Whoa, rex! 😧 What the heck are you doing?! 🤨

“what'chu doin' out here all alone, hm?” arthur dropped his hands from their resting position on his gun belt, head cocking to the side as he watched you resume your work. dusty blue linen cradled over your lap like something sacred, the silver glint of a sewing needle twinkling in setting sun of the evening. his shirt.

he had been watching for a while. observing, more like. arthur had already wrapped up his own chores for the day, the firewood axe tossed mindlessly beside the never-ending supply of half split logs the continuous camp fires required, and the hay bales he had moved now lay misshapen on the little thatch of grass where the horses grazed. camp had begun to settle down with the inevitable arrival of dusk, one of the few comforting aspects of the outlaw's life.

the promise that, when dusk came, a sleepy jack would be nuzzled in the crook of abigail's shoulder, javier would be plucking something quietly from the strings of a guitar, uncle or the reverend would be snoring in a drunken heap somewhere, and the girls would be cosying up together underneath the safety of tent flaps and chatter until the late evening, when the moon made her appearance in the dark of the blackwater night sky.

arthur typically paid the girls' tittle-tattle no mind, for two reasons; the first, being that although his mother had long since departed from the earthly confines of this world, she'd sure as hell not stand for him eavesdropping on the conversation of ladies. the second? he just didn't care much for it. karen's typical laments of sean's .. colourful behaviour (well, he agreed with her there. the kid was a goddamn handful at best and a fire-haired, blustering nightmare at worst), or tilly airing her frustrations out about molly's distaste for chores. and sometimes, abigail's occasional guilt-laced confessions on the trials and tribulations of motherhood.

or, when spirits were lighter, uncontrollable fits of giggling which carried all the way to the edge of camp. karen's drunken snorting, tilly's squealing and mary-beth struggling to scold karen inbetween pitchy laughs to ‘stop being so vulgar!’ no, he rarely paid such conversations any mind. even with the unabashed happiness being as infectious as it often was.

yet, usually from his seat at the main campfire, arthur's ears typically perked up — waiting. waiting for the quieter, softer giggles, ones that could belong to no one else besides from you. sweeter than the chirps of overlapping birdsong at dawn, and filling his chest with a warmth that no liquor or adrenaline-fuelled high from a good score could ever come close to.

and so, when you were missing from your usual spot tucked away with the girls, his curiosity was piqued.

arthur still remembers the day your paths crossed, all those months ago. as sure as the sun came up over the mountain peaks of west elizabeth every morning, he wouldn't be able to forget it.

you, with shaking hands clinging to dutch's gun belt as the count rode into camp with a vigour that rivalled the crack and rumbling of the thunder in the air. stern remarks about how you saved his life to the other members of camp, whatever it was — all of it faded to a ringing, white noise in arthur's ears as soon as dutch gently eased you off the white arabian's saddle.

oh, you.

like an angel amongst a den of devils. he supposed that's what he very well could be, in comparison to you. rainwater sliding off in rivulets from your simple, soaked dress, your bottom lip trembling, drenched curls plastered to your collarbones and your eyes; wide, and glassed over with unshed tears, darting from unfamiliar face to unfamiliar face. like a startled white-tailed doe, unsure but undeniably breathtaking.

arthur had been winded several times throughout his life, each one as unforgiving as the last. right hooks to the jaw, punches to his ribs, christ alive, he'd even been mangled with buckshot a couple times. though nothing, nothing could ever hold any weight to that feeling when your glance, your uneasy doe eyes, trailed over to him. lingered, brewing with something he couldn't quite place before your attention was snatched cruelly away from him — he remembers how a scowl formed on his face at the interruption, almost as if the disconnection was a personal crime inflicted against him.

grimshaw's work-worn hands placing a blanket over your trembling shoulders, her usual stern expression switched out for a softer, more maternal one. dutch's ring-clad hand placed over the small of your back, leading you to the glow of the campfire, with hosea following in suit and mumbling something he couldn't hear.

arthur remembers the deep inhale he involuntarily took as soon as you disappeared from view, how he was suddenly painfully aware at the desperate hunger for oxygen.

he didn't believe in love at first sight. no, arthur wouldn't consider himself a cynic, but that? love at first sight ... that was solely reserved for dime romance novels, and storybooks. the feeling when your eyes locked, for a fleeting second, but gone as fast as the shimmer of a shooting star. no, that was something far more deeper, more primal. a yearning, a longing. and then his head that was abruptly tormented by a flurry of questions. an aching to know more, to know you, to see you, to feel you.

