch to stoke the fire.

“No,” is his simple reply.

Now it’s your turn to make, “Hm,” before you add, “No one you’re sweet on?”

You don’t really care about the answer, why would you? But when he gives you another, “No,” a careful one, it makes your heart pound faster. Until he turns the tables.

“What about you?”

“Oh,” you say, “I don’t know, I haven’t met my fiancé yet.” And you don’t want to be thinking about him right now.

Mr. Morgan looks at you, his head cocked to one side. “Come now,” he pushes, as if you’re being evasive on purpose. “That ain’t what I’m askin’.”

You sigh. “It’s not? I’m spoken for. I have no business thinking about other men.” You don’t mean to be so frank, but the words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. And you can tell from the look on Mr. Morgan’s face that he still thinks you’re not honest with him.

“Hm,” he makes, and you dread what might be coming next.

“I’m going to bed,” you tell him, putting an end to your conversation. He opens his mouth to add something, but you don’t give him a change. You lie down and pull your thin blanket over your body, face hot with embarrassment. The last thing you see before falling asleep is Mr. Morgan staring at the flames, a quiet smile on his lips.

Later that night, you wake up to shouts. What pulls you from your sleep entirely is a gunshot that reverberates through the forest. “Mr. Morgan?” you shout, because he isn’t sitting next to the fire anymore and you can’t see him anywhere. Then you hear a sound that makes your blood run cold, a snarl, a growl, but animalistic, wild, unlike anything you’ve ever heard. You jump up from your bedroll, ready to run, but then you remember Mr. Morgan’s warning. It’s better to stay here, in the light of the dwindling fire, than to take your chances out there. “Mr. Morgan?” you try again, this time a hiss, as you frantically search the darkness beyond your camp. It gets so dark out here at night.

A shout is your answer, a deep, “Hey!” Short and fast. The horses whinny, and you’re only now realizing they’re stomping the ground, tearing up the soil with their hooves, the whites in their eyes visible, ears pressed tightly back. You try to swallow your panic, but it gets harder with every passing second.

Then something moves between the trees and Mr. Morgan stumbles back into the camp, a gun in one hand, a torch in the other. He has a wild look in his eyes too, just like the horses, but when they land on you, he relaxes, his face assuming its usual, stoic mask. “Mountain lion,” he says. “It’s gone.”

“What does that mean?” you ask, your voice trembling.

“Chased it off,” he explains. “It ain’t coming back here.”

“The horses …,” you start.

But he walks toward the fire, toward you. “You did good,” he says, dropping to his knees next to you, so close, too close. You can smell the gunpower on him, and the sweat; you’ve never been so close to a man before, not even your own father. “Here.” He hands you the whiskey again. “It’s gone, I promise.”

You wish your hands wouldn’t shake so much. He grabs yours with one to steady, his warm skin like fire against yours, unscrews the stopper with the other, not with impatience but oh so gently. You manage to take a sip on your own, but he watches you intently for any signs of distress.

“You’ll have to get used to it,” he says, stowing away the bottle. “This land out here … it’s wild.”

You nod. Now that the initial burst of panic is dulled, you feel tears sting your eyes.

“But you’ll manage.” His voice is so calming. “You’re a brave girl.”

*******

The hooves of your horse pound out a slow, steady beat against the hard ground. You’re tired, every muscle in your body is sore, but you push on without complaint, following Mr. Morgan up a winding mountain and back down on the other side. The days are so similar they’re bleeding into one – the mountain lion … did it attack three nights ago? Five? You don’t remember. All you know is that your heart picks up speed when he looks at you, that every evening your conversation around the fire becomes a little bit longer, that you wish you could go on like this forever, never to arrive at your destination.

Sometimes at night, when you can’t sleep but you pretend to, you can hear him sing, sometimes to himself, sometimes to the horses. Your heart almost flies out of your chest when he does it. He hasn’t touched you anymore since the night of the mountain lion attack, but you wish he would. Even though everything else about him confuses you, you wish you could feel his skin against yours again; such longing, it almost consumes you.

Is this what it’s supposed to feel like? Did your cousin feel like this when she ran off with that cowboy? Did your mother and father feel like this; is that why they got married? Are you supposed to feel like this when you meet your fiancé? Or is this something else entirely? Is there something wrong with you?

“Break?” he asks once the ground is beginning to even out.

“You know, you keep asking for breaks so much I’m starting to think you don’t want us to reach our destination,” you tease.

He just shrugs and stops his horse. You halt too and climb off, your legs steady when they hit the ground. It wasn’t like that in the beginning; the first few days he had to help you off your horse and you could barely stand. It’s astonishing what a difference a few weeks can make.

You stretch, then begin to walk up and down the path. It’s cold, sitting so still up on that horse, and you flex your fingers, trying to get some feeling back into them. Mr. Morgan, meanwhile, sits down on a tree stump to write in a leather-bound notebook. You’ve seen him use it before but you don’t quite know what it’s for. He’s probably tracking your progress or taking notes on the weather.

Careful to keep him in sight, you veer off into the underbrush, looking at the trees and the different kinds of plants growing on the ground. You pretend you can read the language of the forest, looking for tracks of animals or some mushrooms you might be able to eat. Just like you’ve seen Mr. Morgan do countless of times. When you do find something, you’re not sure what to make of it.

“Mr. Morgan?” Your voice is raised as you try to keep it steady.

You hear his footsteps immediately but you don’t dare to turn around, your eyes fixed on the sight before you. He stops next to you, and you can hear his steady breathing. The knot in your chest immediately dissolves.

“Hm,” he makes.

“What happened here?” you ask. Now the tremor in your voice is all too audible.

He hesitates just for a second, weighing his options, but then he says, “Some people were camping here, a family by the looks of it.”

“Where are they?” you ask, finally turning toward him. The cold, calculating look on his face sends a shiver down your spine.

“Ma’am …,” he says slowly.

“You can tell me. I can handle the truth.”

You look back at the burned-out wagon, the torn clothes hanging from tree branches, all that blood on a log next to a cold fire pit. You don’t need him to tell you. You just want him not to confirm your suspicions.

“They’re dead,” he answers. “Killed. For money.”

“All of them?” you ask.

He winces. “If there were women …”

“Can’t we help them?” You know you can’t, but you wish there was something you could do.

“Stay on the path next time,” he growls. “No more wanderin’ ‘round … ma’am.”

“Mr. Morgan …,” you try, but he’s already trudging back toward the horses.

You spend the rest of the day in silence, riding next to each other but avoiding each other’s gazes. You shouldn’t have called out to him; it was obvious what had happened in that camp. They were a group, and you’re just two people … your father couldn’t have known about the dangers of this journey, or he wouldn’t have made you go. He would’ve found another way. At least that’s what you’re telling yourself. Because you don’t want to even consider the other option and what it would mean. When the sun slowly disappears behind the mountains around you, dread settles onto your heart, the heavy kind you haven’t felt since you were a little girl, afraid of the dark.

Finally, Mr. Morgan stops his horse. “We camp here tonight. No fire.”

“It’s so dark,” you whisper.

“The darkness ain’t what’ll kill you,” he growls.

You can’t sleep; of course not. So you watch him all night, sitting up straight next to you, not so close that you could touch him, but close enough so you’ll always see he’s there. He doesn’t sleep either but he sits very still, keeping his eyes on the path, making sure nothing evil comes out of the dark. And you wish all you had to worry about were mountain lions.

*******

Two days later, Mr. Morgan’s face is pale and you’re frozen through. You haven’t had a warm meal since you found that destroyed camp, and Mr. Morgan has barely slept. You haven’t talked at all, apart from the necessities. And still you haven’t left those mountains and woods behind you. At least the daylight makes you feel less afraid.

“Is it far still?” you ask when the silence becomes unbearable.

“A week,” he answers, looking up at the sky, “if it doesn’t snow.”

The weather is the least of your worries. “And how long before we’re past the mountains?” You hate them now as much as they awed you at first.

“Three days maybe.”

Three more days without warm food. You straighten your back. “Have you come this way before?”

“Yes.”

“Has anything ever happened to you?” You don’t know if you’d prefer confirmation or denial.

“You’re safe with me, so don’t you worry about that.” There’s something in the way he says it that makes your grip tighten on the reins.

“I’m not worried,” you lie. “Just curious.”

“Hm,” he makes before going back to observing the surroundings with caution. “Bad people are everywhere. Not just here.”

“That’s a grim way to look at the world.” You try for a teasing tone, but it sounds like you’re reprimanding him instead.

“You ain’t seen much of it then,” he replies.

“More than you know.”

He looks at you curiously, just for a moment. “You –” he starts, but a shout ahead on the path interrupts him.

“Hey!”

You almost jump out of your skin and stop your horse reflexively. That’s your first mistake. The second one is to shout, “Arthur!” Because it costs him valuable seconds, that distraction. He turns around to look at you, and then suddenly two men are on him, pulling him out of the saddle. Two more appear next to you, a young, handsome one with a dark mustache and darker eyes, and a man your father’s age, but scrawny, with a mouth full of yellow teeth that he exposes to you in an ugly grin. You pull on the reins and your horse dances nervously, ears pressed tightly against its head. And then you hear a shot.

A fifth man stands in the middle of the path, a smoking gun held high over his head. His thick, gray beard quivers as he shouts, “Everybody stay calm and no one is gonna get hurt!”

You look at Mr. Morgan for guidance and see him struggle against the two men who are restraining him by holding his arms tightly pressed against his back. His pants are dirty from where he hit the ground when they pulled him off his horse.

“Get her down from there,” the man with the gray beard barks, and before you can do anything, thin but strong fingers have closed around your arm and you tumble out of the saddle with a shout.

The man who is holding you stinks of rotting things and nicotine. He twists one of your arms until it is pressed flush against your back and uses his other hand to hold your chin, so you’re forced to look straight ahead at the man with the mustache.

“Pretty little thing, ain’t she?” he snarls, and the other man licks his lips.

“We just want your valuables,” Graybeard says to Mr. Morgan.

“We ain’t got any,” he growls.

“I’m sure you don’t,” is the calm answer as Graybeard starts going through the saddlebags of Mr. Morgan’s horse.

You roll your shoulders but the man with the rotting teeth only tightens his hold on you. His companion takes a few careful steps toward you. A lump is forming in your throat as you begin to realize just how dangerous this situation is. You try to kick back, like a horse, but you miss your captor. It only earns you a cruel laugh and a pinch to your cheek.

Somewhere to your right, you hear a dull thud and a pained groan coming from Mr. Morgan. You try to look at him, but you can’t move, not because you’re being restrained but because fear has taken over your body and you can’t do anything but relinquish control.

“Check her horse,” Graybeard orders, but the man with the mustache doesn’t move. He’s only a few steps away from you now, his eyes hungrily roaming over your body. “Now!” Graybeard barks.

“There isn’t -,” you start, but the man who is restraining you clamps a hand over your mouth. You could vomit when you taste his skin.

“There’s this,” the man with the mustache says, holding up a cheap necklace your mother gave you as a parting gift.

“Take it,” Graybeard orders.

“What about her?” the rotting man asks and shakes you.

“Her too,” Graybeard answers with a nod. “Shoot the man.”

“No!” you shout, even though it makes the disgusting man get more of his fingers in between your lips.

The man with the mustache stuffs your mother’s necklace into the pocket of his jacket, then walks over to you. You can hear the blood rushing in your ears as he grips your skirt and begins to pull it upward so your boots and then your drawers are slowly exposed. A hot tear rolls down your cheek but it only makes him smile.

“I bet you’re lovely.” His voice is deep, almost as deep as Mr. Morgan’s, but hearing him speak only fills you with revulsion. “I bet you’re all tight …” He lightly strokes your cheek, then uses his free hand to unbutton his trousers.

“No!” you shout again, but it’s muffled, and your feeble attempts to free yourself are met with an evil snicker.

Then you hear a shot and all the life goes out of your body. It’s done. You’re alone now. And if you’re lucky, you’ll soon be dead too. Two more shots ring through the forest, each one as painful as if you’ve been hit by the bullets yourself. The man with the mustache doesn’t even flinch. His trousers hang open now, and you can see dark hairs peek out from between the fabric, before he cups one of your breasts hard and licks a broad stripe up your neck.

The other man moans, low, wetly, and it’s the most disgusting sound you’ve ever heard. He lets go of you, but it’s too late; you can’t run anymore. A wet, dull sound is followed by another moan, and you know exactly what he’s doing. You’ve heard people talk about it, even though you don’t quite know what it means when a man touches himself. All you know is that you feel bile rise at the thought of it.

The man with the mustache freezes and looks behind you, his eyes wide with shock. Maybe they have a different bargain, maybe he wants to keep you for himself and feels threatened. But then, so fast he’s only a blur, Mr. Morgan rushes past you, grabs the man by his collar, and pulls him off you, landing a punch against his jaw. You blink a few times as both men go down, not sure if what you’re seeing is real or if it’s a vision your panicked brain conjured up to calm you. The man with the mustache lands a kick between Mr. Morgan’s legs, gaining the upper hand. He pulls a knife from his boot while he straddles your companion to pin him down, but Mr. Morgan doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the man’s arm and bites down until he lets go of the knife. You catch a glimpse of Mr. Morgan’s eyes and where you expected him to be all feral rage, he’s cold and calculating. It sends a shiver down your spine and you stumble back a few paces until you step into something soft that squelches on impact. You don’t have to look down to know what it is.

Despite the loss of his knife, the man with the mustache is putting up a good fight. He lands a blow in Mr. Morgan’s face, then scrambles off him, grabs the knife, and pushes himself upward. Mr. Morgan moves faster than you’ve ever seen him move, jumping up while dodging the glinting blade of the knife.

“Stay down, big boy,” the man sneers.

Mr. Morgan shoves into him with such force the knife ends up in the dirt again, right next to the two men. But this time, Mr. Morgan has the upper hand, landing blow after blow in the face of the other, grunting with grim satisfaction when he draws blood, continuing even when the man retches up blood and spits it in Mr. Morgan’s face. He doesn’t stop until the man doesn’t move anymore and his face is nothing more than a bloody pulp, entirely unrecognizable. Only then does he grunt in pain and rolls off his opponent, lying on the forest floor, breathing labored and hard.

*******

You make camp that night as far away from that spot as you could travel before the light faded. Mr. Morgan gets a fire going while you sit on a log, trying to hide your trembling hands in your lap. You haven’t cried yet but you know it’s coming. He hasn’t said anything yet, and you’re not sure he will.

In the flickering light of the fire, you can see the cuts and bruises in his face, the sleeve of his shirt drenched in blood. And when you close your eyes, you can see the five dead men, their broken bodies left in the dirt for scavengers to feed on. He did that, all on his own.

You force yourself to stand up and walk over to him. He’s not the man who calmed you down after a mountain lion attack anymore; you’ve seen him beat a man to death today with his bare hands. No, he’s someone new now, someone you have to get to know first. And when you crouch down next to him, he looks at you with dark eyes like he’s never looked at you before and you feel all the air being pressed out of you.

“Let me take a look at your arm,” you say, pulling it toward you by his hand. The dried blood on his knuckles is rough against your skin.

He doesn’t protest, just watches as you carefully roll up his sleeve to expose a deep cut, undoubtedly left by the knife. It must have happened so fast you missed it. Even though it’s not bleeding as much as it used to, each pump of Mr. Morgan’ heart pushes some more blood out through the cut.

“You need stitches,” you tell him.

Before you can second-guess what you’re doing or change your mind, you’re next to your saddlebag, looking for the sewing kit your bother gave you. Only you’ve never used it for something like this before. You don’t even know if it’ll work, only ever having read about it in books, but it’s better than doing nothing. You also grab the bottle of whiskey from Mr. Morgan’s bag.

“Drink this,” you order, handing it to him once you’re next to him again.

He takes one big swallow, then another one, his throat working to get the liquid down. You pretend not to notice. Then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand while you stare at the cut with much more focus than necessary. Taking back the bottle, you pour some of its content on the cut, drawing a low groan from Mr. Morgan that heats up your cheeks.

Your hands are shaking as you try to thread the needle. “Have you ever done this before?” Mr. Morgan asks, his face stoic as if he’s ready to accept his fate no matter the answer you give him.

“Technically, no,” you answer, finally pushing the thread through the eye.

“Huh,” he grunts.

“But I’m very good at mending stockings.” You offer him a feeble smile and he nods. “This might hurt a little bit,” you warn before pushing the needle through his skin. Holding his arm in place with your other hand, you can feel his muscles flex at the intrusion, and a short burst of breath tickles the top of your head. He doesn’t complain.

“Have you ever been stitched up before?” you ask him to distract him.

“No,” he replies through gritted teeth.

“Oh, good. Then you have to believe me when I tell you I’m doing a very good job.” What’s wrong with you?

He grunts again, but maybe, possibly that sound could be hiding a laugh.

“Still, when we arrive at our destination, you should have a doctor look at this,” you instruct.

“Eager to hear from a professional how good of a job you did?”

Your cheeks ignite and you drop the needle. “Shit.” He is laughing now, a low chuckle, as you try to locate a glint in the flickering light from the campfire. Luckily, you don’t have to look far – the needle fell straight down and is lying between Mr. Morgan’s boots. You wipe strands of hair from your face, then wipe the needle clean on your dress before getting back to work.

“No,” you answer his question, forcing your voice to sound steady. “Because I have no idea how to prevent an infection. Or if I’m even doing this correctly.”

Mr. Morgan leans down, his big hand closing around the bottle you discarded earlier, and he unscrews the cap with his thumb and forefinger. “Looks to me like you’re doin’ fine.” A big swig, then another one.

You glance up at him just to see his face looking unusually pale. “Does it hurt a lot?” you ask carefully.

“I’ve had worse,” he answers, but flinches when one of your stitches comes too close to the wound.

You blink fast a couple of times, trying to shake the image of him on top of that man, punching and punching until no trace of life was left. The memory of the sheer brutality makes your hands feel clammy. No, this wasn’t his first time getting hurt, just like it wasn’t his first time killing someone. And now the same hands rest peacefully in his lap, cut and bruised, yes, but a far cry from the deadly weapons you saw today.

“Thank you for what you did today,” finishing up with two final stitches, then quickly add, “There,” and pet his arm before he can acknowledge your words of gratitude.

He lifts his hand from his leg and flexes his fingers. “Thanks for this,” he replies, examining the stitches.

Your gaze lands on his knuckles that are covered in blood, his own and that of the men he killed. “Do you want me to take a look at your hands?” you ask, your throat tight all of a sudden.

“I’m used to that.” He stretches out one of his legs so it rests next to you, close enough that you feel the ghost of a presence next to your hip.

“I’ve never met a man who was used to so much violence.” Your eyes are still on his hands, bruised darkly.

“It was either them or us.” He shrugs.

Us. “I was sure they had killed you when I heard that first gunshot,” you tell him, lowering your gaze to your own hands that have some dirt on them, some streaks of Mr. Morgan’s blood, but that look so clean compared to his.

“And break the contract with your father?”

You laugh. “A father who selected this route knowing full well about the dangers we would face?” The silence that follows your question is filled only by the crackle of the campfire and by the sounds of creatures moving through the woods. “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you,” you finally say.

“This ain’t the first time I had to save someone,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“And how did those other people repay you?” you ask, eager for his answer. Being indebted to him puts you on edge.

