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arthur didn't shake you off, instead, his verdigris eyes drilled into your terrified features, dissecting your fear, weighing your worth. his mouth, thin, stern, and flushed a carnation red, stayed locked behind a hard line, offering you no comfort and no promises as he kept his silence, refusing to part around a single sound or word.

you were trapped in silk and lace entirely unfit for the swamp mud and heavy labor miss grimshaw tried to force upon your bunching shoulders, flinching as she barked order after order at your, drawing your head down all the way to your ears, cowering from her demanding voice as though it could physically strike and stun you.

no one had ever tried to make the old matron go easy on you, the camp always starved for extra hands in the kitchen, and using a timid, broken thing like you was the simplest play on the board, especially to a philosopher like dutch.

yet, a man always observed from behind your bowing back, propping his broad hip against a tree trunk, his weight sent a tremor through the bark, causing the greenish canopy to rustle and birds to flee screaming from their nests.

his worn hat drawn low enough to hide his squinting gaze, tawny, wispy eyelashes swooping low over prominent, sun burned cheekbones speckled with a layer of brown freckles and moles that bled into one another. burly arms crossed over a stocky chest, clad in the checkered blouse your tender palms had washed.

palms that were already beginning to turn as calloused as his own, a fate wholly unfitting for a woman who reminded him of a delicate flower that had somehow managed to bloom in the filthiest place imaginable, turning as coarse as a hired gun just to survive in this hellhole. you were all his journal pages were about now, hidden behind sketches of leaping does and rare orchids.

he hadn't been obligated to pick you up from the dirt, to look into your teary, wide blinking eyes and clumpy lashes quivering as you choked on your own lungs, but he’d done it anyway. he had dragged you up onto his horse, pinning your shivering ribs against his broad, tobacco acrid chest until you passed out from sheer exhaustion.

arthur had claimed you as his own burden, and the camp didn't let him forget it. the boys still needled him at the campfire, laughing about how the toughest enforcer in the west had gone soft, acting like a proper high society lady cradling a wet kitten in her skirts. dutch, too, still rumbled behind his cigar, questioning the wisdom of keeping a useless mouth around the tents.

as you looked back at arthur now with those scintillating, frightened eyes, desperately searching for a foothold to keep from slipping and anything to brace against, he unconsciously bent a broad shoulder your way. possessing plenty of muscle for you to rely on, letting out a breathy sigh of gratitude as you dimpled your fingers into his flannel and held on for dear life.

out here, a woman either learned to shoot or she didn't last, it didn't matter if she had a husband to rely on, or if she stood entirely alone, they all had learned how to handle a gun to protect themselves, their families, and their children.

but your arm was failing, the heavy iron of the revolver dragging your wrist down toward the mud, lungs working hard just to fight the leverage of the steel. arthur had insisted you needed to learn, had yanked you right out from under miss grimshaw’s nose, barking a curse at anyone who claimed you had work to finish, wholly consumed by his own stubborn plan.

you had blinked up at him expectantly, your fingers curled around his thick wrist, never stopping to think if he might despise the unwanted touch. he never said a word, even when his eyes, a swimming, brilliant aquamarine, lingered exactly where your palm met his sun tanned, roughened skin.

“what if i slip?” you questioned, unsure and delicate, your voice no louder than the wind's howl that swept across your collarbone and pebbled the skin in gooseflesh. arthur noticed the hesitance immediately, eyes slit into a tight squint, his brawny body shifting its angle as he positioned himself closer, moving from your flank to face you directly, towering over your frame.

his head tilted, bearded chin up, the corner of his lip curving up in a brief, twitch like motion before settling into a quirky, lopsided smile, leaving you pinned beneath his gaze while the carob brown strands of his messy hair danced against his brow in gentle air. the wild wavy strands fell haphazardly across his weathered, lined forehead, dropping right into his eyes.

crow's feet crinkling around as he narrowed his stare, standing with his toned arms crossed over broad chest, muscles bulging beneath the rolled up sleeves. you could see the blinding amusement glittering in his stare as the dying sunset caught his irises in brilliant tangerine beams, bringing out the verdant hue.

his chapped lips parted, tongue tracing a slow circle to lick them glossy, taking his time before he finally spoke “ain’t no slippin' when you’re with meh, darlin” murmured as a low, caressing rasp, confident and deeply soothing at the same time, and your stomach flipped embarrassingly, fluttering as though something with frantic wings had been trapped inside your ribs.

your face burned up, dainty fingers bulging bones as you wrung your hands together, forced to stare up at him, trapped, itchy under parted collar, and entirely too dependent on him.

arthur proceeded to teach you everything, with the gun in your hands, his own calloused, firm palms clasped over your smaller grip. scarred fingers rubbing steady, grounding circles against your skin accompanied by the low, crooning whispers he hummed into the crown of your head.

he brought his entire weight flush against your spine, crowding you from behind, his hot, tobacco stained breath searing the rim of your ear as he methodically forced your knuckles to align, leveling the barrel toward a blasted pine. you felt his heavy ribs expand against your shoulder blades, lungs catching a breath before he barked a flat order into your neck “shoot”

the gun roared, violent recoil sending you jumping straight back into his hold, calloused palm locked hard onto your hip to steady your shivering stride, while his free hand slipped over the barrel, smoothly extracting the weapon from your stiff fingers, as the adrenaline sent a tremor through your wrists.

there was silver at his temples, weaving intricately with the cedar brown strands that he methodically tucked behind his ears with thick, gloved fingers. beneath the overcast afternoon sun, the ashen streaks grew more prominent, mirroring the mixed, rugged tones of a coyote’s fur.

you noticed it only because he was carrying you in his arms, cradling your weight against his chest too gently, too carefully, your hemline ruined by the swamp water, though it was nothing compared to his own clumped riding boots and trousers, the thick lemoyne mud sucking and squelching around his ankles with every heavy stride.

blinking up at him from such proximity, your head hovered safely beneath his scarred jawline as your eyes wandered along his features, the prominent, square jaw framed by a wiry beard, tan baked, defined cheekbones wearing a permanent berry red flush from the burning sun, and the crooked, bumpy bridge of his nose.

