Pairing: Low Honor Arthur Morgan x Female Reader
Tags: Angst, smut, mutual masturbat!on, divorce, tense relationship
Summary: Separated but not yet divorced, you and Arthur navigate the fragile tension of your relationship within the Van Der Linde Gang. After years of seperation, the chance for an official divorce arises, but the journey to the small mountain town where you eloped nearly ten years ago to sign the divorce papers might just rekindle what was once lost.
Author's Note: hehehehe lots of angst, tension, and messiness just how I like it. This was just supposed to one part but it was getting too long, so do expect a part two!
(Photo creds to Cowpokingarthur on TikTok)
Arthur rubs his eyelids with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, exhaustion settling deep in his bones. He’d been on the trail for nearly a month, chasing a treasure he’d never truly believed he’d find. Now, back at camp with a satchel heavy with outlaw gold, all he could think about was retreating to his tent.
He's not greeted by you though.
He's greeted by your mare instead. A pretty Dutch-Warmblood named Freyja. He pats her snout a couple times as a hello before offering her a handful of sugar cubes. Turning to his own gelding, he feeds his palomino Turkoman a carrot as he untacks him with ease, guiding his crocodile saddle onto a sagging fence before heading into the heart of camp.
It's just a monotonous as when he left.
Pearson breaks down a freshly killed whitetail at his butcher's table while Tilly chops vegetables nearby. Charles Smith sits on a crate near the edge of camp, delicately forming poison arrows out of Oleandor Sage and Raven feathers. Uncle lays passed out by the fire; a bottle of whiskey in one hand, a banjo propped in the other.
Though camp seemed more lifeless than ever, he still keeps an eye out for you as he walks to his tent. Wondering if his dear wife had noticed his arrival, wondering if you were under a wagon's awning somewhere stitching a torn shirt, or reading a book somewhere under a tree.
Scratching his overgrown beard, Arthur pulls back the canvas flaps of his shelter. His throat immediately going dry at the scene that lay before him.
It's emptier than when he left.
For one your clothing trunk was missing.
But that was just the start. None of your romance books he disliked so much were stacked carelessly in the corner, no clothes thrown about, no half painted pictures tossed in various spots.
How he'd always hated how you left the tent strewn with your miscellaneous belongings. A skirt thrown on a back of a chair, a pair of shoes flopped upside down in the middle of the tent. Bloomers folded into the blankets of the cot; though he could be blamed for that most times.
With the tent being all too clean, not only did it make him feel sick but he knew something was desperately off.
He gulps as he takes a step inside, not even the smell of you lingering on the bed sheets. Biting the inside of his cheek, he drops his saddle bag on the cot as his eyes catch a glimpse of something glistening on the bedside table.
The pretty gold band he had bought to marry you all those years ago.
He wish he hadn't seen this coming.
He snatches the ring off the table before walking calmly outside, catching Abigail lingering nearby. "Seen my wife?" Arthur asks her rather bluntly.
She stares at him like she know's something is wrong, but she nods her head toward the creek anyway. "Down there," she answers softly, a look of sympathy behind her soft, blue orbs.
He bites his bottom lip as he tips his head at her in gratitude, walking towards the creek.
The earth is soft against your back as you bask in the long grass at the creek's bank. The sun shines bright overhead as you lose yourself in another romance book Mary-Beth had lended you. You admire the sound of waxwings chirping overhead, as crystal water flows just feet away.
You're ripped from your little slice of heaven as heavy footsteps peel through the grass behind you. A dominent shadow swallowing you up like cake, pulling you away from the morning sun's glory.
You sit up quickly, turning around to find your husband scowling down at you.
Your husband you hadn't heard from in a month.
He looms over you, his face, much like always these days; completely unreadble. "Your stuff is gone," is all he says as you push yourself to your feet, dusting strands of grass off your skirt in a practiced motion.
"Moved back into the women's tent," you say nonchalantly as you pick a blade of grass off your shoulder and toss it to the ground.
"Know how much you hated all my stuff scattered round' anyway."
Your eyes meet his as you watch his jaw tighten. But this day was a long time coming, and you knew he wasn't ignorant to it either.
He swallows harshly as he raises your old ring between his thumb and forefinger. "You leave this behind by mistake or should I be askin' a different question?"
You exhale tiredly, shaking your head back and forth. "Don't make me say it Arthur."
But the way he flares his nose is enough of an answer for you.
"I-I want a seperation," you say rather bluntly, tears threatening to spill from your eyes.
“Separation?” He asks rather puzzled.
"Seperation," you gulp as you try to hold yourself together. "Seperation 'til we can get back up to Washington... get a proper divorce."
“Divorce?” He echoes rather offended.
“They say it’s easier to divorce after the war...just-just a couple signatures and that’s it.” Doing your best to sound as if you weren't about to break.
He takes a deep inhale as his eyes lower to the tips of his boots, scratching the back of his neck like he always had when a deep thought poked at him.
"Didn't know it had gotten this bad," he says lowly, finally breaking the silence. His face pained, lip quivering in indignation.
"Course you didn't," you say rather harshly as tears finally prickle down your cheeks.
He inhales again, nostrils flaring, nodding up and down before his eyes finally flicker upwards to meet yours. "Whatever makes you happy," he gulps, before turning around and walking away.
...Present Day...(Three years later)
You had always loved central Oregon.
The High Desert as what locals call it.
Mountains to the north surrounded by thick forests, slow flowing rivers, and canyons as far as the eye could see. Desert because everything was so damn dry. The Pacific winds never carrying the rain past the Cascades.