“Money,” is his short reply.

“I don’t have any,” you say, feeling a tug at your heartstrings. But maybe that doesn’t matter; maybe when you arrive, you could talk to your fiancé. He’ll want to reward the man who defended your honor and saved you from a horrible fate. Still, you wish there was something you could be doing for him right now. “There’s also other ways,” you say, very slowly.

“Hm,” he makes, a sound that has started to fill you with a certain warmth for reasons you can’t quite explain. Then he shifts, moves his legs a little further apart. And you’re there right between them, looking up into his face that betrays nothing except for the smallest glint in his eyes.

You’ve never even kissed a man, but you’re not stupid. You know what certain gestures and movements mean. You’ve watched your father’s hands when a woman walked past them, you’ve attended dances where everyone around you was getting drunk … growing up on a farm, you’ve seen things. But you also know that those things are wrong and they should only be happening between husband and wife behind closed doors, no matter what everyone else is doing.

It's getting harder to breathe, and you feel a tug low in your stomach, almost like an ache. You’ve never felt anything like this before and you can’t quite place it, but the way he looks at you, mouth slightly opened, his eyes deep and dark, only fuels that sensation. And when you think back to this afternoon, it becomes so strong it makes you shift on your knees.

“You’re a pretty little thing.”

It’s the second time today someone has said that about you. Whereas the first time made your skin crawl, the second time makes your cheeks heat up and your breath get stuck in your throat. You notice that Mr. Morgan unbuckles his belt, eyes locked to yours, and you make sure your gaze stays on his face. It’s only when he groans and his eyelids flutter shut that you look down and see he has his hand wrapped around himself, moving it up and down his length with sure strokes. Something in you is released at that sight.

“Here, let me,” you offer, shuffling closer on your knees until you’re trapped between his legs.

Before you can think better of it, you wrap your fingers around the base of his cock. It’s warmer than you expected, feels heavier than you thought when you move your hand up in the same move you saw him use. He groans again, louder this time, and removes his hand, resting it on your arm. You tremble.

Back home, you were taught that what a wife does in the bedroom is fulfilling the duty to her husband. It sounded neither pleasant nor enjoyable, and so far, you’ve managed to push the thoughts of what is awaiting you at your destination from your mind. But your mother couldn’t have meant this, because this doesn’t feel like duty at all. You stroke the tip of his cock with your thumb, he tightens the grip on your arm in return, and you feel a surge of pride well up. No, your mother couldn’t have been talking about this.

Eager to try more, you twist your wrist on the downstroke, then lower your head and kiss the tip of his cock. He growls this time, and his hand lands on the back of your head, pushing you down. You have no choice but to open your mouth further and take him in. The weight of him presses down against your tongue, the tip of him brushing the back of your throat makes you gag as tears shoot to your eyes. He grips your hair, pulls you off, then pushes you back down again, and you got it. It’s not so different from the hand.

Steadying him at the base with a tight grip, you pull off him again, but let your tongue run along the underside, the sharp taste of him filling every corner of your mouth. It will take some getting used to, but you’re determined to get this right, and from the way his hand trembles at the back of your head, you have a feeling you might be.

You close your eyes, focusing on taking him as deeply inside as possible because he seems to enjoy that. Sometimes, when you think there isn’t any room left, he pushes you onto his cock that little bit further and then groans contently, a sound that tightens parts of your body you didn’t know could tighten. You run your tongue over the tip of him, hum around him when your mouth is full of him, just to find out what kind of sounds you can draw from him. If this is what it’s like, you can’t imagine why anyone would call this a duty.

Mr. Morgan stiffens and pushes his hips upward so you take even more of him into your mouth. This time you can’t help the gagging sound pushing past him. But instead of forcing you to take more, he grips a handful of your hair and pulls you off. Your mouth feels strangely empty for a moment, even though his taste lingers, and you blink in confusion. Was that it?

You lick your lips and look up at him expectantly, waiting for him to say something. But he’s quiet, only placing his forefinger under your chin to tilt your head back a little more. For some reason, that gesture leaves you breathless. And you know why a second later when his lips lock onto yours and your breaths mingle, and you suddenly understand why people would kill for this. Why he killed for you.

You can’t help the moan that comes out of your mouth, don’t even realize at first that the sound is coming from you. His hand glides to the back of your head to grip you and hold you in place, and you push yourself toward him, one hand on his arm, the other on his thigh. He licks into your mouth and you try to mirror him, feeling a strange sense of pride when he opens up for you.

He pulls away, holding you in place by the hair at the nape of your neck. “Did you like havin’ me in your mouth?” he asks and his voice is so low you barely recognize it.

“Yes, Mr. Morgan,” you answer, and you also almost don’t recognize your own.

“Oh, you’re somethin’,” he says with a wicked smile, then stands and pulls you with him.

Your legs are trembling and your knees threaten to give way when he kisses you again, pressing his entire body to yours. Just when you think you could spend eternity like this, he closes his arms around your backside and lifts you up, so you don’t have any chance but to sling your legs around his middle. You squeal against his lips, but he just carries you past the campfire toward your bedroll. Beneath your palms, you can feel the muscles in his shoulders and arms flex and tighten with each step. Something in your stomach flutters as you remember he's strong enough to beat a man to death.

Before you know what you’re doing, you’re kissing his jaw and neck, biting down on a tendon that’s jutting out with the effort of keeping you in his arms. When he rumbles deep in his chest, you flick out your tongue to lick across the spot in apology, but he drops you to your feet. You both stand there for a second, looking at each other with heaving chests. His hands come up to grip the neckline of your dress, and he pulls, a tearing sound echoing through the trees. Your torn dress crumbles to the ground around you, exposing your undergarments, and even though your first instinct is to cover up you don’t because he pulls his shirt over his head to expose his naked chest beneath, and that sight is enough to distract you from any embarrassment you might be feeling.

His pants are next, and then he stands before you stark naked. You try to touch his stomach with a trembling hand, but he grabs your wrist and pushes you down to the ground. With precise movements, he pulls off your drawers, taking your shoes with them, then tears open your corset to expose your breasts. Your breath hitches when he cups one in his calloused hand and squeezes, making pleasure spike through your body.

You kiss him again, lean into his touch, and then you discover you can make him tighten his hold on you by licking over his bottom lip. You can make him press his hard length against you by moaning in pleasure. It feels so, so good to have this effect on him, to be able to do that to him without words. Never, in a million years, would you have expected that giving yourself to a man would feel like this, would make heat blossom at the base of your spine, would make you ache between your legs. You shove your fingers into his hair, deepening the kiss, and he sighs against your lips, a sound that makes your knees weak. How can all of this make you feel so good yet fill you with a hunger you don’t know how to satiate?

You run your nails over his scalp, testing to see what other sounds you can elicit from him, when he suddenly shifts both your bodies, pushing you to the ground while caging you in with his body. Your heart hammers in your chest so hard it’s almost painful, but even when your back is uncomfortably pressed against your thin bedroll, you still crane your neck to keep kissing him. God, why can’t you get enough of him?

With a sharp slap against your knee that sends another spike of pleasure through your body, he pushes your legs apart, then draws back to look at you. His lips are red and swollen, and both shadow and light are dancing across his face in quick succession. You reach up to touch his cheek, but he catches your wrist and pins it down next to your head with so much strength it steals the breath from your lungs.

“You’re the prettiest little lady I’ve ever seen,” he mumbles.

You feel your face heat up, but he doesn’t notice how flustered you are. With his free hand, he grabs himself, then lines himself up between your legs. You watch, eyes wide, breathing so fast your head is starting to swim. What comes next is a pressure that is not painful but not quite pleasurable either. And the more it pushes, the more it hurts.

“Stop,” you say, your voice not more than a whisper.

Either he doesn’t hear you or he’s ignoring you, but he continues to push up into you, and now it’s so painful you’ve lost all sense of pleasure entirely.

“Stop,” you try again, bracing your hands against his shoulders, trying to push him off you. He’s too strong for you. “Arthur, stop!” you bellow.

And he hears you. He immediately withdraws, and you scramble to sit up, pulling away from him as best as possible on the small bedroll.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, and the concern in his voice makes you look at him.

“Yes,” you answer, hugging your knees to your chest. You wish you weren’t so naked.

“Have you ever …?” He doesn’t need to finish the question for you to know what he means.

You shake your head.

A deep, red flush creeps up his chest and neck. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t –”

“It’s alright,” you interrupt him, his apology embarrassing rather than harming you. “You didn’t know.”

“The way you were kissin’ me …” He trails off again.

Your ears prick up at the compliment. “It all felt … good,” you stutter. “More than good. It’s just …”

“I can … we can slow down,” he offers. “If you still want …”

You look at him, kneeling before you, his skin glowing orange in the light from the fire. His dick is slowly softening between his legs, goosebumps are covering his arms, but he is showing you all of himself without shame. That bold display of his body makes your blood heat up again, but you hesitate. Touching his naked skin is one thing, giving yourself to him entirely is something you’ve been warned of your entire life. And yet … now that you’ve pushed through the initial shock, you slowly realize your body is demanding to feel him again.

You nod. “Yes. I still … I want you.”

Your cheeks are fever-hot, but the way his eyes light up is worth the embarrassment you feel. Arthur moves toward you, loosening the hold you have on yourself, and you relax, dropping your knees, letting him come even closer. He smirks, his eyes darting to your lips and then back up again before he leans in for a searing kiss, and it feels like the last few minutes didn’t happen at all. Without breaking the kiss, he reaches for your wrist, then slowly guides your hand between your own legs, while you tremble in anticipation. He doesn’t touch you, but when he presses your own fingers against all that heat and wetness, you moan deeply.

Arthur breaks the kiss first. “I want you to play with yourself,” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear.

“I don’t …,” you start, suddenly unsure.

“Yeah, I know.” He kisses your neck. “You’re gonna figure it out though.”

You take a deep breath and nod, and when he captures your lips for another kiss, you move your fingers over yourself in a motion that makes pleasure shoot through your entire body. A shaky pant escapes you and lands on his mouth, turning his lips into a smirk even while he’s kissing you.

“There you go,” he whispers.

You find a rhythm and pace that makes you feel like you’re about to explode but that doesn’t light the final fuse, and he continues to kiss you for a while before drawing back to watch the hand between your thighs. Any shame you could have felt is replaced by pure lust when you see the arousal in his eyes; you shift to open your legs further, and he raises his eyes in surprise. You shift under his searing gaze and moan when you notice his hand closing around the base of his cock.

You’ve never felt like you’re feeling right now, completely in control but also like you’re surrendering yourself to him. It’s so addictive it makes you wonder how people don’t want to feel like this all the time. “It feels so good,” you groan, struggling to get the words out because your teeth are clenched.

“You’re so pretty,” is Arthur’s answer as he moves his hand up and down his length.

You can’t help but believe him. “I love you strong you are,” you return the compliment, and before you can think better of it, you raise your free hand and cup your breast, squeezing your nipple.

His eyes lock onto your chest. “Fuck.” Pleasure shoots through you from the tip of your toes to the top of your head. “You’re such a good girl,” he adds, and it makes your heart flutter so painfully you feel like it’s about to fly out of your chest.

“Say that again,” you demand, not recognizing yourself at all.

Arthur shifts closer until he’s right between your legs, fisting himself eagerly. You can smell the sweat and arousal on him, a scent so overpowering you wish you could bury your nose in his skin and inhale it forever. “My pretty, brave girl,” he says, and when you lower your gaze, too overwhelmed by what his words make you feel, he grips your chin and lifts your head. “Oh no, you’re gonna look at me.” You blink once but don’t lower your head again. “Yeah, that’s it.” He smirks. “Look at you … so eager to please me. You should see yourself right now … goddamn prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.”

You do lower your gaze then because it feels like too much. Your eyes land on his cock, on the tip that’s glistening wetly, and you lick your lips, remembering the feeling of him in your mouth.

“You want me inside of you, don’t you?” Arthur asks, and you nod. His rough, calloused hand closes around your throat and you can’t help it – you move your own hand faster, a crescendo building in the pit of your stomach. “Use your words, pretty girl. I know you can.”

You swallow hard, knowing he can feel your throat move against his grip. “Yes, I want you inside of me.” Your face doesn’t heat up this time as you realize you’re not only saying that to please him. It’s exactly what you want.

He rewards you with a deep kiss, then mumbles against your lips. “Are you ready?”

You hesitate. “I’m not …”

But Arthur doesn’t let you finish. “Let’s find out together.” He leans back. “Finger yourself.” The way his eyes darken when he says it isn’t lost on you.

You shift and move your hand lower, his eyes fixed to your movements. He has stopped moving, his hand grabbing his cock, holding it between his legs. You feel yourself flutter against your fingers in anticipation at the same time as he licks his lips. And then you push the tip of your finger inside of you, past the initial resistance, deeper and deeper until you can’t go any further.

“Breathe,” he instructs and you exhale sharply. “Did that hurt?”

You shake your head before remembering he likes to hear your voice. “No.”

“How does it feel?” he wants to know.

Carefully, you pull your finger out until only the tip remains inside of you, then you push it back in. “Good,” you manage. “Really good.”

“You’re sweet when you can barely talk,” he says with a smirk and the muscles inside you clamp down on your finger. You moan and close your eyes, unable to keep them open. “You like that, don’t you?” You hear him shift closer. “You like hearing my voice. Bet you’d like me to talk you through it, too.”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly as you feel something building inside you. It’s like a wave that will drown everything out. You lean back further and further until your back connects to the ground, until you can raise your hips to meet your finger, trying to get it as deep inside you as possible.

Then his hand is covering yours and he pushes you to the ground, stilling you. When you open your eyes, you’re met with his, dark with lust, and you’re rewarded with the sight of his chest, flushed so deeply red it looks almost purple. His cock is leaking onto his fingers. “Not yet, sweet girl,” he says in a voice that sounds familiar to the one he uses to calm down his horse. “You’re doing so well, but wait until …”

Arthur removes his hand from yours, but then you feel the tip of his finger right where yours is disappearing inside yourself. You steel yourself for the pain you’re about to feel, but when his finger joins yours, stretching you open, all you feel is pleasure so intense it makes it hard for you to stay conscious.

“Fuck,” you groan, a short outburst, almost like a bark.

“You can say that again.” Arthur’s voice is so husky it’s almost impossible to understand. He cups your hand with his, and then moves the both of you in tandem, pulling back out and pushing back in. You tentatively meet his thrusts by rolling your hips and he growls. “Look at you, spread open just for me.”

You don’t know why his words make you feel like they do, but the muscles between your legs are working hard to keep both your fingers buried as deeply as possible. That earns you a smirk from him and you smile back in return.

“I think you’re ready.” He grips your hand tightly and pulls the both of you out, making you sob. To calm you, he cups your cheek and presses a soft kiss to your lips. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna fill you right back up again.” All you can do is nod.

He positions himself above you, stroking himself a few times, then lining himself up. It’s easier for you to relax this time because you know what to expect, but when he breaches that resisting wall of muscles, you still feel a burn and hiss.

“Shhhh,” he makes and kisses your forehead. “You’re doing so good.”

And then he’s inside of you, stretching you open as much as you can take. His eyes flutter shut and he groans, shifting to adjust himself. “You feel perfect.”

“You’re … you’re big,” you manage, drawing a chuckle from him.

He shifts again, then pulls back out before slamming back into you, making you see stars. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he apologizes immediately.

“No,” you press out through gritted teeth. “Do that again.”

He does, and you grip his arm, burying your nails in his muscle, slinging your other arm around his back. There’s a strange taste in your mouth and you only slowly realize it’s blood from biting down on your bottom lip. He kisses you, licks over the wound, pulls a sharp moan from you. And then he slams into you so hard you scream, clawing at his skin, leaving bloody streaks down his arm and back. The pain only seems to spur him on and when you pant, “Harder,” he doesn’t hesitate.

You clench around his cock in return and he whispers, “I like you like this.” You feel yourself clench again and he groans. “You’re perfect,” he repeats. You kiss his neck, then bite it, until he pushes you back down. “I bet you’ve never had an orgasm before, have you?” You shake your head and he mimics that motion, tapping your bottom lip with his thumb. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

“No,” you manage to say, your voice hoarse.

He rocks into you, not as hard and fast as before, but it makes you pant helplessly nonetheless. “Yeah, I thought so,” he mumbles more to himself than to you.

“Please,” you whisper.

He smirks down at you, then shifts his knees ever so slightly to change the angle. Suddenly, he’s brushing against something deep inside of you that makes a sob erupt from deep in your chest.

“Do you even know what you’re asking for?” he teases, but there is a strain in his voice now, as if he’s struggling to hold onto something.

“Please,” you repeat louder, unable to fully grasp the meaning of his question.

Arthur’s thumb is back on your lip and then he pushes it inside your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the tip eagerly, then suck on it, grazing your teeth over his skin. His breathing turns ragged, and the warmth of pride erupts in your chest. With a wet sound, he pulls his thumb out from between your lips and pushes his hand between your bodies until it comes to rest on that small spot you were toying with earlier. You howl and twitch and your whole body erupts. You spill over, you lose sense of where and who you are, you’re shaken by forces beyond your control. All the while, Arthur pounds into you, strokes you inside and out, and you think you hear him say, “That’s it, just let go. You’re so fucking beautiful – just let go.”

As soon as you feel like you can breathe again, he pulls out of you, leaving you aching and empty and cold. Through hooded eyes, you watch as he moves his hand up and down his cock fast until he spills all over his hand and the edge of your bedroll, gaze not directed downwards, but staring at you with insatiable hunger in his eyes. And you return that gaze just as hungrily, wondering what it would feel like to taste his release on your tongue.

Arthur stands unsteadily and retrieves his coat from the other side of the campfire. You feel the cold of the night now and hug your knees to your chest, still trying to make sense of the world. “Now, no more of that,” he says when he gets back, draping his coat over you, the weight of it making your limbs grow soft. He lies down next to you, pressing his front to your back, one arm possessively slung over your chest, the other shoved under your head for you to use as a pillow.

*******

The morning sun is warm on your face as you ride through a slowly thinning forest. The plains and your destination cannot be far from here. Your thoughts are though; they’re still somewhere behind you, stuck at a campfire, busy chasing the feeling of the man next to you between your legs.

When you reach a fork in the path, you stop your horse and look off to your right, back into the forest and the mountains. “What’s back there?” you ask.

Arthur stops his horse next to yours and looks down the path. “Never been over that way,” he answers.

“Do you want to find out?” Your voice is firm, but you don’t look at Arthur.

He’s quiet at first. “Your father –”

“– already paid you,” you finish the sentence.

Arthur nods. “Alright,” he says, then looks back at the path you just put behind you, then off to your right again. “Let’s find out what’s over there.”

***

arthur morgan taglist: @cjillian97 | @hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmsstuff | @imaginativefanatic | @joelmillers-whore | @misspearly1 | @spacecowboyhotch | @tortor-mcgee | @wickedscribbles

perma taglist: @alexturner | @amneris21 | @din-jarhead | @harriedandharassed | @martellthemandalor | @nyfeeer | @nobodys-baby-now | @od-ends | @pedrorascal | @radiowallet-writes

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

Your latest reblog of Arthur shaming himself in the mirror made me think of how badly I wanna jump his bones in front of one 🪞🪞

Mirror Image

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link

“Ugh, you ugly bastard….”