“i could walk on my own” you murmured, the words a thin rasp against his neck, his eyes squinting down at you in an amused, knowing way, framed by lowered lashes.

he looked at you as though half tempted to drop you just to watch you sink, not just because you’d developed a sharp, biting wit since joining the camp, constantly pushing back against dutch’s philosophies and giving the boys hell whenever they gave you unwanted attention, but because he knew damn well you couldn't manage the swamp, a lazy, arrogant amusement flashing in his irises.

alligators still terrified you, even though you rarely saw them. there had been that one time, perhaps, when you had wandered entirely too far, never dreaming a beast would approach so close. until arthur lunged into the reeds, tossed your weight over his shoulder like a sack of flour, and hauled you out of the shallows despite your embarrassed protests and the steady, warm pressure of his solid palm clamped over your pert ass.

now, he simply bared his teeth in a lopsided grin, sharp canines out and deep smile lines creasing around his mouth. one dense eyebrow quirked upward, and you knew beforehand that a teasing remark, prickling sour as lemon candies on his tongue, was about to slip past his lips.

“oh, aah don’t doubt it, sweetheart, especially with those fine, pristine boots you’re sportin'” it was a bald faced lie and you both knew it, the leather was split and weathered, wearing a dark, ugly patina, and had likely been passed down through three different women before it ever hit your heels, because new leather was old money luxury.

still, the barely concealed compliment landed, and arthur watched with rapture as your eyes fluttered away shyly, your fingers flexing instinctively against the heavy muscle mass at his shoulder blades, digging in to tighten your hold around his neck.

john was barking like a kicked hound a few paces back, cursing the mud, complaining about his wet trousers, and swearing his repeater carbine was gaining a pound with every mile. he endured it until eventually realizing just how unnaturally slow arthur was walking, seemingly unable to peel his eyes off your face, and the tiny, stupidly satisfied smile pulling at his lips only made the display worse.

unable to take it anymore, as it was entirely too much for marston’s patience, john took a quick, exasperated stride past the two of you toward the treeline of shady belle, abandoning you both to the swamp with a gnarled, bitter rasp “for christ’s sake, git a goddamn room, ya two”

and you did, at some point. when weeks dragged into months, arthur slowly realized that he wasn't merely taking pity on you or acting out a savior desire to help, he’d fallen for you, trapped in a suffocating attachment that felt like a sin, especially after the way he’d flubbed things with mary years ago.

that realization brought immense worry and a volatile need to protect you that had him locking horns with anyone who crossed his line. he’d gone wild in the nearby towns, breaking a man’s jaw into the dirt just for thinking he could spit disrespect your way and keep his teeth.

at the campfires, he’d show his fangs to micah the second that snake lets an insulting jibe slide, voice a raucous thing that rips from his ribs, claws and all, while dutch just stood by his tent with his arms locked, watching the performance proceed and refusing to open his mouth to put that serpent in his place.

you had seen arthur furious, and you had seen him close to breaking apart entirely, his eyes stinging and glassy with unshed tears as he rubbed at them with a wet, self deprecating chuckle, trying to shield you from his burdens.

you’d even seen him gut shot and bleeding out, his bronzed face drained down to a pasty, unliving white. that was the night you’d screamed at him, looking a hell of a lot wilder than the quiet, timid girl he’d hauled onto his saddle weeks or months ago.

proper tearing into him, pointing a trembling finger at his shuddering chest while he laughed a hoarse, coughing sound, his heavily bandaged sides still agonizingly sore, putting up a red hot protest.

“you do not—do not, you hear me, arthur? ever try to die before my eyes” you had rasped, your voice wheezing with raw panic at the final sentence. fingers digging into his neck that has prickles blooming across, clawing the messy strands at his nape when you were supposed to be gently anchoring his spine against the pillows.

lunging forward instead, your faces colliding, your mouth smashing hard against his split, iron tasting lips. he was shivering under your weight, his thick, scarred hand rising to cave over your jawline, his muffled, uneven murmur of “reckon aah hear ya” completely devoured by your mouth.

since then, you two had shared the same intimate space, that small room upstairs with its worn rugs, chipped walls, and cluttered arrangement of tables and shelves that you had spent hours sweeping free of dust.

it was private, a sanctuary complete with a narrow balcony, and every morning before the sun could even bleed gold into the sky, you’d tiptoe across cool floorboards, parting the frayed lace curtains to slip out into the early, predawn mist, not stopping until your chest was pressed flush against his wide, brawny back while he took his first drag of a cigarette.

he’d drop the acrid smoke, whirring your body around in his grip to swing your thighs over the wooden ledge, and bury his dry mouth against your hairline, his voice a thick, sleep drowned growl against warm skin “mornin, sweetheart”

waking beside arthur was always a slow, drifting drag. expanding your limbs on the narrow cot to find your body squeezed flush against his heaving ribs, his chest putting up a stuttering snore in his sleep, face buried deep into your hair.

his broad palms were settled possessively across your lower stomach, and whenever you squirmed a little, a funny, fluttering sensation would coil in your belly, twisting the insides. subtle movements woke him, and you let out a startled whimper when his warm lips pressed against your shoulder, searing through the thin cotton fabric of your nightie as your body rolled over so you could face him.

so beautiful in that mellow, pale dawn light, the blue brought out by slate gray, far brighter and more vivid than any other color in his irises. your fingertips reached up to his temple, sliding gently across the silver strands that had mapped his temples more prominent over the months.

he blinked dazedly, russet eyelashes fanning long and low over his cheekbones as he let you dissect his face. you did it each time anew, as though he changed overnight, growing younger rather than older, and entirely worth the soft praises you breathed against his skin. with your palm flat against his fine haired chest, you felt his scarred skin and the hard, steady pulse beating beneath it.