Dutch had tucked the gang deep in the Deschutes Forest, propped on an ridge overlooking a forest valley after an unfortunate run in Northern California. The air was rather dry, and you were an hour horse ride from the nearest town you - but you didn't mind.
You enjoyed the familiarity.
One you had undoubtedly seen before, years ago, over a decade.
Certainly the reason Dutch had brought everyone here, at the very least.
A familiar, safe, trusted spot.
One Arthur, without a doubt, suggested to the gang leader before even leaving the gold coast...
It wasn't long after your elopement all those years ago that you and Arthur had found yourself in Central Oregon. Escaping the cool temperatures of Washington by train, settling on this exact ridge for several nights. Nothing but a toasty fire, and each others bodies to keep warm.
Being back at the forgotten ridge stirred good memories you’d once thought buried, but it also was a rather cruel reminder of what no longer existed.
You couldn’t help to think that in some sick, twisted way, Arthur had suggested Dutch this place solely to spite you.
It's not that you and Arthur hadn't gotten along since your seperation, it's just that he's been....
If not completely absent from your life.
Since the day you asked for a separation all those years ago, you don’t think he’s spoken more than a hundred words to you.
He was gone most of the time, burying himself in work, turning into Dutch’s most prized workhorse.
Always the first to volunteer, the last to turn in for the night. Beloved by everyone in camp; helping the men with their chores, making the other women in camp laugh.
He acted as if you were nothing but a ghost; a memory he's tried hard to bury.
He didn't look at you, speak to you, hell - when you were nearly dying of a fever last year he didn't bother to say goodbye.
And even though in some weird way, you wish you could have least remained friends. How he treated you now just solidified why you so desperately needed to be gone from him for good.
Arthur trudges back through camp, a fresh whitetail slung over his broad shoulders. He drops the animal down on Pearson's butcher's table with nothing but a subtle nod in the camp cooks direction.
Central Oregon had been shit for jobs.
The place didn’t offer much in the way of the kind of money Dutch craved, but Arthur knew the gang was doing the best they could with what little they had. And to stay out of camp, to stay away from you, he buried himself into hunting instead - pouring his energy into tracking and feeding everyone else. Because keeping his distance was easier than facing the ache of being back on this damn ridge that held too many memories he wished he'd forget.
He didn't like the place.
The quiet, unassuming ridge overlooking the Deschutes Forest.
It reminded him too much of time that felt too far away.
But when things went south in Northern California, and Dutch had asked for advice on where the gang could lay low for a while, this overlook was the only place that came to mind.
The ridge where he had spent days, if not weeks, making reckless love to you under the stars. The overlook you had both unofficially dubbed Honeymoon Ridge, after camping there together right after the elopement.
Still, even though a decade had passed since he'd last visited. The memories seemed to pull open a wound that never really healed.
Pearson awkwardly clears his throat, glancing up at Arthur under hooded eyes. The camp cook pulls the fresh kill toward him by it's hind legs, running a finger down the centerline of it's abdomen. “The girl…uh…she’s been askin' for you.”
Arthur stands still, that familiar knot in his stomach twisting much tighter than it had in years.
"She say what for?" Arthur asks rather harsh. His eyes rolling towards the tips of his boots much like they always did when the conversation lead to you.
"No," Pearson replies quick, raising one brow at the outlaw. "All I know as she went into town yesterday, and ever since she got back she's been askin' for you."
Arthur doesn't look at Pearson, his focus remains on the tips of his dusty boots. He nods a few times, turning around, not wanting to entertain the conversation further.
It's not more than an hour later that Arthur sits alone at the fire, cleaning his navy revolver with an oily rag cradled between his teeth.
Your shadow is small, but it's prominent enough for him to realize someone was looming over him.
And he didn't have to ask who. Not when your sweet, gentle voice calls his name.
The knot in his chest that never went away tightens again, but he doesn’t look your way. Instead, he flips open the empty cylinder of his gun, inspecting the chambers with indifference, much overdue for a good cleaning.
"Yeah," he responds coldly, taking the rag out from between his teeth and folding it over his pinky, twisting it into one of the metal pockets.
You exhale at his passive tone. Chewing on the inside of your cheek, hands interlocking behind your back.
Arthur's pinky makes another pass in the chamber, one eye shut as he focuses his attention on the cylinder. "Ain't that what we already doing." He responds callously.
You ignore his hard edged response, utterly used to how he spoke to you nowadays but it doesn't exactly make you feel good. You cough a few times, lowering your voice a notch so he knew you meant business.
"Y'know this probably as close to Washington as Dutch gone' take us." You say tersely.
"Yeah," he responds, attention soley focused on the cleanliness of his revolver.
"Well," you pause. "Well I think it's time we make the journey back. Sign those papers, officially rid you of me."
Arthur pauses momentarily, but his gaze doesn't leave the gun.
"That atleast a week's journey?" he asks.
"There and back, yes." you reply. "If everything goes well."
Arthur sighs rather loud, lips tightening in a thought you could not read, head bobbing up and down.
When he finally responds, he twists his pinky back in the chamber, opening his mouth nonchalantly, "Better ask Dutch first" He pauses. "Prolly need me for a job coming up. Won't want me gone for too long-"
"Already asked him," you interupt. "Said he thinks it would be good for us to move on from that part of our life....move on from each other."
Arthur freezes again, eyes glued to his revolver. He wasn't expecting that response.