God damnit. You’re sure he thinks you can’t hear him from the open door to the balcony, but the self-deprecating muttering he is doing under his breath reaches your ears and you sigh. Gripping the wooden railing overlooking Strawberry, your eyes flutter closed for a moment and you curse all those who came before you that made him think this way.

“No wonder they all leave you…”

“You know something I don’t?” Your voice cuts across the room, making his shoulder jolt and catching him off guard, something you’re surprised by, gunslinger that he is.

Arthur turns away from the mirror, scratching at the back of his neck sheepishly, knowing he’s been caught.

You don’t let him spiral any further, crossing your arms over your chest in a huff, “Are you ending this between us?”

“What -no…sweetheart-” He sputters, his cheeks turning an even deeper shade of red.

“Then why are you talking like that? I ain’t leaving you.”

Arthur looks down at the floor, “You will-”

“I won’t.” You step closer, the small heel of your boots thumping on the floor as your brow sets, narrowing your eyes as you raise your voice, “Why… why do I feel like I have to constantly prove to you that I’m not going anywhere?”

“Cause you deserve better than a sour-faced idiot like me,” Arthur snaps back, realizing his tone only after the words have spilled out, seeing you wince slightly at the outburst, “Sweetheart…”

You sigh again, and let your arms down from your chest, looking at the floor for a moment before pursing your lips in frustration. After a moment, you march pointedly toward him, catching him off guard again as you press your frame against him, hands maneuvering his large body in a quarter turn so that the two of you are prominently displayed in the reflection. 

“What’re you doin’-”

Arthur audibly groans as you sink to your knees, gazing up at him as your hands move to unbutton the fly of his trousers, and then the lower buttons of his union suit as his pale skin becomes visible to you. 

“Darl- you don’t-”

You cut him off further by pulling his burgeoning cock from his pants, coaxing it to fullness as you continue to look up at him. His hands curl into fists at his side, and with a glance toward the mirror, his eyes follow yours to see the reflection of the two of you. As he breathes out heavily from his nose, you return to your ministrations, pumping him until he stands rigid and blood-filled. His gaze is locked on the mirror as you lean toward him, taking his member into the warm cavern of your mouth.

You suck at him, bobbing back and forth on his shaft as one of his hands finds its way to your head, his fingers pulsing as your tongue pressed against the head of his cock before you take him completely into the warm cavern of your mouth again.

Pulling off of him with a wet sound, you find his gaze in the mirror, slack jawed and panting, his free hand’s knuckles white at his side from trying to hold restraint.

You lean in and press your lips to the underside of his cock, making all six foot of him shiver, before standing to your full height. 

“Jesus, woman-” Arthur pants, his hand flying to his cock to stroke it, but you bat his arm away with one hand as the other wraps around his spit-slicked cock. 

“Why is it so hard for you to think you deserve good things?”

He frowns, about to open his mouth before he has to bite his lip as you catch him on a downstroke. You give his cock several more pumps before moving half a step back, pulling your blouse out from where it is tucked into your skirt. He’s unable to do anything but watch you in that mirror as you quickly disrobe - your blouse is tossed to the side. Your skirt pools at your feet. You kick your boots off somewhere behind you. You pull your chemise overhead and throw it to the floor. Your bloomers join your skirt around your ankles.

“Look at me.” You order, and his eyes snap from the mirror and back to you, lust-blown and wide with surprise. 

“You deserve to fuck me.” You state with force, grabbing one of his hands and shoving it between your legs, where moisture gathers, “You deserve to warm your cock in me and fuck me til you can’t anymore.”

He is completely flustered, only able to rub at your folds after a moment of gathering himself, breathing heavily as his other hand rubs his neglected cock.

After several moments of enjoying him touching that sensitive skin, you turn around, pressing your back against him, wiggling your hips against his pelvis for a moment before leaning forward, laying your arms upon the dresser as you gaze upon him in the mirror, your bodies side-profile in the reflection.

“Take what you deserve, Arthur.” You whisper, bent over at the waist in front of the mirror, and in an instant, he’s rushing that half a step forward as he unhooks his suspenders, his pants shoved to his knees as he guides his cock into your waiting cunt.

He slides in almost embarrassingly easily, and when you feel his hips press against your rear, he groans, holding still for a moment, his hands flying to your hips as he tries not to come simply from the rhapsody of being sheathed in your warmth.

You give him that moment to gather himself before throwing your hips back, urging him to move, and he grunts in surprise before taking the hint, quickly finding a rhythm of thrusting himself into you, staring at the two of you in that mirror, a full reflection of the carnal joining of your bodies.

“Say it.” You keen, arching your back to take him deeper still.

“Say -god- say wh-what?” He grunts out between thrusts, his hands tight around your hips as he watches his cock piston in and out of you, well glossed with your slick each time he pulls out.

“That you deserve t-this-” Your composure falls as the head of his cock hits that spot within you that makes your knees shake. 

“S-sweetheart-” Arthur grunts as he tightens his grip on your hips as you nearly stumble, whining as you grip the dresser for dear life.

“Say it, goddamnit-” you nearly yell, your mouth hanging open as you pant, one of your hands snaking between your legs and rubbing yourself above where he spears into you.

“Fuck - Jesus…” Arthur throws his gaze to the ceiling before breathing out heavily through his nose, trying to recenter himself, “I-I deserve this.”

“You deserve m-me.”

“God, darlin’. I d-deserve you.”

“You, agh- you deserve to fill me up.”

That, that, is something he is not able to articulate into words. He lurches forward, groaning loudly, his entire body crashing into yours, emptying himself into your velvet core, gasping like a damn fish out of water.

You’re bent over the dresser, panting, your nakedness covered by the six foot frame of your beloved, whose forehead rests on the curve of your neck as he comes down from his release. After a few centering moments, he grunts as he extricates himself from you, and you cannot help the whine that escapes you at the loss of his flesh. The space that he carved for himself within your body is now empty, the warm drip of his release down your inner thighs the only evidence of your joining.

“Y’gonna -” you breathe out heavily as you push yourself to stand, your knees shaking slightly as you wince, continuing to lean over the dresser, “Y’gonna stop with that bullshit now?”

Arthur doesn't respond, and as you clench your teeth to lecture him again, you catch the view of him in that mirror - he’s completely stricken, his gaze unable to be drawn from the reflection of the wet streaks of him that trail down from your inner thighs. He stands there, breath still heavy and full, pants at his knees and cock hanging as it softens.

You close your eyes and let a long breath out your nose, and figure you’ve lectured him enough for the day. Getting him to truly believe that he’s deserving of good things… it’s going to take more than just today.

His fingertips surprise you, sliding between your thighs to trace where his spend stains your skin. It’s gentle, the way he touches you, until his large hands grasp at your thighs and lifting you up and into his embrace as you yelp in surprise.

“Bed- ain’t done with y’."

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚢, 𝚍𝚘𝚐𝚐𝚢, 𝚌𝚘𝚠𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕, 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚙𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚠𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕, 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚍𝚘𝚐𝚐𝚢, 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚢, 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚗, 𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚑𝚘𝚐, 𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚘, 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚘𝚐𝚐𝚢, 𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍, 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚕𝚎, 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛, 𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚞𝚜, 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚕𝚢, 𝚋𝚞𝚕𝚕, 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛, 𝚙𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚞𝚜𝚑, 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚘𝚙, 𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎, 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚜, 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚡 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚝, 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚐 𝚞𝚙, 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚜 𝚞𝚙, 𝚞𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗, 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚍, 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛, 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎, 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚗, 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑, 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎, 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚎.

(gif cred: @itspapillonnoir)

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

The Heart of Your Home Pt 3

Summary: Arthur comes across a woman in need. What he thought was a simple good deed would take him down a much further path than anticipated.

Warnings: Cursing, eventual canon-typical violence, eventual smut.

Word Count: 4,861

A/N: Knocked this one out quicker than the last chapter...phew!

Your bed felt entirely too large as of late. 

A simple routine followed early every morning. Roused awake by the dim rays of dawn peeking through the gossamer curtains of the bedroom shared by you and your husband. You were always the first to rise, shaking sleep from your body as you got dressed and began your work in the kitchen, having a hot breakfast ready by the time the door creaked open a second time. 

Since your move to New Hanover, you have often found yourself in your own company. The cold spot of Frederick’s sat empty and unused. His chair sat unmoving, only one plate and a single set of silverware adorned the table. 

It was all business, you knew that. Frederick was naturally a man of action. It’s how you were able to live comfortably, convinced employment for yourself was unnecessary, even if it meant frequent boredom in the household. 

Boredom, and loneliness.

He assured you plenty that it would lead to bigger and better things; a larger house and plentiful land, and no need for you to lift a finger for household chores. The two of you sitting on a spacious porch, watching a handful of bubbly children play in the expansive yard. 

A future you were not opposed to, but at present, you wished your husband was...well, more husbandly. 

Frederick was not a horrible man by any means. He showed his love and affection often, and always ensured you had what you requested— a new coat, seeds to start an herb garden, a horse of your own to travel to town when needed since carriages were far and few in between out here. 

But when it came to entrepreneurship, it almost seemed as if the band on your finger didn’t matter much. 

You sat at your usual seat on the table, once again enjoying an egg and toast breakfast by yourself across from the chair that sat empty for the fifth day in a row, not counting his stop at home just two days prior. What was supposed to be a quick visit to Valentine turned into a week-long affair. He arrived a few hours later as he promised, only to apologetically explain the new turn of events. A week in Annesburg, a mining town in eastern Hanover from what you understood. 

The smile on your face was forced, with your bid goodbye and a safe travel. He hadn’t even stayed for dinner. 

Come to think of it, the last person to occupy that seat hadn’t been Frederick at all. 

A sudden onset of rain pulled you from your thoughts. Surprise flooded you, not even glancing twice at the sky when waking up today, though dully aware of the gray overcast outside of the windows. 

Automatically, you glanced up at the spot you knew would start leaking soon, only to remember that issue had been fixed just days ago. Not even a patch of condensation. You smiled, once again grateful for the man who so selflessly offered his time for that very task. 

The remainder of your breakfast was spent quietly listening to the downpour outside. You were thankful for the warmth inside, providing a sense of coziness despite the empty feeling that stirred in your belly. The meal satiated you, but it didn’t fill the hole your husband left. 

As you began cleaning your plate, a knock on the door startled you. Rarely did you ever expect company, and Frederick wouldn’t knock, he’d just come right in. 

Wary, you dried your hands and approached the door slowly. You grasped the knob and opened the door just enough to peer through. 

To your delighted surprise, standing there waiting was Arthur. 

“Arthur!” you exclaimed with more enthusiasm than you’d realized. Opening the door fully, you greeted him with a smile. As early as it was, you had to remind yourself of the open invitation to your house. “Good morning, what brings you here so early?” you asked. 

The tall man stood there in what appeared to be a newer black leather jacket and his normal hat, both covered in beads of rain cascading down the smooth surfaces. He smiled at you politely. “Mornin’. I was headin’ back from West Elizabeth when it started rainin’, thought I’d hide out for a bit since I was in the area. You mind?” 

You shook your head. “Of course not, come in,” you stepped aside and gestured. “Stay as long as you’d like.” 

His smile turned grateful as he passed through the threshold. “I appreciate it.” 

You watched as he hung his jacket and hat, exposing a different wardrobe than what you’d seen him in previous. Usually in simple clothing, he appeared to be wearing something fresh and new. A crimson red shirt with a high folded collar, the top two buttons hung open to reveal his neck and upper chest, a view that was concealed by a scarf previously. His hair had been long and shaggy before, now had a neat short, faded cut and was slicked back. 

His pants seemed to be...more form fitting, or was that your imagination? 

Arthur’s eyes met yours for a second, and you realized you’d been staring for a beat longer than intended. “Somethin’ wrong? Or is my mug that ugly?” 

“You’re not ugly,” you said automatically, your response surprising yourself. You could appreciate a man that cleaned up well. Men like Arthur worked hard, you found, and they didn’t put much stock in their outward appearance. They didn’t have anyone to impress, as they were just trying to make an honest living for themselves and their families. 

Truth be told, this change made him look quite good. Not that he was worse off before, but something about this wardrobe change drew more attention to finer features you really hadn’t noticed before. 

Though it wasn’t your place to say so. 

His face slightly faltered at your comment, which piqued your curiosity. Rather than questioning it, you changed the subject. “Would you like some breakfast?” 

“That’d be great,” he said, the smile returning. “Thank you.” 

You began to work diligently, grateful for the opportunity to keep your hands busy. Cleaning surfaces only got you so far when you were the only one dirtying them, and you were beyond thankful for the company. Two more eggs were cracked open, and two fresh pieces of bread were placed inside the oven to toast, all the while Arthur sat at the table. 

“I take it the roof ain’t leakin’,” he said, catching your attention. 

You glanced over your shoulder to shoot him a smile. “Nope, thanks to a certain someone.” 

He chuckled lightly. “Glad to know my handiwork didn’t go to waste.” 

“Then I know what handyman to contact if something else breaks around here,” you joked. 

Arthur gave a half shrug, his amused smile remaining. “As long as I get paid or get another good meal, I’ll be your goddamned handyman for life.” 

A giggle passed your lips. You of course knew he was joking, but the thought of him being around more... 

Your thought was halted when he spoke again. “Your uh...husband out on business again?” he asked lightly. 

You hid your frown by facing the oven again. “As usual,” you answer with equal lightness, though it was feigned. 

Arthur grunted in response. A moment of silence passed before he added, “Everything okay here?” 

“Fine,” you answered, reaching for your stash of herbs in a nearby cabinet. To your dismay, you found it was empty. Frowning, you closed the cabinet and sighed, “Shoot.” 

“Somethin’ wrong?” 

You turned to face Arthur. “I’m out of herbs. I’m afraid your eggs will be a little dull,” you explain, turning back around to attend to the rest of your cooking without waiting for a response. 

You heard the chair shift, and just mere seconds passed when he was standing next to you. Glancing over, he was digging through the satchel at his hip. You were about to ask what he was doing when his hand reappeared and he held it out to you, laden with a few sprigs of herbs. 

Blinking in confusion, you peered up at him. “Huh?” 

He gestured with his head toward the frying eggs, as if it were plainly obvious. “Figured I could spare some.” 

You opened your mouth to argue, but from previous encounters, you learned refusing his generosity never worked. Holding out your own hand, he pressed the herbs into your palm. His hand, covered by a leather fingerless glove, felt surprisingly warm for having just stepped in from the cold rain. 

“Thank you,” turning to the eggs again, you peered at the herbs briefly. Thyme and oregano, you realized, peering at each individually. The dried leaves crumbled in your palm as you sprinkled them upon the eggs. 

How was it that Arthur always seemed to be there when you needed him? Not needed him, you amended to yourself, just needed something in the moment when he happened to be there. Needed saving from a pack of wolves? Arthur was quick with his bullets. Needed a patch job on your leaky roof? Arthur could do that. Needed some herbs to add flavor to your dish? No worries, Arthur had some. 

When you felt the pangs of loneliness left by your husband’s ambitions, Arthur showed up... 

A small feeling stirred inside you, one that you couldn’t place at first, as heat settled in your cheeks. You recognized the sensation as you’d once felt before in your younger days, before marriage. Recalling those memories of strolling the streets with your friends as they spoke about their potential future husbands. The mere thought of settling down with a man to support and dote on you gave a feeling of excitement and reassurance. It’d been a long time since you felt that, not since your wedding day. 

Frederick had proven to be that sort of husband, despite your private grievances about him earlier. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be working as hard as he did to provide a better life for the both of you. What reason did that old feeling arise? 

Shaking your head, you turned your focus back to the eggs, removing them from the stove before they had the chance to overcook. The toast followed, and you set both on to a clean plate before bringing it over to Arthur. He dug in almost immediately, a look of satisfaction crossed his face with the first bite. 

You didn’t even have to ask if he liked it, because the first thing out of his mouth after swallowing was a compliment. 

“Delicious, as always,” he said before shoving another forkful. 

You smiled and took your seat again. Arthur’s visits were always pleasant, even when neither of you carried long conversations some of the time. Unlike most of the men you’ve met, Arthur didn’t seem loud and boisterous. You knew he was a man well-traveled and skilled in his ways, which left you somewhat envious of his aptitude. 

Curiosity began to bubble in you. There were only a few sparing details you learned, and questions burned in your throat. You decided to speak up. “Arthur, can I ask you something?” 

Arthur had been chewing on the toast when his focus settled on you. “Hmm?” he hummed through a mouthful. 

“What is it that you do, exactly? I know you seem to travel a bit from what you’ve told me, and I wondered what sort of career calls for a man of your expertise,” you asked in one breath, realizing how nervous you were to even utter that. 

Arthur swallowed, a thoughtful look on his face for a split second before he answered. “I go wherever work needs to be done,” he answered. “Stagecoach escort, delivery runs, loan repayment, it changes every day.” 

You nodded. That made sense of course. Escorting stagecoaches explained his talent with firearms, knowing that often he would have to protect important people. “And do you have a wife? Family?” 

There was a full second before he replied. “No, no wife,” he didn’t acknowledge the second half of your inquiry. 

That you found hard to believe. He was kind and caring. Tracking back to your previous thought when observing his appearance, he certainly was easy on the eyes. Time and nature had its effect on him, yet that didn’t hinder his soft gaze and kind smile. How was it there wasn’t a lucky woman to call him her husband? 

But you didn’t dare to ask for an elaboration, lest the reason would be something worse than just choosing to remain unwed. “I see,” you say, trying to think of something else. “What were you doing in West Elizabeth then?” 

Arthur peered at you, a glimmer of amusement in his eye. “I thought I was here for breakfast and decent company, not to be interrogated,” he chuckled. 

“Oh!” you glanced down, a blush forming in your cheeks. “I’m sorry, if it bothers you—" 

“No harm done,” he interrupted, waving his hand in your peripheral. “I was out there huntin’. Heard the moose are somethin’ else.” 

“Hunting,” you repeated thoughtfully, looking back up at him. You’d never seen a live moose before. But from what you understood, they were quite large. “Were you able to find a moose?” 

“At first no,” he sighed. “Tracked one for a while, until I jus’ about ran into a damn Grizzly.” 

Your eyebrows shot up at that. “What? A Grizzly? Are you okay?” Obviously he was, since you didn’t see any sign of injury. 

The chuckle returned, and Arthur raised his arms in show. “Fine, fine. In fact, I made decent money off him at the butchers. Went right back to track that moose, found him not too long after. Thankfully the trail didn’t get too cold. Harvested plenty o’ meat from that son of a—” he paused. “Pardon my language.” 

That last part made you smile again. Ever the gentleman, you thought to yourself. “Lots of meat, huh? I’ve never had moose meat before...” you thought out loud. “Is it good?” 

“Why don’t you find out? Have some for dinner,” he said, once again digging into the satchel. Half a moment passed by before he produced a wrapped package, placing it on the table. 

You stared for a moment in surprise, your eyebrows raised. “Really?” 

Arthur shrugged. “Plenty more where that came from, I got more than enough for myself.” 

A small huff of a laugh passed your lips. This man was certainly full of surprises. “Thank you, guess I will have some for dinner tonight.” 