the scatter of freckles over his broken nose practically starved for your mouth, and you tilted your chin, dragging your lips across every solitary mole doting his features. you let him find your jaw, yielding to the teasing nip he left there before his mouth found your lips, no tongue, just feathery, breathless brushes.

his palms dropped lower to cup your fleshy bottom, blunt fingernails clawing firmly into your perky curves to haul you flush against his frame, though you were already bone to bone. no words were spoken, nor did they feel trapped, they were simply traded through loving glances and raw touches as you ground your pelvis against his thigh.

you rolled your pelvis against his thigh, and when his heavy knee split your legs to nudge his weight into your center, your hips gave a violent, submissive roll, cottony nightgown sliding over skin, bunching at your knees and riding higher. not wearing a thing underneath, there wasn't a point to armor when you were locked in a bedroom with your man, clothed in a gown long enough to hide the secrets that were currently dragging wet lines down the hard muscle of his leg.

“reckon someone woke up needy this mornin” arthur was the first to distort the silence, voice roughened with sleep and deep amusement, loud enough to raise the fine hairs at your nape and drown out the chirping birds and the slowly waking camp outside. you bit down on your lower lip, instantly drawing his lidded gaze to the movement.

as his stare traced the plump outline of your mouth, his pupils blew out, more so when you began to wriggle, your bare, glistening pussy dragging a heavy, oozing trail of slick right across his loose trousers, until the clean fabric of his pajama bottoms was ruined by a dark, blooming smudge of your vicious arousal.

“i love you, arthur” you choked out, the words wavering past your wobbly lips. in response, he reached down to slowly drag his thumb across the lower pillow, smoothing the abundant moisture back and forth, feeling your hips buckling in fractured motion, your breath catching in a dazed hiccup while your swollen clit dragged harsh against his leg.

a sharp, muffled gasp was torn from your throat, your teeth nearly snapping over his nail the moment he shifted his leg, thigh jutting up to collide hard with your sensitive, puffy bud. still, you kept up the torturous friction, your pulsing cunt humping his leg in slow circles as his stare hooded.

“aah know, honey, i’m the luckiest man alive to hear it” arthur growled softly, the sound somewhere between a tender croon and a guttural rumble. his thick thumb sliding further, slipping past your teeth, mooring your tongue and kneading the sensitive tip until your lips sealed tight over his skin.

you sucked down on his knuckle, cheeks drawing inward, feeling your face begin to heat up with a rush, sweat beading across your collarbone and in the hollow of your chest, your entire body slick with a feverish sweat, blending with the sopping slick that were overflowing past fluttering folds and drizzling down your thighs in a thin, sticky runnel.

christ almighty, if there even was a god, the way you looked right now was the most gorgeous thing he had ever witnessed. no untamed landscapes could ever hold a candle to you, nor could the way he portrayed your likeness in his leather journal, regardless of how many delicate lines and gentle ink strokes he used to keep you in the pages.

it was exactly how you appeared in this very moment, your eyelashes trembling low over glazed, dazed eyes, your mouth drawn tight as you desperately sucked down on his thick digit, and your body rubbing against his heavy thigh with such frantic need. letting out a broken moan every time his muscles flexed beneath, as his fingers buried deep to knead into the plump curve of your ass, dragging you forward and backward, holding your weight down.

you pressed closer still, your stomach molding perfectly against his belly, right where his cock was already heavy and leaking, strained tight against the linen of his trousers, precome welling from the root, bleeding through the fabric in dark, pearlescent beads, the swollen crown throbbing in a slow, heavy pulse.

you were the woman he wanted as his wife, a thought he kept spinning around in his head, letting it bounce, roll behind his teeth, letting it anchor deep beneath his ribs until his imagination ran wild. he allowed himself to picture you in a beautiful gown, a gleaming band locked tight around your finger to adorn it, and a breathtaking smile gracing your features while you muttered the word husband into his skin, called him yours.

bound together by something so much more enduring than this chaotic world, far deeper than a shared bed.

“gonna bah ya a pretty ring, ask ya to be my old lady” he would never force you, he’d never turn mean or rage if you were unsure about taking such a monumentally terrifying step. he would bide his time, leave the cards on the table and give you an honest choice, and wait for your genuine answer, no matter how long it took.

the sheer tenderness of his whispered confession caused your vision to blur, eyes brimming wet as hot tears pooled against your lashes and spilled down prickling cheeks.

arthur caught the glint of the salt in the morning light, moving closer, his roughened, sun baked face dipping down to plant soft, heavy kisses right over your closed eyelids, while your chin shuddered and you began to nod frantically into his neck, giving him the only answer that mattered.

with his thumb still remaining in your mouth, you let out a muffled whine around his digit, a garbled “mm—hm” of your consent vibrating past his skin. your tone pitching higher the moment his palm left your ass to slink underneath the hemline of your nightgown, gliding slowly across your trembling thigh and the curved slope of your hip, leaving fire.

he rose higher, counting each shuddering rib he felt beneath his touch as your chest buckled with ragged breaths, until his broad hand finally cupped your breast. he fondled the soft weight in his loose, proprietary grip, rubbing every rough callus of his palm over your pebbled, rigid nipple.

your hips rocked up in shallow, helpless thrusts as he drew rough, chafing circles around the hardened, tight areola of your breast, feeling the desperate way you hiked your leg higher up his hip.

you found a position that caused your dazed movements to quicken in a sudden rush, your tight walls contracting in empty ache, cunt gushing a final spill at the exact same moment he peaked too. his blushing, engorged cockhead giving a sharp, rippling twitch behind a waistband, cum spurting out in thick, creamy releases that soaked through and stuck to the caked pajama bottoms.