"Already bought the tickets," you gulp, letting a few moments of silence pass. "Got us a train leaving to Oregon City tomorrow morning. Then a train up to Wenatchee....then two days by horseback up the mountain to Leavenworth...where out marriage license is...all we gotta do is sign a few papers and this can..." you pause. "Be over."
Arthur stays silent, as if this hadn't already been over for years now divorce or not.
"Paid the extra fee to get our horses boarded on the livestock car too..."
Arthur finally unfreezes, making another pass of his pinky in the chamber. "What time the train leave tomorrow?"
"I'll meet you in the hitching yard at seven then."
Even the songbirds hadn't sang their first melody by the time you awoke. The morning sun just barely casting rays of light over the horizon, the sky a grapefruit pink. The ground is barely damp with morning dew as you slide into your riding boots, picking your plump saddle bag off your cot.
You'd packed it last night.
Clothes, food, extra carrots for Freyja, a bottle of Kentucky Bourbon you knew you were going to need at some point if you were going to spend the next week with your ex husband.
With a muffled yawn, and your saddle bag draped over your left shoulder you drag yourself to the hitching yard.
And true to his early bird nature, Arthur was already there.
Standing alone in the long, dry grass, he holds Freyja's muzzle to his shoulder, tapping her snout in a greeting. He smiles as he reaches into his satchel, pulling out a handful of sugar cubes and feeds them to her like he once always did.
It was no wonder she had always taken a liking to him.
Heimdall shuffles nearby, already tacked and ready as Arthur pulls the saddle atop Freyja tight, tacking her up too.
You shuffle over to your horse almost silently as you look up at Arthur, "Thanks."
He doesn't turn his head to look at you, he just focuses of Freyja's saddle; fastening the last belt and mumbling back, "yeah."
You gulp as he turns to Heimdall, petting the gelding a handful of times before mounting him. Your throat goes dry as you toss your saddle bag on Freyja's rump, seating yourself atop her.
Arthur doesn't saying anything before he digs his spurs into Heimdall's sides, trailing off down the ridge. You follow.
Tears threaten to spill down your cheeks, but you don't care. Not like Arthur would ever notice anyway - not that he would even bother to check on you.
How even after years of marriage, years as best friends, years as lovers. He couldn't even be friendly with you.
You'd seen the way he smiled with everyone else, seen the way he'd slip Abigail money for Jack or bring Hosea herbs for his tonics. You can't say you weren't jealous either, with the way he'd sit and tell Mary-Beth about his feelings. You couldn't help notice the way he looked at her was the same way he once looked at you, envious that he probably found her attractive.
He’d taken the separation hard, sure. But it wasn’t as if he’d tried to change your mind, either. You only wished you could’ve salvaged something with him, some fragile thread of connection, even if it was nothing more than friendship. Anything was better than this cold, hollow limbo you found yourselves in now.
The train station was quieter than you expected for a spring day with clear skies. A handful of travellers bussle about as you watch Arthur motion Heimdall and Freyja into the livestock car of the train. Neither of them giving too much protest.
The ride to the small town of Sisters from Honeymoon Ridge was just as silent as you expected. No casual conversation, no stolen looks, no petty arguements either. You don't know why you would have thought any different anyway . Tears surely dried by the time you dismounted your horse.
Your saddle bag hangs over your left shoulder as you lop your braid behind your back in a fit of sweat, the hot oregon sun punishing you for the riding outfit you had chosen. But you knew you'd be glad for packing warm once you hit Wenatchee.
The train releases a cloud of hot steam as it roars it's familiar melody, signalling it's soon departure. You try to pick up the familiar sillouhette of your ex-husbands body amongst the small crowd, but you don't find him anywhere in sight.
In frusteration, you let out a sigh but that's when you hear him.
You turn around. Arthur's looming nearly expressionless behind you, staring somewhere off in the distance as he places his hand out in front of him.
You look at your saddle bag draped over your shoulder, and then back up at his calloused hand that calls for you.
"I'm okay," you reply shortly as you readjust the bag on your shoulder, turning around and stepping toward the train. But just as you take your first step you hear him scoff. Loud footsteps quickly trailing behind and before you know it, the bag is snatched right off your shoulder and onto his own. Both saddle bags draped over his shoulders like fresh kill as he boards the train without another word.
You scrunch your nose completely annoyed.
Won't talk to you, won't look at you, won't ask about your god damn day. But suddenly he thinks he's some kind of gentleman.
Arthur wasn't expecting you to sit next to him, yet, he can't help but to feel dissapointed when you don't.
He finds himself at the back of the car, bags secured in the overhead racks as you find a seat near the front - not even bothering to search the train car for him.
He doesn't let his eyes linger on the back of your head for very long; never did.
Because the last time he had looked you in the eye, you told him you wanted to be gone of him.
He doesn't want to relive that memory, not when you're dragging him off to the place where he promised to love you forever.
It's didn't surprise you that Oregon City was known as being the end of the Oregon Trail.
It wasn't no dust covered, tumbleweed of a town like the south for sure.
Bustling saloons, shops, mills, and settlers with more hope than anywhere you've been in recent years. People on there way to California, or Alaska in hopes hitting gold. The train station; unlike the town of Sisters, filled to the brim with eager travellers.
Arthur walks Heimdall and Freyja to the next train, boarding them in the livestock car; both saddle bags still slung over his shoulders. People file into different cars left and right: multiple rails hosting trains to all different places. Boise, Prescott, El Paso.