It didn't stop there. Arthur dug further into his bag, producing another handful of herbs. “Might as well replenish your stores along with it,” he said, placing them next to the package of meat. 

You recognized an assortment of more thyme and oregano, as well as mint, sage, and a few others that were harder to discern amongst the pile. There was a moment of wonder, was there an end to his generosity? You opened your mouth to speak when his wide yawn caught your eye. It was still early morning, and curiosity burned within you once again. 

“How long were you out there?” You voiced your thoughts. “Seems like you had a busy day, and it can’t be past 8 am.” 

Arthur stretched, groaning in the effort as his arms raised above his head. He then answered, “Took half the night, I got to Big Valley late afternoon yesterday.” 

“Half the night?” You repeated in shock. “Have you even slept?” 

He shook his head and shrugged, as if it wasn't a big deal. “Thought I could tough it out ’til I got home, that is, before the rain started.” 

And the rain was still falling, you deduced after glancing out the window behind you. A frown set on your lips as you turned to look at him again. The fatigue in his face was obvious now; dark shadows hung underneath his eyes. “Why don't you take a nap in the guest room?” You gestured toward the closed door off to the side, next to your own bedroom. “It might be a while until the weather lightens.” 

Now Arthur was the one protesting. Shaking his head, he waved away your offer. “That ain't necessary, I’ll be fine.” 

“After spending an entire night hunting a moose and nearly getting killed by a bear? And riding across state lines?” You sternly pointed out, though kept your tone from being too stony. “I insist. Rest up for a little while, then you can be on your way. I'm sure your horse is as tired as you are,” he didn't have to mention, nor did you have to see his stallion that you very well knew was occupying the empty stall in the barn. 

Arthur looked as if he were about to argue, but he paused as he considered your words. “I suppose it couldn't hurt...” he stifled another yawn before clearing the remnants of his meal. You stepped forward and grabbed the plate, once again gesturing to the same door. 

“Make yourself comfortable, and I’ll be out here if you need anything.” 

He nodded in response, standing up and heading over. As he passed, you detected the hint of a grateful smile. 

--- 

Within the first hour you’d arranged Arthur’s gifted herbs into piles in your cabinet, noting there were enough to get your by for a week. The moose steak was placed to the side for prep later. The second hour was spent performing your normal chores, deliberately dragging yourself not to finish too quickly. Every so often you glanced at the closed door of your guest room, ensuring the sleeping body behind it was comfortable and not in need of anything else. The only noise was Arthur’s gentle snores from the other side. 

By the third hour mark, you’d run out of things to do and took to spending time outside, resting on the rocking chair on the porch. The rain stopped maybe an hour and a half before, and the misty gray skies made way for beautiful blues, the sun warming the soaked land as the wilderness began to stir. 

Your eyes fixed on the garden you started a while ago now, having abandoned it since a frost all but eradicated your budding plants. You ought to start again, you thought, hopefully a hardier crop would wield better results. They were the same herbs you’d spotted growing wild out in this climate, and you had to wonder why yours failed. 

Not that you minded taking a trip into town for supplies, self-sustenance was something you hoped to achieve down the line, as long as Frederick’s plans came to fruition. 

You also hoped it would be somewhere with warmer weather. 

You had an urge to visit the barn behind your house. If Arthur was okay, you’d best check up on his horse too. The poor thing had to be as tired as him, after trekking miles of mountains and wilderness. You began to wander over, boots sloshing in the soaked ground. The barn’s faded white paint loomed into view. 

Pulling open the door, you stepped inside to be greeted by the two lovely horses who were contently chewing on the same hay pile. You smiled and stepped even closer, rousing their attention as their heads raised to look at you. 

“Hello, sweet things,” you say to them, petting your mare first then stroking Arthur’s stallion, who you now realized completely dwarfed your horse. 

It was quite cute seeing the two of them side by side. Frederick didn't buy a horse of his own, claiming he didn't know how to ride that well. Ironic, given how much he traveled, but he claimed he was fine with hitching a ride when it was necessary. This, however, left your horse without a companion. You knew they were herd animals, and you felt it wasn’t fair that she was the only one. Even though you couldn’t read her mind, you couldn’t help but think she was just as lonely as you at times. 

You were thankful these two got along just as well as you and Arthur did. 

There was a pile of carrots placed upon a nearby barrel, and you grabbed a few. Both horses nickered in realization when you approached with tasty snacks. You offered one to your mare first, then the stallion, who took it so gently it was surprising. 

“He likes you,” 

You jumped at the voice and spun around to see Arthur in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms folded, watching you with a slight smirk. His jacket and hat were back on. 

“Sorry,” he said when he realized he must've startled you. 

“That’s okay,” you reply as your heart quieted. How long had he been standing there? When did he wake up? As the stallion’s lips fidgeted against your arm, you continued, “Is he usually this friendly?” 

Arthur shook his head. “Naw. He weren't like that when I first got him, tried to buck me off more than once.” 

This news surprised you. “Really? I can't imagine that...” your hand idly stroked the fine horse’s velvet nose as he nuzzled you for more carrots. 

“Took a few weeks jus’ to get him used to me,” Arthur said. “Now he's one of the most loyal horses I've ever had.” 

The statement brought a smile to your face. “Then perhaps you have some competition,” you joked as you reached up to rub the stallion’s ears. His head dropped even further, his brown eyes softening to your touch. 

With a chuckle, Arthur sidled up and patted his steed’s neck. “I suppose so...” 

Silence fell between the two of you, marveling in the horses’ presence. Not that you minded, Arthur was the only person you felt comfortable being silent around. There was no necessity to fill the void with idle, meaningless conversation. Something about his presence relaxed you, even more so when just bonding with these beautiful creatures. 

You watched as he grabbed a carrot, breaking it in half to offer both pieces to each horse. They both took each piece as if they were starving, to which Arthur laughed again. A quiet, gentle laugh that warmed your heart. His eyes softened with each pat he offered, then turning to your mare, he rumbled, “You're a good girl,” with a stroke to her neck. 

That made you smile. It seemed that his calming presence also seemed to reach the animals. Your mare’s head sagged and her eyelids drooped. 

His eyes met yours, and the eased expression changed to curiosity. “What?” 

You blinked, the smile vanishing at an instant with realization you were caught staring again, quite unintentionally. “Uh,” flustered and flicking your eyes down in slight embarrassment, you asked, “I assume you slept well?” 

“Like a baby,” he answered with a deep stretch. “Though I guess I better not wear out my welcome.” 

These words caused your heart to stutter. The thought of him leaving already didn’t sit right with you, but you couldn’t explain why. 

Some irrational part of you almost invited him to stay for dinner. You’d come up with the excuse to experiment the concoction of herbs and moose meat he provided you earlier. But you also knew it seemed absurd to even think this. The man had to go home, to whatever was waiting for him. He mentioned he didn't have a wife, but a man as busy as him must've had other priorities. You remembered him once mentioning he wasn’t looking forward to something at home. 

What sort of home life did he lead, exactly? 

He was pulling his steed away from the hay pile, and you somehow detected the reluctance in the horse’s eyes. The feeling was mutual, but you had no reason to feel that way. 

As Arthur approached the open doors, a question bubbled in your throat. It was oh so tempting to ask, even though you knew it was silly. 

“Thank you for breakfast, and allowin’ me to rest,” Arthur said, pausing to tilt his head to you. “Didn’t know exactly how much I needed that.” 

You smiled again, finding comfort in the fact that he found refuge with you. “You’re welcome...” just as he and his stallion stepped through the threshold, you called out, “Wait.” 

He stopped again, looking toward you expectantly. 

You realized you spoke first without thinking. Well, you had to follow through with it. “Would you like to come over for dinner tomorrow?” you asked, your heart jumping to your throat with each word. 

You waited for a refusal, a shake of his head, a scoff. Instead, a thoughtful look crossed his face. “I guess your husband ain’t home for a while?” 

“Only for a few more days, but I’ll admit it’s quite lonely...and I’d love to hear more about your adventures, if that’s okay. Everything you’ve told me seems quite intriguing and—” you stopped yourself short, realizing you were rambling. Taking a second to recollect yourself, you added, “Only if you want to.” 

To your surprise, Arthur frowned. “I hope I ain’t leavin’ the wrong impression on you, wantin’ my company when it’s only convenient for—” 

“No!” you interrupted quickly. “Arthur, I thought you better of me! I was the one who established that anyway,” you reminded him, giving a weak laugh hoping to pass this conversation as humor. “Think of it as a pleasant dinner between friends.” 

He stared for a long moment, contemplating your words. “Friends,” he repeated, his stance shifting a little. Did he look...uncomfortable? “I ain’t the sort you’d want as a friend.” 

“Why, because I’m a married woman spending time with a man other than my husband?” you questioned, placing your hands on your hips. “You are my friend, Arthur. You’re certainly no stranger at this point. You’ve helped me plenty of times even though you didn’t need to, and I’ve helped you too. I'd be happy to serve you a plate or have an empty bed ready anytime you arrive at my doorstep. I’m sure Frederick would love to meet you too, when you’re not up on our rooftop.” 

Arthur was silent again. His hat hid most of his expression, but you could see the frown still slightly etched against his lips. His head tilted up so he could peer at you from under the brim. With a small, humorless chuckle, he asked, “Is it really that important to you?” 

You gave him an incredulous look. “Yes,” you said bluntly. “You saved my life. That put me in a debt I can never repay, but I try where I can. You’re the only person who’s extended me any kindness out here, and I won’t take that for granted.” 

With a sigh heaving his chest, Arthur quietly responded, “Guess I can’t argue with that.” 

Feeling triumphant, you smiled gratefully at him. “Thank you for understanding,” your gaze drifted to the outside. “I’m sorry for holding you up.” 

He made his familiar gesture to wave off your apology. “Nothin’ to worry about, I’ll get home all the same,” Making his way fully out into the open, he mounted his stallion with ease. He glanced up at the now clear sky and into the woods, before settling his gaze to you. “Thank you for earlier, really. I appreciate it.” 

The smile on your face widened. “Any time, Arthur. I truly mean that,” you reminded him. 

He nodded in understanding, his lip slightly twitching into a half-smile. It was a short goodbye before he trotted off, his figure soon swallowed up by the trees. Your mare let out a soft whinny at his departure, to which you came to her side and patted her neck. 

“It’s okay, I’m sure they’ll be back soon enough,” you said to her soothingly, but you had to wonder if the reassurance wasn’t only for her. 

Arthur’s presence, while still fairly new, has had a significant impact on your life thus far. Your stomach churned, partly due to his absence, and partly due to anxiety of the previous conversation. You hoped your most recent invitation hadn’t scared him off. Your words to him rang true; you’d be perfectly happy repaying your debt until you were old and brittle. 

But it wasn’t just that. How was it that you were so comfortable with him around? Surely in a more civilized state, rumors would spread like wildfire. A married woman so eagerly welcoming an unwed man into her home to frequently would earn you looks of spite and venomous whispers in the crowd. But this was not your home back east, and you were no longer part of that society. 

Arthur was your friend, that you were certain of. He instilled an air of peace and safety in his wake but stirred feelings of excitement with a life so unlike your own. You wanted to learn more, to hear of those tales that once seemed so far-fetched to you. If you could hear them every day, you would. 

And so, you were in for a pleasant surprise when he appeared that following day in the late afternoon, waiting patiently on your porch when you opened the door.  

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

WhY CaNT hE Be ReAL😭

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

The Heart of Your Home Pt 2

Summary: Arthur comes across a woman in need. What he thought was a simple good deed would take him down a much further path than anticipated.

Warnings: Cursing, eventual canon-typical violence, eventual smut.

Word Count: 4,976

A/N: I hated how long it took me to write this piece, ugh. It's a slight slow burn, but it becomes much juicier later.

Arthur awoke to the quiet, drowsy chatter of the women in camp. He slowly sat up, blinking the remnants of sleep from his eyes as his body drew in a wide yawn. With the sun still somewhat low in the sky, the air was frosty. He grabbed the jacket that was draped across the clothes chest at the foot of the cot and pulled it on as he stood up, letting the warmth sink into his stiffened limbs. 

He made his way over to the cooking fire, looking for the familiar black kettle resting upon the tiny flames, but was disappointed to find none. Abigail and Mary-Beth were standing around it, their shoulders wrapped in shawls to cover their thin sleepwear. They greeted Arthur with tired smiles, their eyes still bleary with sleep. 

“Coffee,” Pearson’s voice broke through their barely started conversation. The balding cook lumbered toward the small crowd and placed the kettle just over the fire. “it'll be ready in a few,” he straightened up and met Arthur’s eye, bidding him a good morning as well. 

It was going to be a dull day, and Arthur could tell. One of those days where he was free to mill around camp or venture out, although he preferred the latter, lest he was pulled aside for some job or another. He’d hunted a gargantuan beast with Hosea, robbed a homestead belonging to some odd folk with Javier, drank himself silly with Lenny and had nearly gotten caught by the Valentine lawmen after a drunken ruckus, begrudgingly rescued Micah from being hanged in Strawberry, and rescued Sean from the Pinkertons just outside of Blackwater. A day to himself was desperately needed, even if it meant just mounting his horse and riding aimlessly for a few hours. 

He thought, maybe, he ought to have a hot meal at the Valentine saloon. Perhaps he may pay for a bath in the hotel, Lord knows he needed one, and taking quick rinses in the Dakota River could only do so much. 

“Arthur,” 

Hearing his name severed his train of thought. His eyes swiveled to meet Mary-Beth's, who was patiently holding a tin mug of steaming coffee to him. “Oh,” he said, taking it with a smile. “Thank you, Mary-Beth.” 

A smile of amusement crossed the young woman’s lips. “Get your head outta the clouds, Arthur,” she joked. “Nothing good up there, except rain.” 

Arthur exhaled slightly through his nose with a small laugh. “I'll keep that in mind,” he took a sip of his drink, slightly wincing from the scald that passed across his tongue. He began to trudge back to his canvas outcropping, starting to plan his day once again. 

He was able to leave shortly thereafter, heading off through the thicket as the chilly morning air steadily began to warm up. Valentine wouldn’t be his first choice in a day of relaxation, but the convenience of its proximity outweighed other less than ideal features. After a short trip he arrived, passing the busy stockyards and bustling side streets, his sights on the hotel first. 

With a quick interaction with the hotel clerk, Arthur soon found himself in the bath. The warm, soapy water was a welcoming touch to his wind-weathered skin and aching muscles. He rested his head against the lip of the tub, closing his eyes and allowing relaxation to overtake him. 

It wasn’t much longer until a small knock on the door announced the arrival of a bath girl, which he accepted. A young woman came in with a smile on her face, dark hair falling in gentle curls around her shoulders, and her chemise sitting low, which Arthur never glanced twice at. She had a sweet voice and a gentle touch, freckles dotted her nose and a touch of red on her lips. He would have called her pretty if he had the courage, but instead made admittedly awkward comments about his life that she giggled at. 

“I was almost married once, she never bathed me,” he said with a half-smile. 

“Well how about that!” The woman said with a soft chuckle as she smoothed a sudsy hand along his leg. 

Although he’d never admit it out loud, he truly did miss the touch of a woman. Quiet moments stolen from a harrowing life lead to guilty afterthoughts. He didn’t deserve a woman, not any more than he deserved kindness from strangers, even if they were paid to do so. 

The bath finished shortly after, with a soft kiss planted against his cheek and a well wish for the remainder of the day. The water had cooled then, prompting him to reluctantly redress and leave. 

He wasn’t exactly sure how much time had passed during his bath, but the morning sun since disappeared behind a blanket of cool gray cloud cover, a gradient casting into iron just north, brooding over the Ambarino mountains. A cold gust carried the scent of rain with it, gathering underneath the brim of his hat. 

The last thing he wanted to do was to get stuck in the rain. 

Arthur’s gaze drifted to the saloon across the way, which from what he could see wasn’t all that busy. It had to be around lunch time now, and the uncomfortable gurgle in his stomach agreed with his thought. He began to cross the street, although something caught his eye. 

He wasn't sure how he noticed it; horses lined the posts along the muddy pass. Sorrel and bay and palomino, except that one, the distinctly patterned overo coat shining like a beacon amongst the others, settled more toward the doctor’s office down the way. That mare he'd plucked from the wilderness to return to her once equally as lost owner.   

It'd been some weeks since the encounter, one having blurred in with every other fleeting job he’d accomplished during their relatively short stay at Horseshoe Overlook. The memory which was buried in the back of his mind unearthed fluidly: the wolves, the screaming, the delicious and hearty stew. His mouth watered at the thought, and another memory surfaced; you, all smiles and hospitality, not timid in the slightest even after your close brush with death. You welcomed him in for a hot meal and then further gave him permission to stop by your little homestead if in need of a moment to rest his feet and fill his belly.   

Admittedly there were plenty of moments of bone tiredness and late days, if he had remembered, he would have gladly taken the opportunity. 

“Arthur!” 

It were as if the heavens above somehow heard his thoughts. He turned to spot you just exiting the general store, a smile on your face and a bag slung across your shoulders.  

Arthur tilted his head in response. “Afternoon,” he said with a slight smile of his own. 

  “it's so good to see you again!” You say as if greeting an old friend. “How have you been?” 

  “Oh, I've been alright,” he responded with a slight shrug. “Can't complain. How about you? No more trips in the forest?” 

You lightly scoff, but the smile on your lips remained. “None of the sort, I'm proud to say. I've kept myself restricted to Valentine since then.” 

“Good,” he nodded again, and gestured toward the bag you held. “I suppose you're makin’ more stew?” 

You glance down at the bag, then back to him. “No stew, but I did pick up some chicken from the butcher around the corner. Thought I could do something different.” 

“Okay, well don't let me stop ya,” he waved his hand in an act of dismissal, the talk of food only making him hungrier. He turned halfway before your voice spoke out again. 

“Wait, would you like to join me?” 

Arthur blinked and turned to face you again, slightly confused. “Huh?” 

“Join me for lunch? I never did thank you properly for returning my horse, and you haven't stopped by since I extended my offer. Seems like a good time as any,” you explained with a half shrug. “Only if you'd like to, of course.” 

Hesitation filled his mind, completely caught off guard by this invite. He glanced at the saloon again, and then back to you, the hunger roiling expectantly in his guts. It would be easier to stay, have a few drinks and not risk the rain. But who was he to turn down another free meal, even if it meant waiting for just a little longer? 

“Okay,” Arthur finally said. “Sounds good.” 

Your smile widened, eyes brightening even with the increasingly darkening sky. “Great, please take your time, I’m going to head home and start. Do you remember the way?” 

“Course,” 

He watched as you bounded toward your mare, mounting with ease and heading westward in a smooth lope, splashing lops of mud with each hoof beat. He supposed he should allow you a head start; not to awkwardly wait in your house as you finished cooking. 

Another thought sprang up. But what of your husband? The fool that moved you out here and left you to your own devices. Would he be so lucky as to meet this unwise fellow, and wondered if this man knew of your nearly failed journey. 

  Unless said husband happened to be on another trip of his, Arthur inwardly guessed, and surprised himself with just how much detail he remembered of you. Then again you weren't the only person of unique circumstance he's met over the years, some he dared to say he called a friend. 