his reminiscing was interrupted at the sound of air puffing out from your lips, curls falling in front of your face as you dutifully stitched. “mmm ... needed to finish some things,” you took pause again, looking up at him through thick lashes. “sit with me?”

arthur didn't bother hiding the slight smirk he wore at the softer tone of your question, your shyness obvious still, even with the bond you now shared. “course.” couldn't you tell that he would slaughter every town from blackwater, armadillo and tumbleweed even if you barely whispered the word?

obviously, you would never ask such a thing. you asked for nothing, and he couldn't even name a time where a complaint left your lips since you joined the gang. god, your lips. always in that damn subtle pout, as if you could get any cuter if you tried. so goddamn sweet, it was borderline cavity-inducing.

you summarised everything arthur wasn't, everything he'd never be and everything he couldn't be. soft and sweet, more gentle than the sway of dandelions and the breeze that carried the florets through prairie fields.

he took solace beside you against the trunk of the huge willow tree that overlooked the small camp, home, a little ways away from the bustling town of blackwater. “how was your day?” that warmer tone, reserved just for you, only for you. eager to hear about the day's events, almost all he could think of from his position on boadicea's saddle on the ride back.

your careful movements never ceased while fusing together the rip in his shirt with cotton thread, though your shoulders brushed briefly as he settled down. “good. spent most of the mornin' patching davey n mac up after they ran into trouble at the saloon ... something 'bout ... a woman?” you giggled then, tying the smallest of knots at the bottom of your work. practised, methodical. “i can't remember the details, but they had the whole saloon on 'em, apparently.”

your hands, so different to his. so much smaller, delicate. lacking in the callouses he bore from years of manual labour, gripping cattlemans and carbines, or the scarred, raised skin over his knuckles from being split time and time again. your hands, for mending and healing. his hands, for the polar opposite. quite the pair you made.

your giggle triggered a dry chuckle from arthur, shifting his gaze from your sewing to the activities of camp. “yeah, i heard. bunch o' fools, makin' you put 'em together again.” he grumbled then, eyes narrowing in at davey's new black eye and mac's likely broken nose. “always causin' more trouble for you.”

that protective flare, the blurred lines between protectiveness and possessiveness; you weren't even his, not yet, though irritation tickled his spine at the thought of you always fixing up the camp idiots.

arthur felt the familiar, light weight of you shifting against him, head leaning against his shoulder. “i don't mind. s'what i'm good for, y'know?” again, never one to complain, as sweet as a peach you were. your scent, faint whisps of lavender, vanilla, and campfire smoke. how you managed to not reek of the familiar stench of copper from constantly having your work cut out with all the bandages you fixed, and wounds you cleaned, was beyond him.

with his unoccupied arm, he fished into the pockets of his ranch pants and pulled out a pack of smokes. “you're good for a hell of a lot more than ...” he paused then, cigarette dangling from his lips and arm stretching out to gesture frustratedly at camp. “takin' care of them.” that final word, dripping with venom.

you giggled again, and arthur felt a flicker of pride knowing that he was able to draw such a lovely sound from your chest. you weren't sweethearts, not quite yet, but arthur knew you were intrinsically tied to him in all the ways that mattered. every single comment and remark from the other men you brushed off, whether on the basis of plain obliviousness at how truly special, and beautiful you were, or genuine disinterest. he reckoned it was a mix of both.

all those bastards, loitering around the campfire. their gazes always lingering far too long on you, their words dripping with a hidden lust you never quite seemed to understand, the way they flocked to you so fast at even the simplest of scrapes. and you gave, and you gave. with arthur always watching with a clenched jaw and a pair of dark eyes.

but still, your back and forth with the men was always lacking in something of substance. polite, and kind, in the way you always were with every person who crossed your path, but never in the same familiar way you shared with him. sure, you had him wrapped around your damn finger and were probably completely naive to the fact. but never, ever, did he see you extend that sweetness to anyone but him.

still, you were a rarer treasure than the bloom of desert flowers and worth more than the countless pocket watches, belt buckles, rings and jewels he thieved throughout his entire life. he wouldn't have any more men subjecting you their piss-poor excuses of flirting much longer. no, no, you'd be his soon. he had to make it special though. not through seducing you with empty silver-tongued words like dutch did with molly.

and when he did make it official, it would be pure, honest and true. the girls, they would coo and fawn over you and the men, they'd wound up so damn tight with burning jealously — a feeling arthur knew all too well by now.

he took a drag of his cigarette, careful to direct the smoke away from you and revelling at the way you settled against his side. he only noticed now that you finished your final chore for the day, a favour for him. the blue shirt now sat neatly folded in a perfect square on the grass. he couldn't help but wonder if you paid such gentle attentiveness to your other mending jobs.