One small, four cart train to Wenatchee sits in the far rail. The roar of it's horn signaling it's quick departure as Arthur finds himself next to you.
The sun falls slowly past the horizon as people load the train, the passenger cars filling up quick as you push forward. Finally entering, finding one empty bench near the back left.
You sigh, quickly falling into it, already over this journey, over being stuck for hours with a man that loathes your company. But you're suprised when that same man forcefully pushes you towards the window, taking the seat directly beside you.
Your thighs graze his, as you look up at him with furrowed brows.
"Couldn't find somewhere else to sit?" you snap rather harsh.
His gaze remains at the front of the train, as he lets out a huff.
"Ain't got much of a choice," he mumbles as the two of you watch the car pack to the brim with travellers.
You remain silent, scooting over further. Letting his large frame rest more comfortably in the seat as the train roars it's engine. Taking off from the platform as the sun finally dips below the horizon.
Arthur exhales momentarily as he tips his gambler's hat over his eyes and crosses his arms, slouching into a sleeping position.
You prop yourself against the window, watching Oregon City fade into nothing more than a blur, the dark swallowing the city up with the passing distance.
It would be a long day tomorrow.
Body snug against his, head buried in his shoulder, his broad right arm pulling you in tight. For a few fleeting moments, you forget that it wasn't normal.
That it was just you, on a train, falling asleep against your husband like you always do.
You jerk upright, shoving his arm off you and scrambling as far away from his as the seat allows, your back pressing hard against the window.
His hat is still pushed low over his eyes, a tiny snore escaping his lips.
Thank god Arthur was a heavy sleeper, you don't think you could live it down if he had caught you in his arms.
But it isn't long after that he wakes up to the sound of the train roaring it's horn, the sun peaking itself over the mountain tops. The cold Washington air prickling at your skin.
If the train itself wasn't slowing down, you knew you had reached Wenatchee by the chill of the air creeping down your neck.
Arthur coughs as he pushes his hat back atop his head, his crystal orbs peaking from below the brim, blinking a few times before his vision settles.
Much like Sisters, Wenatchee wasn't much either. Just a small farm town in a valley that sits below the Cascades. Known for nothing but it's apple farms, rivers, and the quiet pride of it's people. The place is charming, but it lacks the eagnerness of Oregon City. Lacks the hope.
Stepping out of the train car, you're hit with the chill of a cold breeze. The snow had since melted, but up in the north Spring hit much differently. Knowing once you got up into those mountains it'd be even worse with elevation. .
You turn toward Arthur, only to find he’s already halfway down the length of the train, heading for the rear to fetch Freyja and Heimdall. You linger where you are, shivering as you wait for him to return, just so you can dig your coat out of your damn saddlebag.
Several long minutes pass before Arthur finally makes it back and hands the bag over. You waste no time pulling your coat free and shrugging into it, the thick fabric a near instant relief against the biting mountain air.
A puff of steam leaves Arthur's mouth as he follows suit, the wind pulling at his brown locks as he takes off his gambler's hat, running his palm through his hair.
You feed Freyja a carrot as you pet her mane in greeting, not even bothering to look Arthur's way as you open your mouth.
"Best be gettin' on soon if were gonna make it to Leavenworth by tomorrow night."
Arthur scowls, half hidden behind Heimdall's strong frame as he stares up at the mountains looming behind you. "Looks like a nice spring storm rolling in, we oughta wait it out here instead of getting caught up in it"
You scrunch your nose and follow his line of sight. Sure enough, heavy gray clouds are already forming in the sky above the same mountain Leavenworth sits on, low, mean and settling fast.
You don’t have time to wait it out. Not with Arthur. Not like this.
You spin back toward him on your tip toes, jaw set. “It’s just snow.”
He exhales hard through his nose, eyes narrowing, jaw tightening. You can tell he doesn’t want the fight but that doesn’t mean he isn’t weighing every risk./
“You fixin' to get us killed?” he snaps back.
Your mouth twists into something close to a pout. “Look, Arthur. The faster we get up that mountain, the faster this can all be over."
His expression stays mean and knotted, muttering something sharp under his breath, meant for no one but himself but he responds anyway.
“Fine,” he growls low and mean. “But if this goes sideways....this.... this on you.”
It wasn't six hours into the trip up the mountain when the first flurry began, the sun still shining behind the clouds. Snowflakes light and fluffy, breaths of steam dissolving into the mountain air, nothing the both of you hadn't handled before.
But by the time the seventh hour of riding in silence crept in, the storm Arthur had warned you about had spawned.
This was no flurry anymore.
It was a true spring storm.
The clouds swallowed the sun whole, the snow turning dense and wet, clinging to everything it touched. Snow soaked through your coat, your gloves, your boots, seeping into every seam it could find. The wind began to howl, sharp and unrelenting, and the higher you climbed, the more the trail dissolved into the surrounding white, until the path and mountainside merged into nothing.
Arthur hadn't turned around to check on you since the treck began, still riding through the weather like it was a second nature of his.
Sure you might have gone on a fare share of jobs once upon a time, but you were not iron built - certainly no moutain man.
The next loud gust of wind spooks Freyja for a few moments, nearly knocking you off her back but Arthur trecks on. The only thing keeping you from yelling out to him - your pride.
Another half hour passes, your hair is somehow wet and frozen at the same time. Your fingers well past numb, lips purpled, every ounce of you either damp, rigid or completely miserable.
But that’s when Arthur pauses, turning and shouting in your direction.