A heavy drop fell upon the brim of his hat, the first arrival of the storm above. Arthur automatically began to move forward, sheltering himself beneath the outcropping of the saloon. This only tempted him further to just to stay here. But it would be rude to ignore your invite, and despite his gruff exterior and lifestyle choice, he did have manners. 

He decidedly spent the next twenty minutes aimlessly browsing the general store, restocking his health cures and cigarettes. By the time he made his way back outside, the drizzle turned into a steady rain. His Andalusian sat waiting for him, the rain darkening the silver coat. Arthur quickly mounted and headed in the direction you took earlier, easing into a quick pace, hoping the ride wouldn't soak him to the bone. 

Arthur spent the remainder of the ride at a steady gallop, head turned down to avoid most of the rain spattering his face. His jacket had been soaked and the shirt beneath was beginning to as well when he finally reached your home. Leading his stallion to the barn behind just as before, before rounding back to climb the front steps. The door was closed, and he knocked and waited. 

You appeared just seconds later, throwing the door open and welcoming him inside enthusiastically. He stepped in, suddenly conscious of the torrents of rainwater cascading from his body. He removed his jacket immediately and placed it on a hanger by the door, same with his hat, a small pool beginning to form underneath. 

The warmth was the first thing that greeted him. The oven radiated a soothing heat in such a contrast to the chilling wetness that shrouded the surrounding landscape. Arthur’s tense frame relaxed, and he breathed in, taking a first whiff of the savory, herbal aroma that accompanied the heat. 

“You came just in time,” you said as you headed toward the oven, propping open the door and removing an appealing looking roasted chicken. “I was just about finished.” 

He watched as you placed the perfectly roasted whole chicken onto a large plate, his mouth watering at the sight. 

“Take a seat!” You gestured toward the table. Arthur did so quietly, taking the same spot as his previous visit. It only took another moment before you placed a generous helping of herb crusted chicken in front of him. You settled across from him with your own helping. 

“I take it your husband ain’t here,” he said, noting the size of the servings on each plate. 

“He’ll be back tomorrow, I think,” you respond. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell with that man.” 

Arthur hummed a response, taking the first bite, his stomach rumbling gratefully as the flavors greeted his tongue. Oregano and thyme, he detected, so delicately laced with moist poultry. He swallowed and took a deep breath, reminding himself to keep his manners for once again another delectable meal from your hands. 

He looked up and realized you were watching him expectantly. He blinked and averted his gaze, cutting himself another sliver. You were just waiting for his opinion. “Jus’ as good as the stew, maybe even better,” he complimented before chewing the second piece.   

“Thank you!” You say, beaming. “And thank you for ensuring my hard work doesn't go to waste once again.” 

Arthur chuckled in response. “Your husband’s a lucky feller. I'm surprised he don't get a closer job, with the way you cook, I'm sure he misses it on his travels.” 

“Oh, if only,” you sighed lightly and began to eat from your own plate. 

It fell silent from then on, aside from the scraping of silverware on the plates and the steady fall of rain outside. Arthur fully immersed himself in his delicious meal, taking slow and deliberate bites to ensure he wouldn't be soon stuck out in the dreary weather once more. You then offered him a glass of wine, which he gladly took, the alcohol dry and bitter but it further settled into his stomach, warming him from the inside out. 

The air was calm and peaceful, absent of the concern Arthur held over the past month. As chatty as you'd been before, he appreciated your decided silence now. It wasn't awkward nor tense, and he could enjoy the company of someone who didn't need to constantly talk his ear off. As insistent as you were, it didn't bother him in the slightest. Being here offered a nice break from the responsibilities of the gang, even if it meant for a short while. Perhaps he could stop by again, later in the week, should your husband accept him as a guest as well. 

A cold, wet drop falling into his unoccupied left hand nearly startled him. He looked at the faint glimmer of the water that rolled along his skin, only to feel another land on his nose. Arthur blinked and looked up, noticing for the first time the waterlogged wooden panels condensed into one spot, directly above where he sat. 

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake!” You exasperate suddenly, then sigh. “I'm sorry, Arthur. Frederick was supposed to have someone come and fix that...” 

Arthur assumed that had to be your husband’s name. He simply scooted to the side, not bothered in the slightest by the slow leak, while you hurried over to place an empty can where he just was. He caught your muttering of annoyance, something about three weeks?   

“It ain't a bother to me,” he says to you. “How long you been waitin’ on that fix?” 

You look to him, your mouth tightening slightly. “Too long, I'm tired of it ruining my table,” you answer with a gesture to a spot that Arthur hadn’t noticed on the surface. Slightly raised and rough in appearance in contrast to the smoothness surrounding it, indicating water damage.   

He would have simply suggested moving the table, if the small kitchen wasn't already occupied by other furniture. Still, he could understand your concern. A roof patch wasn't a terribly difficult task, if your husband would lift a finger to learn how, instead of hiring what already seemed to be an unreliable man for the job. 

“I could fix it, if you'd like,” he offered. 

You blinked in surprise, clearly caught off guard. “Arthur, that's not necessary. I will just have to remind Frederick when he comes back tomorrow.” 

“it's necessary enough. It ain't a hard job either, shouldn't take longer than an hour,” he responded with a shrug. 

“You already saved mine and my horse’s lives. You shouldn't be bothered with such a task,” you say. 

“it ain't a bother,” Arthur shook his head to further make his point known. “After waitin’ that long, you oughta have somethin’ done.” 

There was a moment of silence. Your gaze held steady as you regarded his offer, lips pressed into a thin line. Finally, you sighed and said, “Okay, but not today.” 

“Weren’t plannin’ on it,” Arthur pointed out. “If the weather’s nicer tomorrow, I'll stop by.” 

You nodded to his plan. “Do...you live close by? I wouldn't want you to travel far for my sake.” 

Arthur hesitated, wondering if you were about to invite him to spend the night in the spare bedroom dependent on his answer. Probably not, if your husband was due back tomorrow, it would be an awkward conversation to explain another man under the roof of a married woman. So he finally answered, “Yeah, not too far from here.” 

“Okay,” you say, still looking unsure about this entire idea. You then rounded back to your side of the table, beginning to clean the remnants of the dinner. “Thank you, Arthur. You really don’t have to…” 

He waved his hand as if to brush off your words. “Think of it as a thanks for another good meal.” 

--- 

Leaving shortly after that conversation, Arthur was glad he managed to wait out the brunt of the rain, which had dissolved into a light misting by the time he mounted his stallion. His coat had mostly dried out and his body felt warm and full, which easily gave him energy for the remainder of the day. 

He’d gone back to his original plan to just relax for the remainder of the day, taking an easy ride down by the Dakota River and just enjoying nature. Another hour passed when the rain finally cleared and the clouds made way for bright blue skies, instantly bathing the land in sunlight and warmth. Time became lost as the river opened to the gray expanse of Flat Iron Lake ahead, new sunlight glinting in the still waters. 

Perhaps he should fish. 

The sun began to set when Arthur’s satchel became decently full and he took the time to fry a few once his stomach began to rumble again. Even over a campfire and a few herbs dusting the gritty fish, he had to wonder what you'd do with his catch in a better stocked kitchen. He ought to ask tomorrow, seeing as he had more than enough to spare. 

Heading back to camp just as the fiery hue in the sky gave way to a cobalt twilight, he offered some of his catch to Pearson before settling into his cot for the night.   

The next morning showed the promise of blue skies and sunshine, as Arthur repeated his beginning day ritual of bitter coffee and a few spoken words to his fellow early risers, before taking off on horseback. 

His steed settled into a leisurely trot, decidedly taking the route of the ravine instead of going around by Valentine. It was quieter, and he didn't have to subject himself to the rancid smell of filthy stockyards, even if it were just for a few minutes. The view was pleasant too, appreciating the lush green after staring at a canvas of grays and whites for weeks, reminding him bitterly of those harsh few weeks in the mountains after Blackwater. 

Arthur had become so lost in his thoughts, he hadn't realized how much time passed, or how far he traveled. Before he knew it, he was upon the smaller path that led to your quaint little house just beyond the trees. 

You greeted him with the same enthusiasm as yesterday, but still hinted that he was doing too much. He once again waved it off, then remembering the fish from yesterday, pulled them from his satchel and handed them to you. Your face was full of confusion, until he told you about his prior thoughts about cooking a better fish in your kitchen. 

“Oh!” You said, still slightly befuddled. “I don't have much experience cooking with fish, but I’ll do what I can!” 

Afterward you directed him to the barn, where the tools were, before heading back in to begin cooking. Arthur greeted the familiar mare after allowing his own horse in to share some of the hay. He gave a quick glance of the surroundings, managing to find a ladder and some hand tools. With just a few moments of carrying everything out, he climbed up top and began to work. 

The roof was shingled, and old. Moss and lichen grew a thick layer, indicating the distinct lack of maintenance. He had to wonder how long this place sat before you and...Frederick? Moved in. 

He slowly moved, mentally mapping out the room beneath him to try and locate the source. It didn't take very long; the rotten wood softening beneath his careful feet. 

Home repair wasn't a skill he'd boast about, but he’d managed well enough. Fifteen minutes into the job, movement caught his eye. Automatically tensing, Arthur shot a quick glance toward the woods, easily identifying the newcomer. It was a man, surprisingly sharply dressed and carrying a suitcase, giving him a slight air that reminded Arthur of Dutch. Very out of place considering they were on the edge of the wilderness. He emerged from the tree line, a smile on his face. His eyes met Arthur’s, and the smile slightly faded. 

“Frederick!” Your voice called from below, pulling the newcomer’s attention away. You appeared just a short second after, crossing the distance between you and your husband, pulling him into an embrace. 

Ah, that made sense. Letting himself relax again, Arthur shifted his attention back to the roof. He made a show of what he was doing, hoping not to rouse any suspicion. He could feel your husband’s curious eyes on him and caught the quick explanation you gave. The repairman Frederick had supposedly sent for weeks ago finally showed up. It seemed like a better solution other than trying to explain the man who saved your life returned to fix a leaky roof out of the goodness of his heart. 

Goodness of his heart, Arthur snorted to himself. What good? 

From what sounded like an approval from the other man, the two of you soon disappeared into the house, allowing Arthur to work in peace. 

It had to only be another few minutes when the creak of the door sounded again. Arthur glanced back down to see Frederick had appeared again, staring at him with curiosity. 

“Fine work you’re doing there!” the man spoke in a flourishing accent that almost matched Josiah’s. 

Arthur had been caught off guard by this. He offered a slight smile and called out, “Uh, thank you.” 

“And thank you for your craftsmanship! My wife will have your pay,” Frederick continued. “Find her once you’re done!” 

Arthur merely nodded, and watched in confusion as Frederick made his way toward the tree line again. Was he leaving, just five minutes after arriving? Arthur only sighed and turned his focus back to the job. 

For the next thirty minutes or so, Arthur managed to identify and fix the issue, which he found wasn’t difficult in the slightest. He wondered why no one came out sooner, and he was glad to have repaired it before it’d gotten much worse. Satisfied with his handiwork, he gathered the tools and made his way for the ladder. As he climbed down, he was surprised to see you already standing at the base, waiting patiently for him. 

Momentarily stunned by your sudden appearance, Arthur placed the tools down and gestured toward the roof. “Weren’t too bad of a fix,” he said. “Jus’ a simple patch, but it should keep the rain out.” 

You smiled at him sweetly. “Thank you, again, for that,” you held up your hand for Arthur to see a billfold in your palm. “It’s fifteen dollars.” 

Even though he offered for free, he wasn’t the one to turn down any sort of monetary gain. Just a little bit more to add to the camp. Arthur took the money from you, counting it out. It was indeed fifteen. As he placed it into his pocket, you continued to speak. 

“I also cooked the fish. Would you like some? I offered some to Frederick, but he had to leave.” 

That brought on Arthur’s previous curiosity. “Why did he leave so soon? He couldn't have been here for all but ten minutes.” 

The smile on your face faltered slightly. “He had some business in Valentine,” you say with a small sigh. “But he promised he’d be back tonight." 

Well, at least it wasn’t for another long trip. But from the look on your face, he could tell it bothered you more than you’d let on. He wondered how often Frederick left you alone these past few weeks, and how painfully lonely it must've been. Arthur shouldn’t judge your husband’s business, but it seemed shameful the man couldn’t spend at least an hour at home to enjoy lunch with you. 

His stomach rumbled expectantly, and he decided to take your offer for a third time. 

He couldn't help but notice your face light up in delight when you served him the fish. Even for your supposed lack of skill in cooking them, he found they were just as delicious as your last few dishes. The meal was eaten with mostly silence, aside from you once again thanking him for the roof job and double checking to ensure the fish was cooked properly. 

As you cleared your spot, Arthur couldn't help but notice the content look on your face, probably grateful knowing your cooking didn't have to go to waste today. He stood up and stretched a little, his belly comfortably full. He picked up his own plate and brought it over to the sink, placing it on the counter as you pumped water in to rinse yours off. 

“Thank you,” you say, nodding to his plate. “I trust it was good?” 

“As good as I said it was earlier,” Arthur assured you once again. “I promise.” 

Your eyes held his for a second, as if looking for a falter in the truth. After a moment, you chuckled dejectedly to yourself. “Sorry, last time I cooked fish, Frederick was sick for a day. I just wanted to be sure...” 

“Second time’s the charm,” Arthur pointed out. “’Less your husband has a weak stomach.” 

You laughed again, a light and hearty sound. “I suppose that could be it,” you said thoughtfully, grabbing Arthur’s plate to wash next. “Or he just doesn't like fish.” 

Arthur chuckled himself, folding his arms to lean against the counter. “With the way you cook, I find that hard to believe.” 

The smile on your face was soft and bashful, though your eyes kept on the plates. There was a slight flush in your cheeks, or maybe that was a trick of the light? “Enough of the flattery, Arthur, you've done more than enough already.” 

  With a mere shrug, Arthur stood up straight again. The need to leave sparked in his mind but dwindled just as quickly as it arrived, thinking he could drag his feet a bit. The thought of heading back to camp only to be recruited into another job didn't seem as tempting today. Strauss was beginning to look desperate, and that was the very last thing he wanted to amend. 

He could only barely hear Dutch’s tone, reminding him that it needed to be done. Debts to be paid. He shook his head slightly. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Arthur then realized at that moment, you were looking right at him, a wrinkle of concern on your forehead. 

“Oh, uh, nothin’ important,” he said. “Jus’ not excited for what awaits me back at home.” 

A frown touched your lips for a split second before smoothing out. “Then don't let me hold you up.” 

“You ain't,” Arthur assured you. “It can wait a while.” forever, he added silently. 

The corner of your mouth quirked almost into another smile. You set the dishes to dry and turned to face him fully just a moment later. “I’d rather not get you in trouble,” you tell him. “Not over some stranger who needed their roof fixed.” 

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nothin’ I can’t handle.” 

You sighed and shook your own head at him, like a mother dealing with her child’s antics. “Well...I highly doubt you’d want to spend more time around me to avoid your responsibilities, haven’t I bothered you enough?” you ask him, placing your hands on your hips and looking expectant. 

Arthur shrugged Again. “You caught me,” he lightly joked with another chuckle, and then reluctantly added, “Though I guess I might as well head back. Don’t need your husband showin’ back up and wonder I hadn’t left yet.” 

There was a small giggle from you. “Well good,” you fake chided. “I don’t need you to be in trouble on my account.” 

Giving her a half smile, Arthur walked towards the door. “Alright alright, I got the point.” 

As he stepped out, he realized you were following him. He treaded down the porch steps and turned slightly to give you a proper goodbye. 

Your face still held a smile of amusement, but there was a flicker in your eyes. Sadness? It disappeared at an instant as you spoke. “Arthur, you're a good man. Thank you again for everything you've done.” 

Arthur tilted his head in appreciation. “You have a good rest of your day now.” 

“You too,” you say. “And please don't hesitate to stop by sometime. My original offer is still up, if you're ever in the area.” 

“’Course,” he nodded. “I haven't forgotten. I'll swing by soon enough.” 

Your smile widened. “Then I’ll see you soon.” 

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

hi i love your content sm and i was just wondering if you could make a fic with drunk arthur x female reader with smut? thank you❤️❤️❤️

thanks for the love nonny, but my requests are closed at the moment. Perhaps someone else can take this? :)

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

The Heart of Your Home Pt 1

Summary: Arthur comes across a woman in need. What he thought was a simple good deed would take him down a much further path than anticipated.

Warnings: Cursing in this chapter, eventual canon-typical violence, eventual smut.

Word Count: 6,250

A/N: I have been working on this on the wayside for the past few months. I'm excited to continue working on this, so please sit tight!

The steady trot of the beast was all that filled Arthur’s ears. Bright sunshine warmed the otherwise cool air that blanketed northern New Hanover. His stallion’s hooves kicked up slight clouds of dust as they traveled the well-beaten path stretching out before them. The swaying trees of Cumberland Forest waited up ahead, teeming with life. 

It’d been a few weeks since he’d last come up here; originally traveling up this way to clear out a group of O’Driscolls, like flushing foxes out of a den. He intentionally kept away in case any stragglers decided to return in revenge of their fallen brethren. Not that a man like him would have trouble disposing them just as well as the former assault, however, his goal was different today. Pearson needed meat, and the northern forest was rich with elk. 

A strong gust of wind swirled around him, sending a chill down his spine and reminding him of those bitter weeks in Colter. God forbid they’d be driven into the snow again. 

As the wind calmed, a different sound carried across the terrain. An unmistakable chorus of wolves howled. Arthur tensed, knowing that was their signal of easy prey, and he glanced around while his horse’s head shot up and began to squirm apprehensively. 

No pack in sight, the haunting melody seemingly originating from the plateau to his right. It would take any man or animal more effort than it was worth to stagger down the jagged path to even reach him. He was safe, sliding his gloved hand along the stallion’s neck to soothe. 

“Easy, boy,” he cooed. “You’re alright.” 

No sooner did those words leave his mouth, a shrill scream pierced the otherwise still air. A scream of pure, utter terror. The scream of a woman. The desperate cry for help. 

He knew better than to meddle in other’s affairs. Why should he care if some stranger became a predator’s next meal? 

Perhaps he cared more than he liked to admit. 

Turning his horse toward the nearest pathway up, he snapped out a command to go, his steed jolting forward despite its previous anxiety. The stallion expertly navigated the steep, rocky terrain until the land smoothed out, peaking to a flat expanse that seemingly went for miles with the cloudless azure sky. 

Another sharp wail. His head turned, spotting the culprit just a few yards away. A pack of three timber wolves, all facing away and slowly stalking toward their prey beneath a large tree. 

Arthur had no time to waste. He whistled loudly, catching the attention of the closest. It spun around and stared at Arthur with fierce amber eyes, lips curled back to bear a hungry, toothy grin. 

A deft hand was on his revolver in a split second, drawing it from his holster and landed a bullet right between its eyes. The gunshot alerted the other two, turning away from their original prey to now target him as well. 

He didn’t give them a chance. Expertly wielding his firearm to dispatch them, their now lifeless bodies falling limp to the grass, the surrounding forage painted a deep scarlet. The gun slotted back to its home. 

The air was silenced again, barren of songbirds and woodland creatures, undoubtedly frightened by his interception. His eyes shifted, scanning the open area for any additional threats. 