“gotchu a present.”

he flicked his smoke ash on the grass, and felt you readjust your positioning against his bicep. “arthur,” your lips opened in a quiet protest, brows furrowing together just slightly. “y'shouldn't ... waste your money on someone like me.”

someone like me. the words burned him, placing a heavy weight on his chest. someone like me? as if, somehow, by some misconstrued delusion that you were anything but a little angel to love, to hold, to spoil rotten. hell, what else should be spending the fruits of his labour on? two-bit whores for a meaningless five seconds of pleasure like mac, davey or micah often did, or instead blow it through poker or on liquor like bill and dutch?

he fought back the anger rising in his chest, forcing himself to ease back his tensed jaw. “ain't no such thing as wastin' money, not when i'm spending it on you, girl.” his words hung firm, and decided in the air, but with no bite behind them.

you opened your mouth once more to cut in, but, he was quick to silence you; rummaging through his satchel for no more than a second before pulling out the little parcel, wrapped in brown paper and secured with twine. “go on.”

the hesitation lacing your movements wasn't lost on him, and neither was the guilt that seemed to gloss over your eyes. still, you obeyed his soft command, and he watched as your thumb and index finger loosened the twine slowly.

then, a gasp. hardly audible, but followed by a sequence airy giggles. “oh, arthur! you -” and there it was, that wide, pure smile. with a warmth that challenged even the burning of the blazing afternoon sun over the new austin desert. that big, beautiful smile, typically reserved only for times when you read little jack his bedtime stories, or when the girls would whisper something in your ear over flames of the fire and beer bottles.

in your palms, you cradled the tiny present arthur had picked out whilst passing the tailor; two, tiny silk blue bows, fashioned with little clips at the back of each. he didn't like the idea of giving you stolen, and likely bloodstained, garbage from the fence. no, you were too pure for that. he wouldn't have you wearing some dead woman's pearls, no, you deserved something new, and something bought with specifically you in mind.

“i don't have a mirror handy ... you mumbled your words quietly, two fingers stroking the delicate silk clasped within your hands in awe. “would you ... ?” you trailed off, bottom lip tucked inbetween your teeth. your other hand reached to the back of your curls where a worn, pale pink bow rested — one of the simplest luxuries you had in this life, being that pretty dresses and fine jewels didn't mix with your role in camp.

arthur didn't bother suppressing his wide grin as his hand, much larger than yours, made quick work to gently unclip the pink ribbon from your hair. with more gentleness than he thought ever being capable of in his life, he took the blue pair from your palm, placing either one in your curls on each side of your head. “there,” he rumbled, pulling away (reluctantly) to admire his handiwork. “pretty as a picture.”

truth be told, no picture could ever compare to you. no carefully poised, painted face printed on cigarette cards, or those spread between the pages of corset magazines held anything on you. and he wanted, oh he wanted, to tell you so. to cup your little cheeks in his big calloused hands and force you to believe how much of a treasure you were. but, you, so sweet and skittish, he worried he'd just scare you off.

“no 'm not, but ... thank you, arthur, i -” you stammered, a blush tinging over those freckled cheeks he adored so, and your breath caught in your throat. “i - i'm.” your gaze flicked down as you searched frustratedly for the words. “i'm grateful. it makes me, um,” you fiddled with your hands, one of your nervous tics, and avoided his face, his eyes, entirely. “it makes me .. real .. happy, that you think of me - about me, um.” you glanced up once more, your blush growing fiercer at finding his cerulean blues already locked on yours.

you looked real nervous, more nervous than you typically would be around him. to his shock, and delight, your lips pressed against the scruff of his stubble for half a second, and you withdrew just as fast. “thank you.”

he was sure his pupils had never been blown so wide with love, with longing, in his entire life. you sucked in a sharp breath as arthur granted himself the pleasure, indulged himself in pure selfishness by allowing his thumb to drop underneath your chin, tipping it up. “you're real, real cute, y'know that?”