“We gotta get outta this damn mess,” he yells over the wind, voice raw with frustration.
Just nod, but you can feel the anger rolling off him in waves.
“I’m gonna see if there’s some place we can stop,” he goes on, his words sharp. “Somewhere we can hold up. Find folks who’ll take us in, even if it’s just for a few hours.”
Arthur scans the white ahead of you, jaw tight, eyes hard. Then he spots it, a narrow break off the road, barely more than a path in the snow. The kind of trail that only leads somewhere if you know where to look, hidden to the unkeen eye.
He doesn’t hesitate. He reins Heimdall hard and turns off the road. You follow, Freyja trudging after him.
Less than a quarter mile down, the shape of a hunting cabin looms out of the storm, a small barn crouched beside it. A saving oasis.
Arthur swings down from Heimdall, boots hitting the ground with force, as you follow suit. He mumbles a slew of rude profanities under his breath as he peers through the windows, eyes eventually settling on the lock hanging off the front door.
Arthur reaches for his revolver, as he pistol whips the lock and lodges open the door. Stepping in for a few seconds before motioning you inside.
It's small, barely more than a seasonal hunting cabin.
To the far right sits a sizeable fireplace with a stocked wood stand beside it. A sofa is angled towards the hearth, a brown bear rug sitting below. To the left there's a kitchen, nothing more than a blood stained table and a few chairs to sit around it. And even farther back then you expect, another door: a bedroom. Just a bed, and an old dresser than holds nothing but a few raggedy union suits.
You quickly march towards the fireplace as Arthur stomps angrily back outside - surely tending to the horses that are just as tired as you are. You stack a couple logs in the hearth, lighting the fire as quick as one could - pulling off your mittens and letting the heat from the fire bring life back to your fingertips.
A handful of minutes later Arthur returns, he's scowling, brows furrowed as he flops your saddle bag onto the kitchen table. He mutters several hurtful words under his breath you wish you didn't have to hear, but you know he's doing it on purpose.
Trying to make you feel bad.
He leans next to the fire as he pulls off his hat, letting the fire glisten against his features as he mumbles another curse. Instantly breaking the last straw for you.
"You want me to say that you were right?" you spit loud and angry. "That gonna make you fell better?"
He pauses, jaw clenched tight as he yanks off his gloves, holding his bare hands out toward the fire.
“I told you this would happen,” he barks, voice loud and mean. “Now we’re stuck out here in the middle of god damn nowhere for who knows how long...” He scoffs, a deep furrow settling between his brows. “Can’t ever fuckin’ listen to me, can you? Always gotta bitch. Always gotta get your way." He pauses for a moment. "You're a god damn brat!"
His words sting hard. Tears threatening to spill from your waterline as you take off your coat, spreading it out infront of the fire so it can dry.
Arthur had been a lot of things to you: dismissive, quiet, short.
But had never been cruel.
Never had called you names.
You gulp, trying to keep the tears down, but the second a sniffle slips out they come anyway. Completely uncontrollable, like a dam broken by dynamite. You push to your feet, still frozen to your core, rushing across the cabin, snatching your saddlebag off the counter before slamming the bedroom door shut behind you. Loud.
You had already told him that. He didn’t need to remind you, didn’t need to call you names.
The trip had already been hard enough as it was. The separation. The divorce. Everything. Being stuck with him for hours on end when you hadn’t spent real time together in years. A constant reminder of what you lost, a reminder of why you had left.
You knew buying those damn train tickets all those days ago that this trip wouldn't be pleasant, but you didn't think it would be like this.
You let out another sniffle as you strip down, every inch of you still soaking wet all the way down to your socks. A shiver rips through you as you pull off your blouse, your boots, your bloomers. Everything needing to be set by the fire to dry, but you'd rather freeze than face him again so you lay them flat atop the old dresser instead.
Your only saving grace was the dry chemise you had brought hiding in your saddle bag, and the countless warm blankets covering the bed. They smelled slightly of mildew, and you didn't know the last time the mountain man who owned this cabin had cleaned them, but you were atleast greatful to be out of the storm.
You pull back the blankets as the wind continues to howl outside. You have no idea what time it is, early in the evening perhaps, but you’re exhausted enough that it hardly matters. The mean gray clouds have swallowed what little light there was anyway, darkening the sky so much you couldn’t tell the hour even if you tried.
You don’t know when you wake up.
Only that it’s darker now than when you fell asleep, the bedroom door wide open, the heat from the fire in fhe main room seeping in like it was left ajar purposely.
Your stomach growls as you swallow, your bare feet meeting the cold wood floor sending a shiver down your spine. You notice the damp clothes you’d laid across the dresser to dry have dissapeared. In their place, your saddlebag sits neatly arranged.
You straighten your chemise as you pull one of the blankets tight around your shoulders, tiptoeing out of the bedroom in silence.
Arthur’s laid out on the sofa, the only tell being the way his feet dangle off the end, no piece of furniturre ever quite long enough for a man his size. You hear him groan, low and rough, caught in a bad dream you suppose. You remember how he always used to dream like something was after him.
You take a step forward, completely silent as you tiptoe across the cabin floor. Stopping just next to the sofa, finding all your things neatly laid out by the fire to dry. Your boots are neatly set near the hearth, your blouse and riding jeans slung over the mantel like they were placed there with care.
And for a moment you forget that you're mad at him. For a moment you stand their indifferently.
Because that had always been Arthur’s way.