There was a squeak, as timid and frightened as a mouse. His gaze settled upon its origin, the woman that was just seconds away from being mauled to death.  

Dressed in a simple button-up blouse and a vibrant skirt and hair tied back into a neat bun, you were more out of place than a rancher was in the city. Your eyes were wide with terror, hands up in attempt to defend yourself, though one fist clenched and full of what appeared to be leafy sprigs. 

“Are you okay, miss?” Arthur quietly asked. 

He watched as you slowly lowered your hands, your gaze fixated on the dead wolves. “I...” you started, before taking a shaky breath and looking to him directly. “I-I'm okay...thank you.” 

He nodded in response. With the deed done, he should be on his way, but the curiosity was beginning to gnaw. It wasn't his business why you were out here, and he should just leave it at that. He should turn and continue along his path. 

However, the thought of a woman alone and defenseless out in the wilderness didn’t exactly sit right with him. “This ain’t exactly the safest place to be,” he commented. “Why’re you out here?” 

Your eyes averted immediately, and your head hung, reminding him of a child being scolded. “Looking for herbs,” you say rather quietly, your left fist opening to reveal more of the leafy stems laden in your palm, before tucking them into a small leather satchel attached around your waist. “I don’t normally venture so far from home, but—” 

The glint of a silver ring on your finger caught Arthur’s attention. “Your husband don’t help?” he guessed, leaning onto the horn of his saddle. 

“My husband? Hah!” your demeanor changed immediately, tilting your head back in a scoff. “Please, my husband doesn’t know a dandelion from a daffodil! No,” you sighed, shaking your head in disappointment. “As the dutiful wife, I keep the house clean and our bellies full.” 

“So...you came out here jus’ to look for ingredients?” Arthur asked. “With no proper protection?” 

Your brow furrowed into a scowl, the corners of your lips wrinkling. “Had I known there were wolves out here, I wouldn’t have bothered. Like I said, I don’t usually venture from home. But our herb garden died after last week’s frost.” 

“There's supplies right in Valentine,” Arthur pointed out. “Would be much less dangerous than bein’ out here.” 

“Ah yes, that muddy little farming town,” your nose wrinkled in disgust. “We arrived there by train when we first moved out here...” you shook your head and sighed, turning to gaze across the plateau. “Guess I have no choice now...” you glanced around wildly and frowned. “Those damn wolves scared away my horse!” 

Arthur held back a sigh. The last thing he wanted to do was to traipse around New Hanover in search of a frightened steed. Poor thing is probably halfway to Ambarino by now or got cornered by something else.  

That didn’t solve the matter at hand, however. To leave you alone even after killing those mongrels would fill him with unnecessary guilt. He didn’t have to continue, but that small part of his conscience convinced him otherwise. “Would you, uh, like a ride back to town?” he offered. 

Your gaze fell to him immediately, your expression brightening. “If you would, please.” 

Arthur nodded and held his hand out, and you stepped forward to grab it, using the freed stirrup to hoist yourself onto the back of his Andalusian. As you settled behind him, Arthur took a glance at the wolf carcasses, making a mental note to return here later. Pearson surely would appreciate having some extra pelts on hand. 

He turned the horse around, spurring it into an easy lope back toward the pathway. 

“I can’t tell you how grateful I am for this, mister,” you say. “I can’t imagine the thought of having to hoof it to Valentine on foot after that ordeal. My poor horse…I hope she’s okay.” 

“Jus’ don’t make it a habit of makin’ trips out here, at least without somethin’ to protect yourself with,” Arthur pointed out. “It’s more dangerous than you’d think.” 

“I think I got plenty of that in one day,” you sighed. “You might see me as some foolish woman, and I know I am. My husband and I have been out here for two months, and I still haven’t completely adjusted,” you laughed dryly. “See, we’re from out East, him and I.” 

Arthur didn’t respond. Easterners, civilized folk that had no business being out here. Businessmen led out West with the promise of opportunities, reaping the land of its riches. 

“Was all his idea to move out this way,” you continued over his silence. “I tried to make the best of it. It’s not like back at home, some days I do miss my cozy apartment...but as my husband said, there’s no point in returning when there’s something better out here for us.” 

From the tone of your voice, Arthur could tell you rolled your eyes. “That’s what a lot of folk say,” Arthur mumbled. “In the end, it don’t always work out and they go back, tails tucked between their legs.” 

“You don’t know my husband then,” you respond with a dry laugh. “Ambition is his game, and he’s one smart gambler.” 

“For your sake, I’d hope so,” Arthur said, peering ahead to see Valentine’s rooftops appear in the distance. 

The remainder of the trip fell silent. Arthur was thankful you hadn’t strayed too far from town, since this minor detour would still allow him ample time to return to his original trip. 

The offending scent of the stockyards was the first to hit his nose to announce their arrival into Valentine. Mud slopped around the horse’s hooves as they trotted further into town, sidling along the edge to clear the path for the stagecoaches rolling past. He turned right, facing the bustling street. He stopped at the nearest post, avoiding the rest of the traffic. 

You slid off and landed delicately, smoothing your skirt out before looking back up to him. “Thank you, mister,” you say with a smile. “Um...would you mind if you took me home too? I don’t live too far from here.” 

Well, shit. Seems like this detour would take longer than he’d anticipated. He’d already done enough and removed you from any immediate danger. “Sure,” he answered, waving his hand with a half-hearted flourish. 

Your smile only widened. “Thank you again, I won’t be long!” You hurried along, excitedly popping up onto the wooden walkway and disappeared into one of the shops. 

Arthur sighed, dragging a palm across his face. He truly had no business escorting folk, especially someone who seemed so out of her element. However, he felt the need to at least carry through, provide you with safe passage home to your foolish husband. Perhaps today may be a lesson for you to stay safer, or even compel the two of you to move back East. 

Just as you promised, your venture into the shop did not take long at all. A mere five minutes passed before the door creaked open and you reappeared, making a beeline toward him. The relief was plain on your face. 

“Find what you needed?” Arthur asked. 

“And much more!” You exclaim. “I think I’ll be set for the week.” 

Arthur nodded in approval and held his hand out for you to take. Instead, you placed your hands along his horse’s rump and hoisted yourself up with one smooth motion. 

You settled behind him once again and pointed westward. “We live that way, couple miles out of town.” 

He didn’t hesitate to follow your direction, wasting no time to leave Valentine in his wake. The buildings gave way to an open field with trees in the distance, leading off to the mountains of West Elizabeth further out. It’d only taken an extra twenty minutes at a steady trot along the path until you instructed him to veer off into the trees, following a much narrower path. Up ahead, the forage began to thin out to a small field with what appeared to be a small house, and an even smaller barn sitting quaintly behind it. 

He emerged from the tree line, allowing full sight of what he presumed was your home. The outside seemed to be kept neat and orderly, with an immaculate fence offset from the porch full of greenery. As he approached closer, he realized they were half-wilted. 

“Home sweet home,” you sighed as you slid off the horse, stepping toward the house. Only to pause and look back at him. “Thank you so much, again. You’re the kindest person I’ve met out here so far.” 

Arthur chuckled humorlessly at your comment. “Ah, I don’t know about that, ma’am.” 

“Nonsense,” you brush away his refute. “You showed up at just the right time, I’m sure anyone else would have left me to the wolves, all for some stupid plants...” you glanced back toward the garden with a grimace before turning your attention back to him. “Hey, won’t you join me for dinner? I’d like to repay you.” 

Arthur hadn’t expected that. Heading back out would be ideal, at least to try and hunt before evening settled in. He also hadn’t eaten since breakfast back at camp. Even though he had some fruit in his back, it would not be enough to satiate him for the next few hours. 

Another thought crossed his mind. “Your husband won’t mind the company?” he carefully asked, knowing a face like his appearing in a comfortable homestead may be unsettling. 

“Oh, he’s not home tonight, out doing business as usual,” you sighed. “I always make more than enough, just in case, but I’m tired of letting some of my hard work go to waste.” 

Something about that statement irked Arthur. From the information you’ve told him so far, it seemed your husband was painfully oblivious to what life really was like out here, most likely having no inkling of his wife ignorantly exploring the wilderness just to make a tasty meal. 

The rumble of his stomach cut his thoughts short, and he pressed a hand to his abdomen. It’d been at least a half-day since breakfast, and with the past hour or so spent on a detour, the opportunity for a hot meal was difficult to pass. 

“Sure, why not?” he finally said. “I’ll have a plate.” 

You flashed a beaming smile at him. “Excellent. Here...” You pointed to the small barn behind the house. “You can put your horse in there for a bit, I’m sure he’s just as hungry as you are. You can come in when you’re done.” 

You turned on your heel, bounding up the porch steps to disappear behind a door. Arthur did as he was told, dismounting his horse and leading him toward the barn. He shoved the door open, peering into the tiny, two-stall building. One stall stood completely clean, devoid of any sign of use, while the other had a mess of half-eaten hay, most likely from the horse you’d claimed ran off earlier. He led the stallion into this stall, and the horse immediately dove into the hay. 

Arthur patted the horse’s neck with a small smile. It wasn’t too often that a stranger’s hospitality also extended toward his steed as well. He left the stallion to enjoy the hay, stepping back out and heading toward the house. 

He stepped onto the porch, panels creaking beneath his weight. The door opened easily, and he stepped inside, greeted by the cozy, bright interior. It was almost as if he stepped inside a dollhouse. 

You were at the stove directly opposite him, leaning over a large pot, sprinkling a few leaves into what seemed to be a sort of stew. Upon his entrance, you turned and gave him another smile. “Won’t be much longer. If you’d like to wash up, there’s a wash basin in the next room,” you gestured with a flick of your head towards the right. 

Arthur once again wordlessly followed your direction, setting his sights toward a door standing ajar in the corner. He absorbed the scenery before him as he moved. If he hadn’t known you were in the middle of the woods, he would have guessed he was somewhere like Blackwater. It was evident you were not ready to transition from your previous life, as almost every surface seemed to be meticulously kept and covered with décor. 

He pushed the door open to reveal a bedroom that was oddly plain compared to what he’d just witnessed in the kitchen. The bed was neatly made, an oak armoire sitting directly across from it. In the corner next to him sat a small porcelain and golden wash basin, already filled with water. 

He took caution when washing up, not to spill any dirty water upon the swept floors. Though he supposed it didn’t matter, given how much dust coated his worn leather boots. Once finished he made his way back into the kitchen, just in time to witness you ladle stew into two bowls. The small table was the only thing separating the two of you, and Arthur took a seat. 

Placing a bowl in front of him, you moved to sit opposite. “It’s not much, but I hope you enjoy it.” 

The savory aroma only made his stomach gurgle again. He peered down to observe the dish. The browned liquid swimming with a medley of vegetables and meat, with speckles of whichever herbs you’d added. He took a spoonful and placed it in his mouth, his tongue delightfully greeted with rich flavor. 

Enjoying it was an understatement. He would have shoveled the whole damn thing into his mouth if maintaining politeness wasn’t a factor. “No complaints here, ma’am,” he said after swallowing. “This may be the best stew I’ve ever had.” 

Your smile was bashful, but the light in your eyes told him how you appreciated the praise. “Glad to know my husband doesn’t lie to me when he says he likes my cooking,” you giggled lightly. “I appreciate it, Mister...” you trailed off, giving him a hopeful look for a proper introduction. 

“Arthur,” he answered. 

You nodded and gave him your name in response. “Thank you for not letting this go to waste.” 

Offering a small smile, Arthur then took another bite. It was tempting to ask for the recipe to pass along to Pearson for ideas. “It’d be a shame, especially after almost gettin’ eaten.” 

You giggled again, your voice ringing melodically. “Well Arthur, I’m glad you could join me for dinner after that nonsense. It gets quite lonely living out here sometimes.” 

“Your husband often leaves you alone like this?” Arthur asked. 

There was a pause. The open and friendly demeanor you possessed suddenly vanished as you sat up straight, giving him a cautious stare. “Don’t mistake my hospitality as vulnerability, Arthur. My husband may be away, but I promise you my intentions are not what you're assuming.” 

Arthur was taken aback by this, having not realized his words might’ve had another meaning. “Oh no, ma’am!” He dropped his spoon and held his hands up defensively. “That ain’t what I meant at all, believe me. My intentions ain’t nothin’ of the sort.” 

You seemed to be satisfied by his answer as the rigidity of your body eased, though the look of caution remained. “I’m no fool to the desires of men,” you say. “Doesn’t matter where I am, they’re almost always the same.” 

As unfortunate as the statement was, Arthur had to agree with you. He’d witnessed it more times than he’d cared, though never taking part for himself. It was often those who held a position of power, abusing it as such to have their ways. He despised men of the sort. “You don’t have to worry, I swear I ain’t like that,” he responded. 

The gaze you held on him was steady and scrutinizing, as if searching his face for any tale of a lie. Soon the lines of worry began to soften, your lips hinting the ghost of a smile. “I suppose I should believe you, otherwise you would’ve had me after taking care of the wolves. You’re a man of honor, Arthur.” 

A dejected chuckle left his throat as he shook his head. He cared little to argue, as you’d only seen just a fraction of what he truly was. Had you known he was a wanted outlaw, your perspective would change in a heartbeat. 

Still, he’d come across a myriad of people from different walks on his travels. Those who either welcomed him with open arms or pointed a gun to his face, most of which didn’t know his true identity, and they never had to, to determine what sort of person he was. 

Without a reply, he settled into a comfortable silence to finish his meal. You simply followed suit, leaving the conversation to rest. 

Arthur took his time with the stew, savoring every bite knowing he may not receive another one just as delicious. The sun settling through the west-facing window indicated just how much time has passed since this initial diversion. It had to be late afternoon now, had those last few hours flown by that quickly? 

With the bowl empty and his once withering stomach now satisfyingly full, Arthur leaned back in his seat and gave a content sigh. “I suppose I should be gettin' back on the road,” he said to catch your attention. 

You looked back up, and Arthur caught a flicker of emotion on your face, but you smiled before he could determine what it was exactly. “Of course, seems to be getting late,” you glanced at the window. “I hope I didn’t keep you from anything important.” 

While it certainly took away a few hours' worth of hunting, he couldn’t readily admit that. You were kind enough to offer hospitality in return to his decided kindness, much different than a few billfolds or a piece of jewelry that would normally accompany these rare occasions. A full stomach and a rested horse, however, that was rare. 

“Nothin’ too important,” Arthur assured you. While the camp’s coffer was low, there was no immediate need for fresh kill that same day. He could attempt to make it back up to Cumberland before nightfall and set up camp for a fresh start tomorrow.  

You escorted him back to the barn where his horse was still working through the remnants of hay. The stallion left it rather reluctantly as Arthur pulled him back out into the open. As he mounted and glanced up at the sky, making a note of the time. It wasn’t quite sunset just yet; the bright blues were beginning to fade into a fiery orange. 

“Thank you, again, Arthur,” your voice drew his attention. “Not just for helping me, but providing me with some company as well.” 

Arthur nodded to you. “Try to stay outta trouble, miss.” 

You giggled and shook your head bashfully. “I think today was enough trouble for a lifetime, I’ll be sticking to the safety of stores from now on.” 

Arthur offered you a half-smile. “Good luck to you.” He bid his farewells and turned his horse away from the homestead, making his way back to the worn path. 

--- 

The wooden shops and stands of Valentine were bathed in a slight golden glow, tale of the sunset to Arthur’s back by the time he’d reached the town again. He could travel just a little bit further and set up camp for the night for a fresh start tomorrow morning, but his mind had been elsewhere since he left your house. 

The idea of a woman out of her element living away from civilization without protection didn’t sit right with him. He wondered how long it’d been since you settled out here, and how often your husband left you to your own devices. Had he not been there to rescue you today, how much time would have passed until your husband came home to an empty house, without a clue what happened? 

How could that damn fool not know what he was getting himself into? A businessman had no business trying to adapt to the ways of the rugged.  

Arthur shook his head to himself. The vulnerability you presented yourself with today would hopefully harden with more time spent out here, and preferably before you landed yourself into trouble again. 

He sighed, skirting around the town rather than subjecting his horse to trot through that muck a second time. It was best to not worry about the affairs of strangers, especially those he may never even see again. 

His thoughts occupied most of the remaining journey. The sky steadily darkened as the hour grew later, and the familiar reaches of the emerald pines that outlined Cumberland once again came into view. He considered taking the path back to those wolves, if scavengers hadn’t already begun to pick. 

A yawn stopped that thought in his tracks. The day stretched longer than he intended, and the stew still sat heavy in his belly. It would be best to set up camp now. 

He pulled away from the main path to disappear beneath the canopy of pine, locating just a clearing just large enough to hold a tent. He dismounted and immediately got to work, having his campsite completed just as the last of the daylight was swallowed by the mountains further West. 

With his small tent set up and a meager campfire a striking amber against the inky landscape, fatigue began to settle in. The vestiges of stew finally departed his stomach, announcing its emptiness with a slight grumble. He wished he could have another bowl, but instead helped himself to a can of beans dug out of his satchel. 

It was nowhere near as filling, but it was enough to draw out the tendrils of fatigue, and he turned in soon after to be lulled by nature’s melodies. 

—- 

Arthur awoke with an early start; the sky a pale gray with the hint of dawn. A perfect time for hunting, he thought, and with a quick helping of coffee, he grabbed his bow off his horse and set deeper into the woods. 

He thanked Charles for the lessons in tracking; broken twigs and overturned leaf litter would have gone unnoticed by someone with an untrained eye. The trail was fairly fresh, and the wind carried the distinct echo of an elk’s call. He continued onward, ensuring his footfalls were light and as soundless as possible. It wasn’t much longer until he came upon a small clearing, a small herd of elk peacefully grazing and unaware of his presence. 

Carefully removing the bow and an arrow from his back, he set it in place and drew the bowstring back, aiming for the closest. He had a clear shot straight to the head, and— 

The elks’ heads suddenly shot up, ears pricked and eyes wide. At first Arthur thought he’d somehow startled them, but their attention was drawn in another direction. Within a heartbeat they turned and ran, heading deeper into the forest. 

“Shit,” he hissed, standing up with frustration and regretted leaving his horse behind. He wondered if he could head back quickly to grab his stallion, perhaps he could pick up the trail again without the herd wandering too far ahead. 

A flicker a movement in the corner of his eye caused him to turn his head, opposite where the elk ran. With a start he expected a predator. Instead, it was a horse. 

Wild horses were not an uncommon sighting, especially further away from civilization. As the beast trotted into the clearing, its head held high, and ears pricked forward in alert. Arthur spotted a saddle on its back, a bridle with broken reins dragging through the brush. Its black and white coat stained a cool brown with mud. 

He wondered what happened, and what poor soul was out there looking for their steed, if they were even still alive. As the horse slowed to a stop and dipped its head to graze, Arthur caught a glimpse of what looked like bundles of drying plants hanging from each side. 

Something pricked in his mind. It was a sense of familiarity about it, even though he’d never seen this horse before. Something about the plants it carried... 

And then it hit him. His encounter with you yesterday, you were gathering herbs and you mentioned your horse ran off, frightened by the pack of wolves. The chance of it belonging to someone else would be slim. 

It made sense to find the steed out here, but he was surprised it hadn’t been cornered by other predators. It’d only been a day, though it would not last much longer with the weight of the saddle and the reins dangling so dangerously low. 