it took arthur very little to recover, his length already thick, rigid, and rearing for more. you allowed him to maneuver your weakened body as he pleased, a sharp gasp catching behind your teeth as he hauled your sore, slick cunt off his thigh, dragging your back, spine pressed flat against his warm, corded chest.

you could feel the firm, slightly pudgy fullness that paddled his lower stomach pressing into the small of your back, and you felt the way he bound one massive arm around your torso. caving one palm flat over your breast to heavy knead the soft weight, his mouth found your neck, teeth splitting open to sink a bruising bite right where your shoulder sloped.

he fumbled with his waistband with one hand, dragging it low enough down his thewy thighs for his heavy, engorged length to bob free, daubing his happytrail. calloused fist tight around the root, guiding his length directly between your thighs, gliding past your ass as he let out a low grunt at your sudden shiver.

smiling against your bare skin, unbothered when you tugged desperately at his forearm, fingernails scraping thin, white lines into his flesh as your legs forced themselves wide open for him. your jaw went slack with a soft, helpless keen when he slapped his slippery, veiny girth against your pulsating cunt, grinding up and down between your drenched folds until his flared head finally began to breach your gaping, stretching thin hole.

you moaned out loud, blabbering his name so clearly that anyone with ears could have heard, but he didn't care in the slightest, heavy balls smacking against your bottom with each flesh on flesh impact, his dry, split lips glued to your sweat slicked neck to sink his teeth in, sucking bruising marks.

your ragged sounds wrenched by the savage snap of his hips, thrust after thrust ratcheting up in volume, picking up the chaotic pace, cock drowned within the drenched, suffocating clamp. he's ramming in deep, while your cunt struggles and flutters around, translucent slick trickling hot down your legs, balls smooshed as he starts pummeling into you, barely withdrawing before driving back in, teeth closing roughly around your earlobe until you're sobbing.

“want to have kids with ya” words flowed from him, tension in his gut curling tight and demanding, the hand on your sore tit leaving, gliding lower, settling heavy over your stomach, pressing down firm to trap the heavy, simmering ache that had settled in your vaulted pelvis.

ridges of his cock hitting every crevice within your clamping cunt, thick tip jerking and pulsing at its root, prodding at the plump give of your cervix, dragging along sensitive walls. saliva pooled past your lips and into the pillow, the wetness slicking down helplessly to your chin as your entire body seized, stretching taut as a bowstring, his hips flush to your ass, brows pulled together.

forehead creased behind vicious scowl and tongue licking down the shell of your ear, your shared pulse hammering like thunder in his skull, his voice croaking out “plug ya ah gain 'n ah gain, till aah see ya walkin' this camp thick with mah child”

broken, sugar sweet whimpers were all you could force from your lungs while your mushy walls turned to syrup, as he pounds into the sappy hole, lodged deep, thewy arms looped around your midsection, both palms now hugging at your belly, mapping, right until you clench and convulse, thighs squeezing.

foaming milky, pearlescent bands around his swelled base as he floods you, his heavy body finally slumping against your stiffened spine, your trembling fingers, which had scratched his skin raw and red during the frenzy, lost their grip on his forearm. yet, he gently wove your fingers together with his own, guiding your hands behind you so he could press a tender kiss to your knuckles.

you let out a dazed hiccup, thoroughly overwhelmed, your lithe limbs submission themselves, still answering to him “please, arthur” though it is a sound that could have been a plea for absolutely anything, especially as he ruthlessly resumes his movements, humping into your swollen cunt.

it was far from over, even though everyone in the camp had long since stirred awake, and you could actually track the footsteps outside, listening to dutch and molly arguing the second their bedroom latch clicked, hearing how the man coldly dismissed the poor woman, throwing his usual “later, molly, i’m busy” into the hallway.

but the world outside didn't matter, crimson flush painted the apples of arthur's cheekbones, the heat bleeding down his throat to stain his muscular chest in chaotic splotches, as you were straddling his face, hovering high as your slippery pussy dripped its slick straight onto his lips.

he had insisted, dragging you securely into his arms as he stretched upward, humming a low invitation “wanna taste ya.. just a little, darlin’?” the question, of course, purely rhetorical, he had already fallen back onto the narrow cot and the rumpled, patterned blanket, his large hands encircling your legs.

scarred fingertips dimpling indents into the soft underside of your thighs, which were still slick, still feverish to his touch. he buried his crooked nose and wet, hungrily slurping mouth directly into your sloppy, cum filled cunt, between your wide parted thighs, while you could only smother the rising cries behind a trembling palm, the fine veins mapping the back of your fingers.

arthur didn't even try to look presentable. he scrubbed his face and body with a damp cloth, but he didn't bother to fix his messy, haphazardly strewn waves or hide how thoroughly reddened his skin appeared. eyes still a bit vacant from hours you spent at it, though it was nothing compared to the dazed, unraveled look you wore.

as you walked out together, the entire camp kept silent, whole gang holding their tongues, partly because you kept your chin tucked to your chest to dodge their stares, but mostly because arthur was sizing up the folks like a rabid coyote that had just drifted into a coop full of helpless hens.

most mornings he’s already eaten his note-packed lunch by noon, taking the shared shop’s break time to grab a cup of coffee. the system was old, one that still spat down a full pot’s worth instead of those fancy ones they have today; only makes a single cup of joe, doesn’t leave any for anyone else.. how modern day american he found it all to be. arthur preferred the taste of the old ways, even if it meant he’d have to put a little work into doing it himself. the switch-controlled, orange light being on meant something to him; it represented community and teamwork, not cooperate greed and cubicle-forced separation.

the mechanic took pride in the conversations he’s had standing here while waiting for the coffee to brew. through these decorative and discount paper cups, he’s come to know quite a few things about the people around him. like how little ol’ mrs. junie was fightin’ a battle not many could see and that kind mr. cooper’s son’s baseball team was throwing a fundraiser for their costly trip to the championship. he found humanity in the small talk, comfort in his social needs. and arthur’d make however many stained-glass and slightly bitter pots of coffee it took to give his peers a small break, if this did something for them like it did for himself. that’s the kind of man he is.

but today was different than his ordinary routine, even though he’d still downed his sandwiches and tucked away his love letter right on time. the boss waited until he was finished, dropping by to tell him to meet him in his office before he picked up the wrench again.

𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢 .ᐣ his cracked and flip phone screen read. he hated taking the time to type out hindering texts and knew that this was call-worthy information, anyway. arthur dialed your connecting number. the line rang and shortly after, you picked up.

“hi honey.” you greeted him warm and calmly, stirring the browning ground beef in a skillet. your phone was pinned between your shoulder and ear, freeing your hand once again. steadily, you continued to cook as he filled you in, adding salt and pepper into the pan. “uh huh,” you confirmed his question of you know how mr. vic called me into the office, nodding in reply as if he could see you, sifting through the spice rack for more flavors to add.

offered me a raise could be heard faintly through the line if you were listening in in the kitchen. thirty-nine fifty an hour, an’ a lead position. he heard your excited gasp but your husband continued to speak. get double overtime and a few days of pto now, too. can take a vacation, a real one. he paused to contemplate his choice before committing to bringing it up. can finally have another baby, too. he lowered his voice to where only you could hear him. hell, we can start on it soon as i get home.

his words were getting ahead of themselves, his mood fueled by the gratification of fulfillment, for his role has now added another notch of success to it.

“arthur!” you giggled his name in a small laugh, his outpour of words taking you by surprise; and with of course, the aid of a brief thought of how exactly that baby would get here.

oh, don’t do that now he smiled back on the other side of the call. actin’ like you ain’t been beggin’ for it. his voice was thick and husky over the line.

“it’s hard not to.” you sat the spatula’s end in the low-sizzling pan, speaking to him in a sultry voice. “‘specially now that you’re bringing home the real money.” your teeth had a bite of your bottom lip. he laughed and you broke the bit before it could even start.

thank you, baby. “i’m proud of you, you deserve it.” you said sincerely, stirring the contents that were starting to burn. whatchu makin’ .ᐣ he asked, knowing the surrounding sounds of his stovetop’s cookwear. “chili. it’s for later.” arthur’s face scrunched up in happiness and he put his phone’s receiver to his chest to celebrate silently for a second. can’t wait, darlin’. kids must be down for a nap, i don’t hear ‘em drivin’ you crazy. he said. “oh, they are. went down half an hour ago.” you paused only to change your tone. “it’s just me.” you played a damsel in slight distress; huffing dramatically to add to the effect. “all alone.” you sang to him, removing the food from the heat and moving onto better ways you could spend your time.

quit it. he said quickly, already knowing all about your little act. you mimicked a silky and seductive heavy breath into his ear, one that he loves to pull out of you when he’s length deep. you walked into your room, threw yourself onto the bed and spread your legs. “but i miss you.” you said so sweetly, luring him in and tapping the speakerphone button. well, you bein’ all alone an’ missin’ me is how you got those kids in the first place, now hush. he warned you a second time. his denial bred annoyance, leaving you audibly scoffing. they keep you company while i work, that was the deal. don’t start. he sealed it with and his break running shorter by the minute. you tossed the phone to the bed and pulled at your clothes to reveal just what you had needed. all of your lower-halved layers were at your ankles, the colors clashing with the muted toned bedspread. you angled your hips, snuggly shifting around your beat-in mattress before sinking two fingers to split open your slit. “hmm.” you hummed. “i’m sorry.” you said smiling while taking the phone into your hands once more.

ain’t nothin’ to be sorry for, darlin’. i know you miss me. you think i don’t miss you .ᐣ he asked, rhetorically. “not as much as me.” you said, somewhat paying attention to the banter but focused more on snapping the perfect pic. you clicked open the camera app, a yellow square centered your face before it was being held down and in between your thighs. peeking to see if it lined up well enough, you squeezed one of the four buttons on your phone and the screen flashed. you so sure about that .ᐣ arthur asked entertained, the background was rummaging in noise and telling that he wasn’t alone. perfect, you thought. “positive.” you hummed back, sending the naked picture to his phone. you could hear it buzz loudly upon being notified.

hang on. arthur said, pulling the phone down from his ear again. 𝚜𝚎𝚎 .ᐣ ;) the attached message read, sending him a winking face instead of any emojis since they always ended up looking like this on his end: � . his phone took a second to download the image, rendering it in down the screen like it were being scanned into a printer.

that’s what did him in, and that’s what got you here. just you wait ‘til i’m home. arthur finally said after a defeated and long sigh. his words rang through and wrapped up the call in a threat, staying with you well past him opening the door, eating dinner and even bathing and putting the kids to bed. he didn’t mention it once, in fact, he acted like it never even happened at all.

but the truth was was that his second gift of the day stayed with him too, that little stunt you pulled with him of putting him in such a position in front of his coworkers earned you every part of what he was giving you.

your knees were in your chest, folded up so he could shove his dick down deeper into your soft and wet cunt; milking him, like how it was so naturally good at.

“’s the matter with you, huh .ᐣ ” he asked, slamming his hips into yours at a quick pace. “doin’ that to me.” he knew his words got you off, and he didn’t want to work too long for it; being aware of his own ticking, timed clock. “gettin’ me stiff in front of those people.” his forearm fit like a puzzle piece in between your bicep and thigh, keeping you still so he could sink further into you. your wordless reply was suffocated in moans as he took his free hand to press down onto your lower stomach slightly. his southern half of his happy trail’s hair was wet from the mix of clear liquids, your pussy soaked streams of squirt onto his hot skin in the mere moments earlier. your breasts bounced with every thrust, arthur pushed both of your hamstrings down to tilt his cock in the deepest it could go.