you whined in further protest then, pulling away totally to collapse back on the trunk of the tree and obscure your face with both hands.

the connection lost upon him until now, arthur noticed the cornflower blue of your little bows mirrored the shade of his shirt - still placed in the grass - perfectly. as if, his subconscious knew before he did, and that smug feeling bubbled in his chest again. a sweet, gentle, barely-there claim on you. yeah, arthur liked you in blue.

he made a quick mental note then, while finding much amusement in gazing at you far too long and making you squirm, to buy you a couple of other matching things. a shawl, maybe? he knew you felt the cold more than others did; he watched you wander around camp at night with fur blankets wrapped over your chemise. he remembered all the times he'd slipped his own jacket over your frame, actually. the worn leather always much too big for you, reminding him of how he utterly dwarfed you in size.

oh, but a new dress would be a dream. you hardly bought anything for yourself, always waiting until your things were falling apart at the seams. on the occasions you and the girls would head into town together, you'd always come back with surprise trinkets for them or toys for jack, simple jewellery for grimshaw or a book for mary-beth. again, another way in which he was reminded of how good you were — a good girl, and much, much too good for him. but he was greedy in that manner, and wanted you all for himself. would have you, all for himself.

he'd take his time picking something out, he thought. nothing overly-decorated and uncomfortable but nothing too plain either. something with a lace trim, maybe, or a ribbon tie at the back. once he finally asked you, finally took you for himself, he'd make it a habit. would take you into town instead, only the two of you, and gladly waste his hours away in the tailor to see his sweet girl smile, and giggle.

“so,“ he cleared his throat and laid back against the tree trunk once more with you, and made a gentle nudge to your side in the hopes of making you stop hiding from him. quieter than a damn church mouse, and shyer than a cottontail rabbit. he thinks he wrote about that once, in his journal. how that tiny, brown rabbit with the flopsy ears he saw a couple weeks ago near camp reminded him so much of you. “y'like yer present?“

“i love it.“

Rex readjusted the strap of the duffle bag, heavy with the entirety of his kit packed in there, so it could sit more comfortably on his shoulder as his fingers input your keycode with automaticity. The door slid open and the smell of the seasonal air freshener you favored greeted him almost instantly, along with the soft, warm glow of the lights hanging around the space. Stepping fully inside, Rex looked around and silently marveled at the decorations you’d strung up in his absence. You wanted it to be a surprise for him – and a surprise it surely is. Festive floral arrangements and seasonal colors were bathed in the lights that twinkled in blown glass orbs all around, and Rex couldn’t help but shake his head with a grin at the image of you standing on furniture of questionable integrity to get everything set to where it all hung now. 

Life Day was a favorite of yours. You always spoke of how beautifully intriguing the Wookiee holiday was, how it celebrated joy and harmony amongst family and friends. It was something you looked forward to every year, and when you’d told Rex that you traditionally decorated for it, he’d been eager on a high that came from your endearing childlike wonder and excitement to see what you had in store.

Seeing all of this, the effort you’d put into it, made him all the more thrilled for the traditional meal you would prepare tomorrow evening.

Since you hadn’t yet greeted him, you must have been asleep – of course you were. It was late, and Rex had explained to you earlier, when he’d first gotten back in the system, that he’d be getting in at an odd hour. 

But you still kept all the lights on for him.

When he cautiously stepped beyond the threshold into your room, he smiled. A domestic warmth filled his chest at the sight of you wrapped up in your thickest blankets, fetally curled up on your side as you almost always were. 

Rex gently set down the duffle bag against the wall. He started to pull off his boots, then set the pair down just beside the rest of his kit. His undershirt and pants were removed next, leaving him in his compression briefs. Normally, Rex would have hopped in your shower to freshen up before changing into a pair of casual lounge clothes you kept for him in the closet, but this time, knowing he’d be getting in so late, Rex had showered at the barracks instead, and came over in a clean undersuit. 

He didn’t want to have to prolong getting into bed with you after catching a glimpse, and at this moment, as Rex started to stealthily situate himself under the blankets, he thanked the universe that he had ended up showering beforehand. 