He sighed, silently cursing himself for what he was about to do. He should just ignore the thing and continue hunting, but a tiny voice in the back of his mind told him otherwise. Securing the bow to his torso, he slowly stepped into the open. 

The horse must’ve sensed him, as its head shot back up, its wide blue eyes directly onto him. Nostrils flared, expelling a loud snort, almost as if it were a dragon from a story book. 

“Easy there,” Arthur cooed, his voice low and even. He watched as every muscle tensed, ready to turn and sprint off. “Easy...” he repeated. 

The horse stared unblinkingly as he approached, inch by inch, hands reaching up slowly. Arthur silently willed it not to run. He was just a few feet away, and he went to reach for one of the reins still on the ground. 

The horse flinched, and Arthur froze, holding his breath. Thankfully, it didn’t take off. 

“You’re alright...” he said softly, waiting for another second before moving again. With a stroke of luck, he swiftly grabbed the broken rein. The horse didn’t offer another reaction, though still watched with wide eyes as Arthur patted its sweaty neck. He took a cursory glance underneath, and said, “Good girl.” 

The mare seemed to relax at his touch, and Arthur finally noted the sheen of sweat against her dirty coat. A layer of foam outlined the breast collar and the girth. It seemed the poor girl was running for a while and had only stopped just at the right moment. 

He ran his fingers against her velvet muzzle, feeling her hot breath as she attempted to sniff him. “Why don’t I take you home?” he said to her. “I’m sure there’s someone that misses ya.” 

—- 

A gentle breeze stirred the surrounding treetops, filling the air with a soft rustle of leaves and branches. It was a crisp wind; something you had yet to get used to. The grip on the shawl upon your shoulders tightened. As beautiful as your home was, you wished it would just be a little warmer. 

You stood up from the rocking chair perched upon your porch, itching for something to do. Boredom occupied most of your time since moving out here, between washing windowpanes and cooking with the same ingredients day in and day out. You insisted on possibly finding a job, a seamstress or a maid perhaps, but your husband Frederick detested this, adamantly reminding you he would earn more than enough to support the two of you. 

Oftentimes you would cure your restlessness by taking a short ride with your mare, but even that was ripped away by yesterday’s escapades. Frederick paid a pretty penny for that Criollo coming from the beautiful livery in Saint Denis, stopping when only learning she was imported straight from South America. That mare had quickly bonded with you and became your only friend since the move. 

But now she was gone, most likely enjoying her sudden freedom, or worse— 

Slamming your hand onto a pillar severed that train of thought. You instead focused on the meager herb garden, once leafy green stalks now an ugly brown and wilted. You sighed; gardening was never your forte and prior to last week, you were quite proud of your crop. The adjustment from comfortable civilization to a homestead in the middle of the wilderness wasn’t a smooth transition. You longed for your old home, your old town, and your mundane yet comfortable life. 

A shudder rocked through your body. Until recently, you’d been immune and willfully ignorant of the dangers lurking in the shadows, stalking in the trees, waiting for the opportune moment to pounce. Though you often wished for something exciting to break the otherwise monotonous day-to-day, having nearly died at the salivating fangs of those wolves was enough excitement for a lifetime. 

You were beyond thankful for that man, Arthur, for coming to your rescue. He had no business helping you the way he did, and you weren’t ignorant of that. You caught the hesitation in his voice, the flicker in his eyes, the judgmental tone he held when you explained the situation. He most likely saw you as an inconvenience. Regardless, the pity he bestowed on you was enough to ensure you were safe.  

Although unlikely, you hoped you would see him again at least once. He was the first person to show you true kindness and didn’t dare to take advantage of yours. It was a true rarity to come across someone to possess such redeeming qualities. 

The faint rustle of bushes caught your attention, but only for a brief second. Wildlife was plentiful around here, usually in the form of squirrels, rabbits, and the occasional deer or Pronghorn. The coyote yips and yowls often sounded off in the distance during the night, but you never once saw them cross the threshold of your property while you or Frederick were outside. 

A flicker of movement swept your gaze to the side. Too large for a coyote or even a deer, your heart skipped a beat in apprehension. Was your husband home? Or worse, more wolves somehow tracked your scent? 

From the tree line stepped out a horse, its dappled gray coat standing stark against the emerald shrubbery. Its rider was an unexpectedly welcome sight. 

“Arthur?” you said in surprise, allowing yourself to relax. He seemed to have something in his hand, and what followed surprised you even more. 

Your horse. 

Your mouth fell open in pure shock. You blinked multiple times, as if the sight before you were a hallucination. But surely enough, Arthur gave you a small smile and stopped just a few feet before your porch steps. 

“Hope you don't mind the intrusion,” he said. “Found this girl up in Cumberland Forest.” 

You bounded down the steps wordlessly, your mouth still gaped. “What—” you took a sharp breath. “How did you know...” That was my horse? You finished the question without speaking. 

Arthur shrugged, turning to look at the mare. “I saw her lookin’ a little distressed, like she’d been runnin’ all night. Then I saw the bundles of herbs on the saddle, could only guess who she belonged to,” he held out one of the leather reins, which you took instantly, running your shaking free hand along the mare’s painted coat. 

You truly thought the worst for this poor creature, and if it hadn't yet again been for this kind stranger, your fears might as well have manifested one way or another. “T-thank you Arthur, thank you!” You gave him a wide smile. How could you repay him this time? The remaining stew from yesterday had been almost completely diminished throughout the bitterly cold night following, and you were sure he wasn't going to wait around for another batch, as much as you saw that he enjoyed the first. 

Your eyes wandered to the now dried bundles of leaves still strapped on either side of your saddle. While the shop trip from yesterday was enough to replenish your pantry, this addition would keep you from venturing out again for a while. Yesterday’s events definitely gave you a more wary eye. 

Eyes on him again, quickly observing the faded tan jacket and the even more worn hat concealing his gaze. A bow was strapped across his back, and the gleam of a silver revolver shone from the holster adorning his waist. This was a man well-traveled, well versed and not afraid of life’s dangers. A spike of envy roiled in your stomach, wishing you had half the nerve he did. 

It then occurred to you that it’d been a moment since you last spoke, and as if Arthur read your mind, he cleared his throat and glanced over his shoulder. 

“I oughta start—” 

“Wait!” 

Arthur froze, turning to look at you again. You surprised yourself, having uttered this word without even thinking. Quickly, you composed yourself and continued, “Thank you again, Arthur. You’ve done more than you realize...” you paused as your mare nudged you gently, as if pressing you on. “I...I don’t have any stew prepared, but you’re welcome to stop by anytime if you’re hungry. I can whip up something.” 

His hand raised as if to wave away the offer, but you continued before he had the chance. “I insist,” you add. “Between saving my life and my horse’s, it’s the least I can do! And your horse...” you reached over to pat the gorgeous Andalusian. “Is welcome to take a rest in the barn as well. I don’t mind.” 

Arthur looked as if he were going to argue, mouth opening, but paused. For a few long seconds he seemed thoughtful, and finally said, “That’s real kind of ya, thank you.” 

You smiled widely at him. Shortly after he bid his goodbyes and turned around, you watching until the silvery swishing tail of his horse disappeared into the trees once again. You turned to your mare, relieved to have her back and simultaneously avoiding that awkward conversation for once your husband came back home as to why she was missing. 

“We’re lucky Arthur came to our rescue, huh?” you say to her, running your hand along her velvet muzzle. 

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

This is why a lot of details in xreader fics should be kept ambiguous IMO.

anybody else get a little uncomfortable when y/ns in arthur fics constantly mention how much younger they are 🧍🏽‍♀️i know age gaps weren’t a big deal back in the day and as long as everyone’s a consenting adult it doesn’t really matter but… something abt writing a reader who’s 15 years younger than arthur makes me uncomfortable. even more so when op has arthur calling the reader kid and shit like can we not do this 😭 nothing wrong with a reader in their mid 20s but barely legal with an emphasis on being inexperienced and immature is icky to me idk

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

Hii I really like your work even having only reader the Arthur Morgan x pregnant reader fic! But are you still interested in rdr2 I'm curious because I just recently started playing the game again

Thanks!

Yes I am, don’t worry. I’ve been working on a new piece slowly but surely as well as picking up old series. I’ve just been working nights so trying to find the time to do so when I’m not tired is a little challenging!

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

Reblogging cause apparently people think this is funny 🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️

If you are a minor, you should not be publicly posting anything adult-themed.

If you are a minor, you should not be publicly admitting you create adult-themed media.

If you are a minor, you should not be seeking out other minors who do the same thing.

Keep in mind that legally you are still a child. By actively contributing adult content on a site that adults frequent, and if you interact with them with their content, they can get in trouble. This is why MANY of us who create smut or other adult content have a DNI on our blogs. We should not be held liable for your actions.

Furthermore, you are opening a door for predators to interact and even worse, track you.

Please be smart, keep it private, and wait until you're legally old enough to post.

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

Secrets of The Moon

Summary: As much as you'd like to try, you just couldn't escape the hungry predator in the night.

Warnings: This post contains CNC, aka consensual non-consent. If you have any issues or triggers associating, please do not read any further!!

Word Count: 2,771

A/N: So....this is something that has been brewing in the back of my mind for a while and debated on writing it, well I'm certainly glad I did. Hope you guys all enjoy!

Howling winds tore through the underbrush, stirring the leaves. Snaps of twigs and dried bracken echoed against the forest floor. Hooves like thunder provided a quick melody, filling your ears to match your racing heart. 

Sweaty palms gripped the worn leather reins as you leaned forward like a jockey, urging your mare faster and faster the despite the difficulty navigating the barely lit forest path before you. Her mane whipped against your face as you squinted ahead, hoping the dense trees would allow proper cover. Your eyes watered, blurring any hope for a clear path. 

You blinked and shook your head in a desperate attempt to see once again. The effort proved almost futile; yet somehow your trusty horse knew where to go. She galloped between the trees effortlessly, even startling you with a jump—enough to allow you to miraculously get your bearings. 

It wasn’t until the hooves echoed loud, much louder than you anticipated—only to realize you were not alone. 

Your heart plummeted. Digging your heels into your mare’s ribs, she leapt again, clearing what looked like a large fallen tree. A split second of silence encompassed you, followed by the snort of another steed, in the distance. 

You didn’t dare glance behind you in fear of what you’d see, but you already knew. 

Still, you wanted to escape. Even when that window was narrowing with each passing second and the forest becoming denser was forcing your horse to dodge and veer. 

But by God’s grace, an opening manifested ahead. You steered toward it, hoping the straightaway would push more distance between you and your pursuer. Standing in the saddle and leaning almost completely against your horse’s outstretched neck, you could almost feel the moonlight on your skin. 

You broke through the tree line into what appeared to be a field. Even when it allowed better vision for yourself, perhaps you could figure a way to— 

“You ain’t runnin’ from me.” 

That voice shook you to your core, echoing through your bones. You hissed out a swear and pleaded for your mare to go faster, even with the roaring beast giving it her all beneath you. 

Within a few strides you’d reached halfway across the field, bathing in the silver moonlight lighting the forest like a beacon. All you had to do was disappear into the tree line for an advantage. The temptation of glancing behind you taunted you like a shadow, even though you knew your predator was hot on your heels. 

A literal shadow chasing you through the night, following your frantic footsteps nearly in-sync. Your hopes to get away diminished more with each fleeting second. 

Something passed over your gaze, and the next thing you knew, the splintering fibers of a rope tightened on your torso, ripping your hands from the reins. Your horse slowed immediately from the slack, and you wriggled helplessly in the saddle. One strong yank sent you tumbling off the side, the breath stolen from your lungs as you landed in the tall grass below. 

While you gasped for air, the soft thud of worn boots traveled through the earth beneath you. Rowels clinked within their holdings, stepping oh so slowly until his unholy presence loomed over you. 

Frantically, you flexed your arms in a last feeble attempt to escape, the twine of the rope digging painfully into your exposed flesh. It proved fruitless; gloved hands grabbed at your wrists, forcing them together behind your back.  

“No!” You cried out, so desperately trying to free yourself from his grip. Your predator was unfortunately much stronger than you, and could easily snap you like a twig. 

“Shut up,” he growled, your wrists bound tightly in his seemingly expert grasp. 

That voice, so dangerously low and snarling like a grizzly bear. A man not to be trifled with, a man that’d sooner bury a bullet in your skull than ask why you had the gall to look at him the wrong way. 

But if you were to die, you’d die fighting. 

“Fuck you,” you shot over your shoulder, mustering any sort of venom in your voice despite your position. 

From the corner of your eye, the man’s own beady eyes beneath the brim of his worn leather hat looked surprised. 

“Fuck me?” He drawled, a grin splitting his face. “Now that ain’t polite, lil’ missy.” 

“Fuck you!” You repeated, throwing your hips up in a feeble attempt to force yourself forward. Strong hands squeezed around your waist, dragging you back with what seemed like comically little effort. 

A tsk-tsk was heard, along with a dark snicker. “You gave me a lotta trouble chasin’ ya down,” he leaned over, his hot breath ghosting across your ear. “I oughta fuck you.” his torso pressed against yours, the unmistakable strain beneath his jeans painfully apparent. 

Your heart dropped, swinging your head back to give him a pleading look. “N-no!” you whined, every forethought of defiance leaving your system. “Just turn me in, please!” 

The grin he still held was sickening. A cat cornering a frightened mouse, quickly extinguishing any hope of running freely before facing their bitter fate. His right hand left your waist to caress the curve of your hip, the gentle touch nearly betraying his rough exterior. It only lasted a split second before he grabbed a fistful of your skirt, yanking it down to reveal your drawers. 

You squeezed your legs together as hard as you could, biting your lip to offer whatever resistance to prevent him from going further, even if it just meant for a few seconds. He didn’t like that, shoving his hands between your thighs and splitting them apart with ease, pushing them far enough to make you wince from the stretch. 

He was not so kind to your underwear, tucking his fingers beneath the waistband and ripping them free, the poor fabric never standing a chance. The cool air hit your exposed bottom like a slap, showing you to the world above. 

Your pursuer let out a breath of air behind him, no doubt selfishly enjoying the view. His fingers daringly intruded your slit, cold and thick and rough against your warm, velvet skin. 

“Oh my,” he purred. “Seems like you’re enjoyin’ this.” 

Your face burned. You wanted to deny it, wanted to shout another obscenity for even defiling you in such a manner, but your body betrayed you too well. Bucking your hips to free yourself only made his invasion much easier, his fingers easily welcomed into your soaked inner walls. 

“You takin’ me that well already?” he chuckled, his other hand holding you still while he began to pump his digits in and out. 

The sensation was oh-so delicious, your body trembled from the pleasure beginning to build, swiping away any higher thought of still attempting to escape this dangerous man. A moan bubbled in your throat, but you managed to staunch it before it passed your teeth. What were you doing? 

“You like that, ya dirty whore?” 

You kept silent. 

A swift smack on your ass made you cry out, the fresh sting making you wince. 

“Answer my question,” he growled, “Do ya like that, ya dirty whore?” 

You swallowed, closing your eyes in shame and burying your face into the grass. Finally, you uttered a soft, “...yes.” 

The hand holding you left its place to find your jaw, wrenching your head to force you to look at him. “I can’t hear you, girl.” 

His fingers began to curl, dragging against a particular sensitive spot that forced out an involuntary moan. “Y-yes!” you mewled. “Yes, I like it!” 

The look of satisfaction almost made you want to slap him in the face if you weren’t bound right now.  

“That’s what I thought,” he chuckled again, releasing your jaw to smack your ass again. 

You hissed in response, and quickly forgot about the pain the faster he went. Another moan escaped your throat, your hips quivering for more. The absolute ravage he bestowed upon you had you forgetting about the hunt, the chase, whittling down to the pure animalistic instinct. 

Your body was beyond harmonizing with your mind anymore, instead hurtling toward that blissful sensation dawning upon you with a rush of warmth deep in your belly. It was a losing battle; giving in to your dark, twisted desire. It coiled in your guts like a constricting snake, pulling you the precipice— 

The implosion was immense, erupting, spilling like hot lava throughout your nether regions. Your body tensed and shuddered, heart pounding wildly inside your ribcage. The sound you uttered would put a harlot to shame, singing only to the wilderness around you. 

“God damn,” 

The lewd slick of his fingers exiting your soaked entrance suddenly made you feel empty. Muscle spasms began to ease with the wane of your climax, leaving you both satisfied and utterly ashamed. 

A muted thud of something heavy hitting the ground pulled you from your quick bliss. Turning your head, the handle of his six-shooter gleamed in its holster, which now sat in the grass along along with the rest of his gun belt. 

He himself was already unbuttoning his jeans in haste. The bulge straining against the black denim finally released, revealing— 

Oh, lord. 

Your eyes widened in shock. He was certainly girthy; veins spidering along the length, tracing to the bulbous red tip, a pearl of pre-cum illuminated in the silvery moonbeam. “No…please,” you pleaded, mustering every effort to appease his merciful side, if that even existed. “Please don’t take me like this!” 

The chuckle that passed his smirking lips was all that told you your attempt was wasted. “Don’t think so, y’ little whore,” he grabbed your hips again, yanking you back to feel him prod your soaked lower lips. “Seems like you’re more than ready for me.” 

Before you could answer, he plunged himself in, your body giving no resistance. You winced initially, your walls stretching almost uncomfortably to accommodate his width, filling you to the brim. 

“Fuck,” he breathed, his voice nearly stuttering. “So damn tight...” 

You were once again robbed of a chance to respond before he pulled back and slammed his hips forward, sending forth a wave of absolute knee-trembling ecstasy. He soon picked up a rhythm as rough as his personality, driving himself deep with abandon. 

The force was driving air out of your lungs, your breathless gasps the only sound you were able to form. There was no hope; the remaining speckle diminishing the moment he invaded your body. He chased you down, defiled you, humiliated you with your own pleasure. Any sane woman would plead for an end. 

But you were at his complete mercy, even at your state of helplessness, you could not be more aroused. The way he thrusted, drawing out every inch of pure carnal desire once locked away. 

You moaned lewdly, closing your eyes and letting that same desire take over, a second climax soon on the rise. You hadn’t realized one of his hands moved until it snaked into your hair, knotting his fingers in it and yanking your head back. Your eyes flew open to stare at the night sky above. 

“C’mon now, you gotta be louder than that,” he hissed to you. “Don’t be shy.” 

And shy you were not. With a gulp of the cool air you made it known to the stars and heavens, surely carrying into the snowy peaks of Ambarino. Some small part of you was thankful you were away from any form of civilization. 

“That’s a good girl,” 

Those words. That hoarse, low voice, thick with sex and passion. The praise settled like hot coffee in your belly, warming and igniting and stirring, hurtling you toward another— 

It crashed upon you at an instant, a blast of energy bringing forth the intensity of the heated sun during midday of New Austin, rocking your entire body so hard that you would have melted into the Earth itself. The forest and its inhabitants were no stranger to your voice now, unashamedly announcing every bit of pure erotic, animalistic desire. 

Any minimal control you had over your body had been lost to the reaches of your orgasm, its ribbons allowing only a slow release. Recovery wasn’t an option as a finger immediately located the nub of sensitive flesh between your folds. Tears sprung to your eyes as the overstimulation hit, and you pleaded for an end. 