“ohh, fu-uck!” you couldn’t help but yell out. you felt his hand fly over your mouth but his hips never let up. he kept the rhythm in harmony and after he’d spent all that time finding it he was certain he wouldn’t let go of it now.

“can’t wake ‘em.” arthur reminded you gently, his own tone going to a soft whisper. “and i don’t need ‘em thinkin’ i’m in here hurtin’ you.” still his thrusts kept going, growing more spaced out from the last. “now,” he said, his toes pushing into the bed to strengthen his shove. a bead of sweat fell from his forehead and down onto your chest. “are you ready for another one .ᐣ ” he asked quietly, swelling in size at the sight. his palm still shielded your mouth in the act of you shaking your head to tell him a very desperate but elated yes. and he knows just how much you love it.. the feeling of him drain his white and warm seed into your walls, understanding how rare it is for him to have the chance to do so, but now he’s been told that he can try to make it count .ᐣ he was done for, and you were in danger until he did.

࣪˖ ִֶָ🍓་༘ ࣪˖ ִֶָ🍓་༘ ࣪˖ ִֶָ🍓་༘ ࣪˖ ִֶָ🍓་༘ ࣪˖ ִֶָ🍓་༘ ࣪˖ ִֶָ🍓་༘ ࣪˖ ִֶָ🍓་༘ ࣪˖ ִֶָ🍓་༘ ࣪˖ ִֶָ🍓་༘ ࣪˖ ִֶָ🍓་༘ ࣪˖ ִֶָ🍓་༘ ࣪˖ ִֶָ🍓་༘ ࣪˖ ִֶָ🍓་༘ ࣪˖ ִֶָ

1899.

⟡ this work contains. ⌇ smut ⋮ light angst ⟡ cw. ⌇ part-time partnering / part-time parenting. light abandonment aspects. arthur refers to himself as d**** once. mdni. ⟡ wc. ⌇ 393.

here’s how i think arthur could be like in his own setting; he’d return for a few days at a time; finally setting apart from dutch’s camp for a while. he has the deed to a place that he can call his, a small cottage in the center of strawberry. that, and a secret wife and two kids. the doorknob turns, knowing only one other person has the key. he’s home, you knew, you were sure of it. his youngest is overjoyed in seeing him, arthur was around enough for him to remember his face. he’s getting big now, he’ll notice and say upon picking him up. his daughter comes around the corner, smiling a trembling and toothy grin as she reunites with her father. he’s picked something from the communal garden, or so he saw it as, for both of his girls. he has two sets of several stems of assorted and pretty flowers to give out.

you’d make him hot meal without a fuss, still caring enough to fulfill the duties he’d bestowed upon you; even if you did question his long and difficult absence from time to time. he’d went as far as putting a ring on your finger, and doing all of this for you. it was an alright life, better than the reality of a lot of other alternatives. he still sits at the head of your small table, not seeing the irony in the value of the lesson. he struggles with the morality of the situation day and night, excusing the behavior by thinking of how if josiah could get away with it, why couldn’t he .ᐣ

but he makes up for it when he’s sending you into a daze, bliss-filled and fucked bubbly. guess that’s what makes it so easy to forgive. he doesn’t feel so far away when his slick and salvia seeping sack is so slapping into you; your arms wrapped behind your back with him pushing your face into the bed. he uses your upper half for leverage, clinging on to you to keep you still. ‘shh, shh, shh.’ arthur’ll breathe out heavily, pacing himself not to cum just yet. “i’m right here.” he’ll say, letting you go only to grab you again and lower himself to where his chest met your back’s flesh. “i know you feel me, darlin’.” he’ll say right in your ear, voice thick in sex. “and daddy ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

credits; divider used can be found here ♡. pics by me ⊹ ࣪ ˖

⟡ essie speaks ⌇ i dont really dip my toes into modern au stuff too often, as well as use ***** a lot so i wrote two options for you all to choose between reading if you all wish to do so. but thank you for this ask 🤭, this was so much fun to try and branch out with so ty ty ♡ 𑣲⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

most mornings he’s already eaten his note-packed lunch by noon, taking the shared shop’s break time to grab a cup of coffee. the system was old, one that still spat down a full pot’s worth instead of those fancy ones they have today; only makes a single cup of joe, doesn’t leave any for anyone else.. how modern day american he found it all to be. arthur preferred the taste of the old ways, even if it meant he’d have to put a little work into doing it himself. the switch-controlled, orange light being on meant something to him; it represented community and teamwork, not cooperate greed and cubicle-forced separation.

the mechanic took pride in the conversations he’s had standing here while waiting for the coffee to brew. through these decorative and discount paper cups, he’s come to know quite a few things about the people around him. like how little ol’ mrs. junie was fightin’ a battle not many could see and that kind mr. cooper’s son’s baseball team was throwing a fundraiser for their costly trip to the championship. he found humanity in the small talk, comfort in his social needs. and arthur’d make however many stained-glass and slightly bitter pots of coffee it took to give his peers a small break, if this did something for them like it did for himself. that’s the kind of man he is.

but today was different than his ordinary routine, even though he’d still downed his sandwiches and tucked away his love letter right on time. the boss waited until he was finished, dropping by to tell him to meet him in his office before he picked up the wrench again.

𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢 .ᐣ his cracked and flip phone screen read. he hated taking the time to type out hindering texts and knew that this was call-worthy information, anyway. arthur dialed your connecting number. the line rang and shortly after, you picked up.

“hi honey.” you greeted him warm and calmly, stirring the browning ground beef in a skillet. your phone was pinned between your shoulder and ear, freeing your hand once again. steadily, you continued to cook as he filled you in, adding salt and pepper into the pan. “uh huh,” you confirmed his question of you know how mr. vic called me into the office, nodding in reply as if he could see you, sifting through the spice rack for more flavors to add.

offered me a raise could be heard faintly through the line if you were listening in in the kitchen. thirty-nine fifty an hour, an’ a lead position. he heard your excited gasp but your husband continued to speak. get double overtime and a few days of pto now, too. can take a vacation, a real one. he paused to contemplate his choice before committing to bringing it up. can finally have another baby, too. he lowered his voice to where only you could hear him. hell, we can start on it soon as i get home.

his words were getting ahead of themselves, his mood fueled by the gratification of fulfillment, for his role has now added another notch of success to it.