Casually slipping into your room after an argument, gathering your damp things to dry without a word. He had never been the one for apologies, always trying to care of you in silence instead as if it was enough.
But you're pulled from your thoughts when you hear him groan again, this time turning towards him; your eyes widening in complete shock.
His eyes are clenched shut as he rests flat against the sofa, his lip quivering with every flutter of his uneasy breath. His red union suit is pulled down just below his thighs. The glare of the fire glistening across his hairy, broad chest as you follow his happy trail down to where his right hand meets his throbbing cock. Little moans escaping his lips as he pleasures himself.
You audibly gasp in disbelief when you notice what's wrapped around his left hand; a pair of your bloomers. The same ones you had slipped off just hours ago to dry, stolen from that same pile he had laid by the fire.
Arthur’s eyes snap open, and for the first time in forever, he meets your gaze.
He freezes completely mortified, not a single muscle moving, pink flooding his cheeks as he stares back at you. You follow his gaze as it slowly drags to his left hand where your bloomers are clenched tight in his fist, then back to you, like he's been caught red handed.
Frozen yourself, you gulp awkwardly and turn on your heels, retreating to the bedroom without so much as a word.
Because what the hell do you even say in that situation.
Shutting the bedroom door quick, you pull back the blankets, trying to process what you had just witnessed.
Arthur Morgan, your estranged husband, jerking off....to your bloomers?
You let yourself fall back onto the bed, not a single bone in your body ready to sleep, still stuck in a state of utter shock. You decide it’s better to try and forget than to replay what just happened, but the memory only lingers.
You flop onto your stomach, begging your mind to quiet itself, but every time you think it finally has, you’re reminded of what you just witnessed
Arthur's scar littered chest, broad and hairy, completely bare glistening in the firelight. His large veiny hand, grasping his thick, swollen cock, lip quivering in pure pleasure. The low gutteral moan, leaving the back of his throat as he grasps at your underwear.
You shift onto your side.
The thought of him clinging to you.
Gross, and weird. The strangest thing you'd ever witnessed.
So why does the memory persist, why does the memory conjure heat low in your gut? Why does it make your thighs tighten everytime you picture him rubbing one out to your bloomers in his hand.
Maybe a release is just what you need to clear your head, or at the least to make you feel better.
You push the blankets carelessly off you, letting the quilts land just below your knees. You hike your chemise up just above your gut as you let the memory glide into full color.
You reach down to touch yourself, already slick from the images playing through your mind. Your fingers find your sensitive nub, gently rolling your fingers through your folds, each stroke of your clit sending you deeper into a transe.
There were countless reasons to dislike your ex-husband. He was mean, a criminal, too emotionally unavailable even when your were married. Yet, Arthur Morgan, amongst anything else had always been devistatingly attractive. He was pure man, every evil ounce of him.
You gulp hard as your breath starts to become heavy, your fingers working yourself over and over again. You place your left hand on your breast, trying to replicate the feeling of how he used to touch you but you only had memories to work on.
The recent image of him touching himself fades, old ones you had thought you locked far too deep to remember arise further.
His mouth on your cunt, his hands on your breasts, the look on his face as he finishes inside you; begging you to have his children. Him in front of a mirror, fucking you from behind. Him whiny, and needy, after a long job: begging you to touch him. Begging his pretty wife to get on her knees and suck him dry.
Your fingers move quicker.
Bottom lip finding the space between your teeth.
And in that moment, when you're so god damn desperate for an orgasm to roll over you, you don't hear the footsteps leading to your bedroom.
You don't hear the knock.
You only notice when it's far too late. Arthur staring down at you, his face isn't pink, his eyes aren't wide.
He's scowling, nostrils flared, mean like he always is. But he doesn't turn away.
You turn to look at him, eyes grazing over his body, that union suit of his barely covering anything. If anything, the sight made you press further.
Arthur stands there frozen, eyes locked to you touching yourself. His face is unreadable but he doesn't turn around and leave. He stays because he likes it.
"Touch yourself," you're only able to bite out, the command slipping from your mouth before your brain can even process what you're saying.
But he doesn't go red, he doesn't leave, he just clenches his jaw, and strides to the foot of the bed. Instantly undressing himself, letting his union suit fall to his ankles.
What is happening right now?
Arthur's cock is already blood swollen when he brings his right hand up to his mouth, crudely spitting into his palm before reaching down and grabbing himself hard. His eyes graze over you, like some sweet treat he's begging to devour as he slicks himself with his own saliva. His nostrils flare as his gaze travels where your own hand meets your cunt.
It's dead quiet in the bedroom besides the wet squelches of your hand rubbing your pussy, and his rubbing his cock. The hitched, raggedy breaths coming from the both of you as his eyes graze over your body for the first time in years.
"So fuckin' pretty," he finally breaks the sielnce, hand shifting low on his cock. "So fuckin' pretty touchin' yerself like that."
You inhale loud, grabbing your breast tighter.
You couldn't stop staring at him - he was so god damn good looking. Everything about him was pure lust.
The way he touched himself like he needed it, the way he couldn't keep his eyes off of you, the subtle moans escaping the back of his throat...
"You like watchin' me huh?" he mumbles again, jaw cocking as his pace becomes quicker. "Should...ah...have known," he moans. "Always been a dirty girl."
The way he talks to you sends you to another level, your mouth falling open, sinking deeper into the bed. Your fingers undoubtedly pruned by now with how soaking wet you are.
Your breath hitches again as you watch Arthur hunch over, his hand finding the footboard of the bed, clenching it tight as his right hand works himself more violently.