He was persistent. Evil, even. Your cries fell upon deaf ears the way he played you like an old fiddle. You writhed in his grasp vainly for an escape, only for your tresses to be released and you suddenly pinned down by his free hand without a break in his rhythm. “I know you got another in ya,” he huffed, leaning down so closely you could feel his breath again. “Show me.” 

Jesus, when will this torture end? 

Did you even want it to end? 

No. 

As much as you wanted to escape his touch, your body had other plans. Your third peak swallowed you whole, encapsulating you and filling your veins with fire. Your lungs weakly expelled a noise, having no chance of recovery from the previous. 

“That’s it,” he praised in that same tone, finally allowing you to recover despite still pile-driving you. His hand returned to its previous place on your hip, pulling you back and closer. With your legs now folded beneath your torso, the new angle was heavenly. 

His breath shuddered, his voice strained. He was close. The walls around this dangerous, tough man began to fall with the ascent to his own finish. All you could do was lay there, the muscles in your arms flexing helplessly, still tightly bound behind your back. The fibrous grass and gritty earth were rough against your face. 

The need for him to fill you up was desperate, a burning desire to hold every drop of his spend. The minuscule sanity you had left ought to be utterly disgusted, but at that moment, you couldn’t care less. 

“Arthur,” you gasped out his name, finally breaking from the character you’d so meticulously held together. You turned your head to look him in the eye. “F-fill me up, please!” 

Something snapped in the outlaw, the grunt he unleashed oddly vulnerable, negating the abrasive exterior he’d presented himself with. With one deep shove, his head jolted back towards the sky, appearing almost wolfish with the way he called out his peak. 

His hips stuttered against yours weakly, and then the air stilled. The roaring pounding of your heart finally subsided, and the melodic sounds of nature resumed around the two of you. 

Arthur slid out of you, the emptiness followed with a rush of hot fluid dripping from your abused entrance. You sighed at the feeling, resting your head against the ground. 

His eyes, no longer holding a glint of danger, softened as he gazed upon you. A small smile warmed his chiseled features.. “You okay?” he asked quietly. “I didn’t hurt ya, darlin’?” 

“No, not at all,” you assured him, although you were certain to be plagued with soreness in the morning, especially from being pulled off your horse. The sting of the rope on your wrists made itself known on your wrists as you failed to sit up. 

Arthur didn’t hesitate, reaching for his knife from the fallen gun belt and made quick work of releasing you. As soon as you were on your knees, his fingers ran down your arm, undoubtedly observing any potential wounds. Your eyes followed his and noted just some red markings and nothing more.  

You smiled, reaching to wrap your arms around his neck. “How’d I do?” you simply asked. 

“Amazin’,” he responded with a lopsided grin. “Real convincin’. Good thing it’s jus’ us two out here, or else I’m sure someone woulda come runnin’.” 

You hummed in response, satisfied with his answer. “Glad I can please, Mr. Morgan,” you were glad he’d agreed to this initially. At first he was hesitant, understandably so as not to harm you. But after much convincing, he eventually relented. 

Maybe now this would become a regular occurrence, if he enjoyed it well enough. “Did you like it?” 

The grin he sported turned hungry. He placed his hands at your hips and pulled you flush, seating you on his still naked lap. “Ain’t gonna deny, I loved seein’ ya all tied up n’ helpless...” his lips trailed along your jawline to your lips, kissing you tenderly for a moment before pulling back slightly. “Beggin’ for me to fill ya up, that’s somethin’ else.” 

Oh yes, it would be something to look forward to.  

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

Hello! Incoming Arthur x fem! reader request 🙏🏼

I got the idea from a little side dialogue where Arthur complains to Hosea that his back is sore and when Hosea offers to take care of it, Arthur declines lol.

BUT I was thinking that Arthur and reader are good friends. After noticing on their way back from a job that his back is a mess, she offers to massage him. He hesitates at first but obvi accepts 😏 maybe he lays down on the bedroll and she straddles him to massage him? or something tamer like he sits in front of her and she takes care of him that way?

The Guise of Night

Summary: Arthur got hurt and you decided to help him.

Warnings: Just your regular fluff!

Word Count: 3,057

A/N: I didn't die...again...I promise! I certainly hope this one lives up to expectations. It's your choice on what Arthur does next at the end...

“Arthur?” 

The outlaw’s wayward thoughts centered him back to reality, at least the reality of the sharp, nagging pain that jabbed the very center of his spine with every other rhythmic hoofbeat as his horse trotted along. And unfortunately, that was quite often. 

His attempt to be stoic about it was failing rather quickly in your presence, in case you were to tease him about how he received this injury; his faithful steed tripped over a tree root while running and sent Arthur flying—his landing unfortunately onto a sharp rock, enough to knock the wind from his chest and sending stars to erupt in his spinning vision. He’s of course had his fair share of falls, but this...this was by far one of the worst. It was by some stupid miracle he wasn’t paralyzed. 

Admittedly, he’d reached behind him in attempts to soothe the tender swelling beneath his vest more often than he’d realized, thus clearly showing his discomfort despite being so nonchalant about it. 

“You alright?” you asked, keeping your mare to trot in sync with him. 

He sighed. No use in continuing to feign. “Rocks ain’t exactly soft,” he muttered. “Pretty damn lucky I didn’t break somethin’.” 

You glanced at his lower back with a furrowed brow, and then back to him directly. “Do you need to stop for a minute? You look too uncomfortable.” 

Shaking his head, he tilted his head toward the path ahead. “Nah, we ain’t too far out from camp now. No point in stoppin’.” 

“If you insist then,” 

The ride back to camp wasn’t even twenty more minutes. But to Arthur, it felt like hours. Even the slow, easy trot his horse maintained was almost too much. Still, he managed to make it back, albeit having trouble dismounting and bringing his normal supplies back into camp. The stiffness in his gait was all too noticeable, yet thankfully no one else but Hosea mentioned his discomfort. 

And of course, Hosea with his expansive knowledge of remedies offered to help, but Arthur declined, stating he just needed some stew and a good night’s rest to be as fit as a fiddle. 

Late that night, he wished he’d stocked up on some health cures when passing through Valentine earlier. 

It was fairly late when he’d sat up from his failed attempts to sleep, rubbing his sore eyes and his even more sore back—and wincing. Without any immediate relief, he was definitely struggling more than he’d like to admit. 

Perhaps a bit of alcohol was to help. 

He leaned over his cot, reaching for the worn leather satchel rather slowly and stiffly, digging through the multitude of belongings until his fingers found purchase of a cool bottle neck. He grasped it and whipped it out, sitting up faster than he intended. 

Arthur hissed out a swear vulgar enough to make a nun blush, squeezing his eyes shut in pain. 

“Arthur? Was that you?” 

He stiffened at his own name, then immediately relaxed after recognizing your voice. He then peered out from his overhang to see into the darkness. Silhouettes of tents and inky black trees in the background lay unmoving until your figure appeared in his sights. 

Why were you up this late too? 

“Yeah,” he responded quietly. 

“Why are you up this late?” You asked, your silhouette moving closer to the wagon that housed his belongings. 

“Could ask ya the same,” he joked, though the pain was clear in his voice. “Can’t sleep with this God-awful ache.” 

You hummed so quietly he thought he imagined it. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he watched you step even closer, and the gleam of the half-moon reflected onto something in your hand. He at first thought you somehow had the same thought of late-night drinking, only to realize the bottle was much smaller. 

“I found this,” you held up the bottle. As he opened his mouth to ask, you continued. “It ain’t a health cure, but it’s liniment.” 

“Liniment?” He repeated with confusion. 

“For muscle pain,” you clarified. “I got it from some fancy doctor down in Saint Denis.” 

“You was bringin’ it over here?” He continued. 

“Yeah…” you said, shuffling even closer so now that you were just barely under the canvas. “I couldn’t sleep so I was rearranging some of my stuff, then I found it. I wasn’t thinking you would be awake, just wanted to drop it off.” 

He peered up at you—well, your silhouette anyhow, the faint silver moonbeam doinglittle to show him more than the soft billow of your clothing in a gentle breeze. He then reached over to his oil lamp, igniting the flame to burn at a low golden flicker. Your figure illuminated immediately—your torso draped in a fine silk nightgown, let your upper torso protected by a shawl. The bottle remained in your hand and you held it up, the liquid sloshing inside. 

He plucked it from your hand, eyes skimming over the slightly faded label. It mentioned rubbing on the skin for instant relief. He’d heard about this but never cared enough to try and obtain it, since health cures were easier. “So I jus’ slap it on?” 

You nodded. “I’ve used it myself a few times, works like a charm in taking the edge off.” 

With a low hum, Arthur’s eyes swept over the bottle again. He supposed he could try it; it couldn’t hurt any more than he was. “Well, thank you.” 

“Of course,” you said with a smile. “Uh...this may sound odd, but mind if I put it on for ya?” 

His breath hitched at that. He of course wasn’t a stranger to women offering a service for him, usually a young bath girl in hopes to make a quick buck by providing sweet talk and a nice wash on the rare occasion he’d get to indulge. Fleeting moments that he’d soon forget about with a move to the next state over.  

You were not as such, opting to ground your finances in a rather morally questionable way, just like the rest of them. He’d seen you shoot lawmen in the blink of an eye, pickpocket unsuspecting inebriated men in the saloon, lasso a wild Mustang and ride its bucks until the beast foamed and sleek with sweat, too exhausted to continue the fight. A woman of civilization would cringe at your acts. 

Yet, that was the furthest thing on his mind. 

A wild woman you were, but not without a tender heart. The kindness you’d shown him since you first joined was much more than he deserved, yet you never relented.  

There was always that one question, “Why?” he asked. 

“I learned a few massage techniques along my travels,” you explain. “Don’t have the occasion to use it often enough.” 

“Uh,” his eyes swept across the trodden grass beneath his feet, a wave of warmth rushing to his face. To even perform something so...intimate, it seemed improper. But with the pain that didn't seem to alleviate, what further harm could it truly do? He finally shrugged and said, “Sure,” before handing the bottle back to you. 

A smooth smile appeared on your lips, and you gestured for him to remove his shirt and lay down. He began to do so, rather slowly and awkwardly, knowing your eyes were on him as he revealed his top half for the first time, too afraid to even attempt to look at the damage in the mirror. Carefully he laid down on his stomach, skin prickling from the odd sensation of being...exposed...to you, in such a vulnerable position. 

He heard you step closer, your presence hovering over him as you presumably observed his back. “Jesus, Arthur...” you murmured. 

His head peeked up at that. “Can’t imagine it looks pretty.” 

“Unless you call a bruise ‘pretty’,” you amusingly replied. “Surprised there ain’t any blood.” 

“You n’ me both,” 

The sudden touch of your hand made him flinch. Your fingers were surprisingly soft and light, dragging down along the expanse of his back, and halted right at the edge of his tender flesh. He tensed, waiting for the inevitable agonizing pain. Instead, your fingertip circled, still with featherlight pressure, around the area. 

“Lots of swelling here...” you observed, before Arthur heard the unmistakable yanking of the cork from the glass bottle. A few seconds passed before cool liquid dripped onto his back. 

Your palm rested on his spine before you began to move in a circular motion, each pass becoming bigger than the last. The liniment spread along easily, its cooling sensation spreading to soothe his angry wound. He released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, thankful the expected pain had been dulled. 

What happened next was unexpected. 

He felt his cot shift slightly with your weight as you straddled his thighs. His head shot up and his heart hammered, your name sliding from his lips in surprise. 

“Shh,” you cooed, reaching to pat his shoulder. “Just relax, okay?” 

This was completely new, and any other time he would have immediately stood and left. But your voice, your touch, soothed him just like this liniment was doing to his aching back. He had no reason not to trust you, after all. 

He took a deep breath. “Okay,” he replied. 

“Good, I’ll work up here first,” you patted his shoulder again, before both hands were placed against the swell of muscle on either side. The pressure was slight as you began to work, kneading and pushing along his body like bread dough. 

Bath girls have done this countless times, but your technique was different. It wasn’t just rubbing, it felt much more complex; managing to hit every pit of tension he held. A twinge of pain that soothed itself almost instantly with just the right amount of pressure. 

With each stroke he felt himself relax even more, so much that he could have melted into a puddle if it were physically possible. The breath he released rattled with a low groan. 

“You alright?” You quietly asked, hesitant with your movement. 

“‘Course,” he rasped. “Ain’t ever felt so damn good in my life.” 

“Ah, don’t exaggerate,” you giggled lightly. 

“I ain’t,” Arthur assured you. “Never had anything like this before.” 

“Then you haven’t lived,” you replied, steadily moving to his mid back, dragging your palms perpendicular to either side of his spine. “The bath girls do a decent job, but nothing close to this.” 

“No kiddin’,” he groaned, falling deeper with such ease. He couldn’t remember the last time he truly felt this peaceful, if at all. 

The conversation quieted down as you methodically worked lower along his back, taking extra care to work out any “knots”, as you called them, to find that he was riddled with such. Every individual release felt like heaven; his own body almost gelatinizing beneath your capable hands. 

Hell, if it hadn’t been for your occasional shift upon his thighs, he would’ve fallen asleep.  

Although as relaxed as he was, he was still very aware of how you positioned yourself atop him. It’d been years since a woman had gotten this close without the temptation of money. You didn’t ask for compensation, instead just offered without a second thought. 

He often wondered why you chose to be so good to him, Lord knows he doesn’t deserve it. Favors often didn’t come without a price in this world. Yet you never asked nor expected anything from him, an almost suspicious at first, yet pleasant, surprise. 

The thought, however, crossed Arthur’s mind more than he’d like to admit. 

But how would that appear to the others? To you? Would you get the wrong idea? Would you think he was sweet on you? What if you didn’t like it? 

The sensation of your thumb grazing across a particularly thick knot spiraled him back to the present, a soft hiss sliding from his teeth. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmured gently, the pressure lightening. “Is that better?” 

“Yeah…” he sighed out, closing his eyes as the lump of tension dissipated. That was the relationship between the two of you, he thought. Him; a grizzled outlaw hardened by life’s woes. Then there was you…a unique combination resulting from the world’s cold abrasiveness, yet still retained a gentleness that belonged to a more civilized pathway, a balance to soothe his rough exterior. 

You were…nothing short of amazing. 

His entire body flinched involuntarily when you’d reached low enough to handle his injury. Your hand stopped at his sudden jerk, hovering just above the bruised skin. 

“Easy there,” you cooed, your voice still soft. “Let me know if it’s too much…” a tender graze navigated the swelling. Though still sore, the liniment allowed it to be bearable.  

He breathed, slowly, attempting to convince his body to relax once again. “Go on,” he rumbled. “Ain’t gonna get much worse.” 

The pressure was slight, almost like a tickle. The movement was different, though, circular and drawing outwards rather than the constant crisscrossing of your previous paths. It almost seemed as if you were drawing a sun on his back. 

“This is just to aid the swelling,” you explained, his unasked question now answered. “It opens up more space for drainage.” 

Seems like massage was much more than just relaxing folk. He had to wonder where exactly you learned this from, and why you chose to rough it as an outlaw rather than living a much more comfortable life with such valuable knowledge. 

So he decided to voice it. “How come you ain’t makin’ money on this somewhere else?” 

You giggled, sliding your palm through the very core of the pain and to the side, as if attempting to drag it away. “You mean, ‘why not satisfy countless men with my hands when I’d rather be here?’” 

You were good at reading his mind sometimes, perhaps too good. It wasn’t exactly his intention, but the thought of you doing this to a stranger didn’t settle right in his belly. “Uh…” he huffed, trying to keep from bracing again. 

“Perhaps I could, should I decide I’m done sleeping in the dirt and robbing rich folk of their precious pearls,” you continued, the smile audible in your voice. “But where’s the fun in that?” 

Arthur chuckled. “Wouldn’t exactly call this life, ‘fun’.” 

“It has its moments,” you replied, “Especially when Dutch’s brute of a Lieutenant gets a drink or two and loosens up.” 

Arthur snorted, turning his head to give you a sideways look. “Now I ain’t always a brute.” 

“Course not, not when you have some booze,” you joked, grinning down at him. “You’re a lot more fun that way.” 

“Y’ think so?” Arthur drawled, a smile of his own tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“From the escapade I heard you had with Lenny,” you recounted. “Stirrin’ up enough trouble for the lawmen to chase you outta town!” 

“I made it out, didn’t I?” he chuckled. “Honestly, I might’ve gone too far that night...all for the sake of forgettin’ ‘bout Micah.” 

“Well...it ain’t very often we get to let loose, you know?” you said. “Shame we can’t do it more often.” 

“Would be nice,” Arthur agreed, though internally cringed at the memory of that night in the saloon. “…Maybe.” 

“Well, wouldn’t be bad if it was just you and me,” you say thoughtfully. “I’d keep ya in line.” 

“That so—” he groaned and tensed as you hit a particularly sore spot. 

Your pressure lightened significantly, easing him back into a state of relaxation. Your hips shifted and he could feel your presence hovering closer over him, your breath just ghosting along the shell of his ear as you whispered, “I know I can…” 

For whatever godly reason, this action manifested a knot in his belly. A knot that stirred an emotion he’d locked away so long ago, it was almost foreign. His heart began to pound. Not out of anxiety, but a rare excitement. 

Just as the feeling began to swell, you seated yourself back to your original position as if you’d never moved in the first place, focusing right back to his injury. 

Arthur was left breathless, his mind abuzz. Why on earth did that happen to him just now? He wanted to ask what exactly you meant by that, but deep down in his gut, he knew exactly what it truly meant. 

How was it that you out all people would elicit such a wayward thought when he’d attempted to hide it for years? You…a woman of such strength and kindness and a spitfire attitude who would boldly refuse a comfortable civilian life to live in the dirt with the rest of them. 

It seemed as if he’d answered his own question. 

“You doing alright?” You asked, breaking his train of thought. 

“Uh…” he hesitated, wondering what to say next. “Sure.” 

“Pressure too much?” 

“Nah,” he shook his head lightly. “Jus’…relaxin’, is all.” 

The exact words were lost to him. Hell, there was no proper form of thought to even remotely describe the tornado whirling and wreaking havoc in his mind currently. Confusion, happiness, contentedness, nostalgic, and maybe even…forlorn. 

It never truly occurred to him just how much he missed the essence of intimacy, having convinced himself he was unworthy and undeserving. Still is, really, how you willingly offered to cater to his comfort was still a complete mystery to him. 

“May…may I ask you somethin’?” 

There was a slight pause in your movement before you continued. “Yeah?” 

“Why are ya doin’ this for me, really?” He inquired. “Coulda jus’ left me with that concoction.” 

A small giggle curled into the still air like fine smoke. Your hands smoothed up his back and back down, gliding through his muscles with no effort. “Well, I suppose you might already know,” your tone held a slight playfulness to it, like a teasing child. 

And just at an instant, your weight disappeared from him. He blinked and turned to look at you as you straightened the ruffles from your nightgown. You peered up and smiled innocently at him, except the telltale gleam in your eye held another story. “See you in the morning, Mr. Morgan,” you say, swiveling on your heel to sidle towards your sleeping area. 

He had half a mind to tell you to stay. Instead, he muttered a flustered, “thank you,” before attempting to redress his torso.