“arthur!” you giggled his name in a small laugh, his outpour of words taking you by surprise; and with of course, the aid of a brief thought of how exactly that baby would get here.

oh, don’t do that now he smiled back on the other side of the call. actin’ like you ain’t been beggin’ for it. his voice was thick and husky over the line.

“it’s hard not to.” you sat the spatula’s end in the low-sizzling pan, speaking to him in a sultry voice. “‘specially now that you’re bringing home the real money.” your teeth had a bite of your bottom lip. he laughed and you broke the bit before it could even start.

thank you, baby. “i’m proud of you, you deserve it.” you said sincerely, stirring the contents that were starting to burn. whatchu makin’ .ᐣ he asked, knowing the surrounding sounds of his stovetop’s cookwear. “chili. it’s for later.” arthur’s face scrunched up in happiness and he put his phone’s receiver to his chest to celebrate silently for a second. can’t wait, darlin’. kids must be down for a nap, i don’t hear ‘em drivin’ you crazy. he said. “oh, they are. went down half an hour ago.” you paused only to change your tone. “it’s just me.” you played a damsel in slight distress; huffing dramatically to add to the effect. “all alone.” you sang to him, removing the food from the heat and moving onto better ways you could spend your time.

quit it. he said quickly, already knowing all about your little act. you mimicked a silky and seductive heavy breath into his ear, one that he loves to pull out of you when he’s length deep. you walked into your room, threw yourself onto the bed and spread your legs. “but i miss you.” you said so sweetly, luring him in and tapping the speakerphone button. well, you bein’ all alone an’ missin’ me is how you got those kids in the first place, now hush. he warned you a second time. his denial bred annoyance, leaving you audibly scoffing. they keep you company while i work, that was the deal. don’t start. he sealed it with and his break running shorter by the minute. you tossed the phone to the bed and pulled at your clothes to reveal just what you had needed. all of your lower-halved layers were at your ankles, the colors clashing with the muted toned bedspread. you angled your hips, snuggly shifting around your beat-in mattress before sinking two fingers to split open your slit. “hmm.” you hummed. “i’m sorry.” you said smiling while taking the phone into your hands once more.

ain’t nothin’ to be sorry for, darlin’. i know you miss me. you think i don’t miss you .ᐣ he asked, rhetorically. “not as much as me.” you said, somewhat paying attention to the banter but focused more on snapping the perfect pic. you clicked open the camera app, a yellow square centered your face before it was being held down and in between your thighs. peeking to see if it lined up well enough, you squeezed one of the four buttons on your phone and the screen flashed. you so sure about that .ᐣ arthur asked entertained, the background was rummaging in noise and telling that he wasn’t alone. perfect, you thought. “positive.” you hummed back, sending the naked picture to his phone. you could hear it buzz loudly upon being notified.

hang on. arthur said, pulling the phone down from his ear again. 𝚜𝚎𝚎 .ᐣ ;) the attached message read, sending him a winking face instead of any emojis since they always ended up looking like this on his end: � . his phone took a second to download the image, rendering it in down the screen like it were being scanned into a printer.

that’s what did him in, and that’s what got you here. just you wait ‘til i’m home. arthur finally said after a defeated and long sigh. his words rang through and wrapped up the call in a threat, staying with you well past him opening the door, eating dinner and even bathing and putting the kids to bed. he didn’t mention it once, in fact, he acted like it never even happened at all.

but the truth was was that his second gift of the day stayed with him too, that little stunt you pulled with him of putting him in such a position in front of his coworkers earned you every part of what he was giving you.

your knees were in your chest, folded up so he could shove his dick down deeper into your soft and wet cunt; milking him, like how it was so naturally good at.

“’s the matter with you, huh .ᐣ ” he asked, slamming his hips into yours at a quick pace. “doin’ that to me.” he knew his words got you off, and he didn’t want to work too long for it; being aware of his own ticking, timed clock. “gettin’ me stiff in front of those people.” his forearm fit like a puzzle piece in between your bicep and thigh, keeping you still so he could sink further into you. your wordless reply was suffocated in moans as he took his free hand to press down onto your lower stomach slightly. his southern half of his happy trail’s hair was wet from the mix of clear liquids, your pussy soaked streams of squirt onto his hot skin in the mere moments earlier. your breasts bounced with every thrust, arthur pushed both of your hamstrings down to tilt his cock in the deepest it could go.

“ohh, fu-uck!” you couldn’t help but yell out. you felt his hand fly over your mouth but his hips never let up. he kept the rhythm in harmony and after he’d spent all that time finding it he was certain he wouldn’t let go of it now.

“can’t wake ‘em.” arthur reminded you gently, his own tone going to a soft whisper. “and i don’t need ‘em thinkin’ i’m in here hurtin’ you.” still his thrusts kept going, growing more spaced out from the last. “now,” he said, his toes pushing into the bed to strengthen his shove. a bead of sweat fell from his forehead and down onto your chest. “are you ready for another one .ᐣ ” he asked quietly, swelling in size at the sight. his palm still shielded your mouth in the act of you shaking your head to tell him a very desperate but elated yes. and he knows just how much you love it.. the feeling of him drain his white and warm seed into your walls, understanding how rare it is for him to have the chance to do so, but now he’s been told that he can try to make it count .ᐣ he was done for, and you were in danger until he did.