"So close," you're able to moan out.
He bites his lips, as his eyes stick to you like glue. "Look at me when you come," he commands, stroking himself harder.
You let your orgasm wash over you, eyes glued to him, spasming over and over again. Sinking deeper into the bed with every roll of your fingers. You grasp your breast harder, your nipple nearly rock solid as you moan loud - louder than you had in years. The feeling absolutely indescribable.
It's not more than a few seconds later, when you're deep into your own pinacle when he finishes. Right onto the footboard, his jaw clenching hard, deep, and gutteral. Whiney moans leaving the back of his throat like you'd always rememebered. The sound a symphony.
Your eyes go beyond glassy as you come down, fixed on the wooden boards above you while your body goes completely slack. After several long moments, you finally work up the courage to look toward the foot of the bed.
Arthur's still standing there nude, chest rising and falling with every quick breath. His face is utterly undone as he stares at you, but he remains completely silent. You can feel the tension gathering in the air, an uncomfortable heaviness you're not sure what to do with. Neither of knowing how to confront what you had just done.
You break the silence, wiggling your chemise back down your legs with a gulp. And no more than a second later, he lets out an angry huff, rolling his eyes like he's in sheer disbelief. His brows pull into a scowl as he steps out of the union suit pooled around his ankles, snatching it up from the floor before marching out of the bedroom completely naked. The door slamming hard behind him.
Morning light leaks through the window as you finally stir awake. You yawn peacefully, sleeping strangely well in for the first time in a long while. You stand up, feet hitting the old wood floor as you stare out the window; the storm yet to break.
You grab a blanket, tightening it over your shoulders as your stomach growls in protest. You hadn't ate dinner last night, not really a lunch either as hunger pains pull at your stomach.
Nothing on your mind but food.
In the perfect world, you'd still be at your childhood home. Mom serving over easy eggs, fresh fatty bacon, and warm toast lathered in butter and orange marmalade. But it wasn't that world anymore, hadn't been in nearly two decades.
A half dented can of strawberries pulled from your saddle bag would have to do.
You didn't have a spoon, or a knife to pry open the top with but you knew you could probably find one in the kitchen.
Hands pausing at the door knob.
Recalling the events of last night.
Sure you had slept well. Better than you had in years, and in the moment you didn't regret anything. But now?
Last night, Arthur had walked out of the bedroom, a scowl etched deep on his face, leaving his spend half dried on the footboard. A reminder of last night that still clinged to the bedframe uncleaned.
You didn't know what he would say - what he would do. Would he bring it up, or just ignore it like he always did best? Either way, last night hadn't changed the fact that you'd still be getting that divorce.
You'd already made your mind up on that years ago.
You suck in a cautious breath of air, turning the door knob hesitantly.
Gentle air hits your face, the fire burning low but warm in the hearth. Arthur's nowhere to be seen, but you don't think twice. There's horses to be tended to and you knew he was an early riser.
You dig through the cabin's cupboards, searching for whatever you could unearth in the dusty cabinets: cans of sweet corn, baked beans, peas and salted offal . Even though they were nothing special it was relief to know you wouldn't starve if you had to stay longer than expected, though you knew Arthur would rather go hungry than open a can of offal.
Eventually you sift through the drawers, finding a knife sharp enough to cut open the lid to the canned strawberries. Then a spoon. You walk over to the kitchen table, not sitting down but casually leaning against it. Slowly savoring the sweet syrup from the strawberries with each bite, sucking the spoon clean each time.
A few minutes pass, and as you shove another bite into your mouth the door lodges open. Arthur's head is down, his gambler's hat hiding his eye line. He knocks his boots against the door frame, as bits of snow fall off.
He freezes when he notices you, his face tight and unreadable. Moments pass before he slides off his boots, gliding towards the fireplace and taking off his coat - hanging it off the back of the sofa. He rids himself of his hat, letting his hand glide through his brown locks as he throws another log into the fire.
He stands towards the mantle briefly, back facing you, hands on his hips as he tips his head low like he was in deep thought. And then, without hesitation he turns around, and walks straight toward you, stopping just a few feet away.
You slowly spoon more strawberries into your mouth as your eyes glide over him, sucking slowly on the tip. Your stomach doing somersaults as he looks at you though your face doesn't give it away. Arthur doesn't say anything, he just watches you eat carefully, mouth formed into a hard line.
You gulp slowly, feeling the air thicken around you as he refuses break eye contact. He hadn't looked at you like this in years, and the way he did almost scared you, because it had you wondering just for a moment if you had made the right decision to divorce him.
He steps closer, stopping just inches away, his face set in a tight scowl but he only stays silent. You look up at him, eyes wide and confused, waiting for him to say something first.
Instead, he lifts his thumb and drags it over the side of your mouth, collecting a smudge of strawberry syrup left behind. He brings it to his own mouth, sucking it off, his gaze locked to yours. And suddenly your heart beat no longer thumps in your chest, but between your thighs.
What was happening right now?
And before you're even able to ask, his mouth is on yours
He kisses you hard, fast, completely reckless as if it's a punishment. And the worst part.... the way you're so damn quick to kiss him back.
The blanket that was once pulled tight over your shoulders slides to the ground as he lifts you by the backs of your thighs, setting you atop the kitchen table. The can of strawberries you were eating tipped over, and ignored. His hands find your jaw, his thumbs roaming over you cheeks as his lips suckle yours harder,
You're about to moan into his kiss before you realize what's happening.