You shuffled a bit at his presence, but that was about it. Rex tried not to wake you as he scooched closer, curling on his side and gently wrapping his arms around you, fitting against you like a puzzle piece. He could feel that you were not wearing much clothing; just a thin, low cut top, your ‘sleep’ panties, and a pair of fuzzy socks. He knew your bedtime attire well. You’d once told him that you weren’t trying to be sexy, just comfortable, but Rex thought that was what made you even more attractive to him. 

He rested his chin on your back and listened to the melodic sound of your leveled breaths. Rex wanted to be selfish here – he wanted to lavish you with kisses and touches and to show you how much he missed you. It started as a gentle tap of his lips against the back of your neck, but once the feel of your skin met his lips, Rex couldn't help himself. He kissed all along where he could reach: your neck, between your shoulders, your cheek. He couldn’t help himself – not when his kisses became a little sloppier, or when his hand started to caress your arm then thigh. 

“Rex,” you practically moaned his name right out of your slumber, your voice soft and content. 

He missed you, your voice, your body. His briefs were noticeably tighter. He wanted more.

“I didn’t want to wake you, love” he cooed in your ear, lustfully apologetic. “But I want you.” 

Rex took your earlobe between his teeth, teasing it with his tongue. You moaned aloud, a quiet, alluring sound, arching yourself further into his body. He couldn't help but grind himself against your rear, just to relieve some of the swell of need.

When he released your lobe, he didn’t inch away. It was impossible to stop now, not when he’d been waiting for far too long, not when he bore witness to your thoughtful decorating. He’d discovered a while ago that domesticity fueled his desire, and when it came to you, Rex was always smitten.

He took a ragged breath, feeling the heat of your body pressing into him. He needed it, needed you.

“Can I have you, baby? Please. I’ll– I’ll do everything.” 

Another shaky breath was exhaled in your ear when you weakly reached around to pull your panties just far enough down, grazing his cock straining in his briefs with the gesture. Rex bit his lip. Closed his eyes. 

“Let me have you.”

You audibly sighed, a dreamy, sweet sound. “Please.” 

Your voice, still airy with sleep, put Rex into a frenzy. With your go-ahead, he wasted no time with releasing himself from the constricting material, and threw his leg over yours. He let his own, low noises fall freely as he used the wetness between your legs to slick himself up.

“So wet for me,” he commented. There was a note of surprise there. The revelation made him throb. “Need you so bad.”

Entering you slowly, Rex kissed along the back of your neck. Gasped against your skin when he filled you, his groin flush with your skin. You remained still, though he could already feel the desire perspiring as dew on your skin. He could stay inside you for hours, fall asleep like this, awaken like this. The grip you had on his cock was undoing, and when your cunt started to clench with an involuntary need, he started to move.

Rex was gentle. Tender. He rocked himself into you softly, not wanting to disturb you any more than he already had. You were awake, yes, but you were comfortable, still in the position that he’d awoken you in. 

As he moved his hips, rolling them at a crawl, his fingers slid up and under your top. Grazed your breast, the hardened nipple. You moaned at that. Clenched around him.

“Fuck, mesh’la.” Rex sighed, and dragged the flat of his teeth against the curve of your shoulder. “You feel so good.”

He soon felt your own hand join his. Fingers threaded through his own. 

Rex kept a steady pace, rutting against the soft skin of your ass. He felt the heat in his abdomen, the squeeze of his balls. He’d come soon, but wanted to feel you reach climax with him.

As if reading his mind, even in your somnolent state, you guided his hand from your chest. Dragged it down your torso and Rex knew what would get you there. Two, roughly padded fingers circled your clit, and the effect the added stimulation had on you was practically instant. Your breaths hitched, the pitch higher. Whines fell from your lips, and Rex could barely move anymore with how hard your cunt clenched around him. His thighs tensed.

He came with you, his arm holding you tight against his torso to press himself all the way. Your tired body shivered as he filled you, hot and wet, his release mixing with your creamy fluid.

Tacky with sweat, Rex eventually peeled himself from your skin. Slipped wetly out of you. A hidden little mess was left in his wake. 

A man of his word, he took care of everything. Retrieved something to clean you off with so you wouldn’t have to move a pretty little muscle. He then went to turn off all the lights until the entirety of your place fell into darkness. Made sure to duck under a particularly low hanging string of lights on his way back.

Rex rejoined you in bed, his body curved snugly around you. You hardly stirred. 

“The decorations are beautiful,” he murmured into the soft space between your shoulder blades. Pressed a kiss there. Completely, irrevocably enamored by you. “You’re incredible.”