You shove him away as he stumbles a step back. With a furrowed brow you slap him hard, right against his left cheek. His jaw tenses, but he remains silent, eyes refusing to leave yours.
He looks at you low and dark, like he has a million words to say but won't give you the satisfaction of saying them. But thats when you decide to say fuck it, grabbing him by his shirt collar, and pulling him right back into you.
He tastes of leather and tobacco, achingly familiar. Gunpowder and pine flood your senses, memories you’d buried deep surfacing into full color. He moans into your mouth as your fingers work at his belt, suckling kisses down your neck as you desperately drag his pants down his thighs.
Arthur's upper lips curls as he looks down, pulling the bottom of your chemise up huridly. Like if he was any slower you might change your mind.
You grab at his cock, already achingly hard as you pull him towards you, but you don't have to ask - he pushes in painfully quick. All the way deep, until his balls rest flesh against you. A hitched gasp escaping your lips.
You’re both breathing hard as he stays still for several moments, giving you time to adjust to his size. His eyes are wide as he looks down at you, jaw loose. And for the first time in years, he's completely unguarded. You can see it all now behind his eyes, his pain, his sadness, the way he looks at you like he's been missing something for far too long.
But just as you reach up to brush a strand of hair out of his way, he pulls out, thrusting back in, hard. With a loud whine you let yourself fall back onto the kitchen table, the can of half ate strawberries rolling onto the floor as he lifts your legs onto his shoulders. Pushing into you over and over again.
You hadn't had sex with anyone since him - anyone besides him. But you couldn't imagine anyone making you feel the way he did in this exact moment. His takes his thumb and brushes it across your clit, just how he remembers you like it, pushing you already far too close to your edge.
Your legs drop to his hips as you reach for his shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it to the ground, begging to see every part of him. He grabs at your chemise, hurridly pulling it over head, nipples peaking as the air hits them. Two naked bodies merging together like puzzle pieces.
You gulp, tears pooling in your eyes as the sensation nearly overwhelms you, his tip striking deep every damn time. If he’d touched you like this when you married, divorce would’ve never crossed your mind. But this was nothing like the man who used to stumble in late, wake you half asleep, and take you from behind for a quick, careless release, the way things were at the end.
He pulls you back into a sitting position, picking you up from the backs of your thighs once again. Lips despertely kissing your neck as he carries you to the cabin wall, leaning your back against it. He splays your legs open for him as he pushes deep again, his chin buried in your shoulder. Every moan of his echoing in your ear.
You feel that familiar warmth start to pool in your gut, wet and low. "I'm gonna come," you whimper into his ear, as your hands tangle in his locks. He doesnt change pace, he stays on beat, thrusting into you as his gaze turns downward, his hands tightening around the backs of your thighs - watching your bodies merge together over and over agin. Your cunt quickly tightens around him as your orgasm brushes over you, moaning loud, right into his collar bone.
No more than a second later, he's finishing too - not bothering to pull out, his spend coating your insides. His jaw goes slack, thrusting slow, legs spasming as his lips find yours again.
For a few moments the two of you just stay in that position, nothing more than heavy breaths and slicked skin, the cabin wall digging deep into your back. His forhead is tilted against yours, his eyes refusing to break your gaze, reveling in the moment.
But that moment is short lived.
He doesn't pull out as he carries you back over to the kitchen table, setting you down slow and sensitive. His cock still buried deep inside.
"I still want a divorce," you say quick, breaking the moment.
He doesn't scowl, doesn't frown, doesn't curse you out. He just smirks, half as a laugh as he squints one eye, "I ain't even out of you yet."
You look up at him through wide eyes as he guides you onto your back, never bothering to pull out. He peppers kisses down your neck, dragging his mouth to your right breast, his eyes locking with yours as goosebumps prickle your skin. “Never wanted no separation,” he murmurs before drawing your nipple into his mouth, your breath turning unsteady. He releases you only to trail soft, wet kisses to your left breast, his tongue circling your areola. “Don’t want no divorce either,” he adds, teeth gently grazing your nipple. Every nerve on edge, every hair on your body standing up. You shiver, as he lifts himself onto his forarms, pulling himself back, dislodging himself from your cunt.
Arthur watches as his seed spills out from between your thighs, pooling onto the kitchen table. For a moment is eyes are glued to the scene, but he soon looks up at you.
"But I will if it makes you happy."
He gulps, a sad smile pulling at his mouth as he turns away, hand gliding through his hair as he crosses the room. He drops down on the sofa, not even bothering to dress. With a sigh he hunches forward, elbows placed on his knees, face burried in his palms as he shakes his head back and fourth.
You suddenly don't feel as good as you did just moments ago.
You shiver as you pull yourself upright. Still stunned at what you had just done, aching at his confession. You slip back to the floor, the soles of your feet meeting the cold hard wood as you reach for the blanket discarded earlier and wrap it around your naked body.
Gulping as you step towards the sofa, towards him.
The heat from the fire relaxes you as you sit on the far edge of the sofa, knees pulled tight to your chest as you stare at him.
Not at all sure what to say.
What to even feel, though deep down you know it's different than it was even a day earlier.
He lets out a muffled, shaky breath as he turns to you, eyes squinting like it physically hurts, his head shakes slow and helpless. His jaw tightening before finally looking at you, voice low like he's been wounded.
His words land harder than you expect. The question that had been lingering between you for years, unanswered - because he had never bothered to ask until now.
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