࣪˖ ִֶָ🍓་༘ ࣪˖ ִֶָ🍓་༘ ࣪˖ ִֶָ🍓་༘ ࣪˖ ִֶָ🍓་༘ ࣪˖ ִֶָ🍓་༘ ࣪˖ ִֶָ🍓་༘ ࣪˖ ִֶָ🍓་༘ ࣪˖ ִֶָ🍓་༘ ࣪˖ ִֶָ🍓་༘ ࣪˖ ִֶָ🍓་༘ ࣪˖ ִֶָ🍓་༘ ࣪˖ ִֶָ🍓་༘ ࣪˖ ִֶָ🍓་༘ ࣪˖ ִֶָ

1899.

⟡ this work contains. ⌇ smut ⋮ light angst ⟡ cw. ⌇ part-time partnering / part-time parenting. light abandonment aspects. arthur refers to himself as d**** once. mdni. ⟡ wc. ⌇ 393.

here’s how i think arthur could be like in his own setting; he’d return for a few days at a time; finally setting apart from dutch’s camp for a while. he has the deed to a place that he can call his, a small cottage in the center of strawberry. that, and a secret wife and two kids. the doorknob turns, knowing only one other person has the key. he’s home, you knew, you were sure of it. his youngest is overjoyed in seeing him, arthur was around enough for him to remember his face. he’s getting big now, he’ll notice and say upon picking him up. his daughter comes around the corner, smiling a trembling and toothy grin as she reunites with her father. he’s picked something from the communal garden, or so he saw it as, for both of his girls. he has two sets of several stems of assorted and pretty flowers to give out.

you’d make him hot meal without a fuss, still caring enough to fulfill the duties he’d bestowed upon you; even if you did question his long and difficult absence from time to time. he’d went as far as putting a ring on your finger, and doing all of this for you. it was an alright life, better than the reality of a lot of other alternatives. he still sits at the head of your small table, not seeing the irony in the value of the lesson. he struggles with the morality of the situation day and night, excusing the behavior by thinking of how if josiah could get away with it, why couldn’t he .ᐣ

but he makes up for it when he’s sending you into a daze, bliss-filled and fucked bubbly. guess that’s what makes it so easy to forgive. he doesn’t feel so far away when his slick and salvia seeping sack is so slapping into you; your arms wrapped behind your back with him pushing your face into the bed. he uses your upper half for leverage, clinging on to you to keep you still. ‘shh, shh, shh.’ arthur’ll breathe out heavily, pacing himself not to cum just yet. “i’m right here.” he’ll say, letting you go only to grab you again and lower himself to where his chest met your back’s flesh. “i know you feel me, darlin’.” he’ll say right in your ear, voice thick in sex. “and daddy ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

credits; divider used can be found here ♡. pics by me ⊹ ࣪ ˖

⟡ essie speaks ⌇ i dont really dip my toes into modern au stuff too often, as well as use ***** a lot so i wrote two options for you all to choose between reading if you all wish to do so. but thank you for this ask 🤭, this was so much fun to try and branch out with so ty ty ♡ 𑣲⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

For a little while, the river cools you.

You stand shin-deep in the San Luis, skirts gathered in one hand, your bare feet sunk into soft silt and smooth stones. The current slips around your ankles, tugging gently, as if the river itself has hands. The sun has tilted lower now, all its brightness melting into gold over the water, over the scrub, over the reddish distant line of Mexico on the far bank.

Mexico.

The word still glows inside you.

You can see it so plainly. The hidden pass. Wagons moving under cover of dawn. Dutch forced, finally, to listen to something sensible. Hosea’s sharp eyes narrowed in thought. Abigail holding Jack close. Arthur alive somewhere the law cannot reach him so easily.

Arthur.

Your heart lifts at the thought of him, then falters.

He had gone up toward the cabin not long ago, his voice low and strange when he told you he would be right back. You had barely had time to answer before he was walking away, his shoulders tight, obviously tense.

Something had been wrong. Bothering him somehow.

You step farther into the river until the water curls around your calves. The cold bites pleasantly now, steadying your thoughts. You close your eyes and breathe in the smell of cottonwood, mud, horse, and dry grass. For a few blessed moments, your body feels like your own again.

Then the pulse comes.

At first, you think it is your heartbeat.

A low throb. Deep. Distant. So soft it might be imagined.

You open your eyes.

The river keeps moving. The horses stand grazing near the bank, tails flicking lazily at flies. The little cabin sits behind you, weathered and quiet beneath the afternoon light. Nothing moves.

There it is again—another pulse.

You turn your head.

It is not coming from the river.

It is behind you, up on the bank where the bags lie near the grass, where your travel things sit in a careless little heap beside Arthur’s satchel. You stare at them, breath held, a strange awareness tightening through your body.

Another one.

This time it answers somewhere low in you.

Your thighs press together under the water. Heat stirs, sudden and unwelcome, so at odds with the chill of the river that it nearly steals your balance. You grip your skirts tighter and look toward the cabin, half-expecting Arthur to step out, to say something gruff and practical.

The pulse comes again.

Your breath catches.

You wade back toward shore slowly at first, then faster, the river sucking at your steps. Water streams from your calves as you climb onto the bank. The grass scratches your wet feet. You should put your boots on. You should dry your legs. You should call for Arthur, perhaps.

Instead, you walk straight to your bag.

The little stone woman is inside.

You know it before your fingers find her.

She is wrapped where you left her, buried among folded cloth and spare things. The moment your hand closes around the bundle, warmth blooms through the fabric. Not the warmth of the sun. Not the warmth of a stone resting in a bag all day.

Living warmth.

You go still.

The pulse travels into your palm. Once. Twice.

Your whole body answers.

The ache that rises in you is swift enough to frighten. It spills through your belly, your chest, your limbs, turning your breath shallow. You unwrap the figurine with trembling fingers. The little goddess rests in your hand, curved and crude and heavy with purpose.

The statue pulses again.

Your knees weaken.

You should drop it. You know that. Some clear, distant part of you understands that this is not right, not ordinary, not desire born cleanly from your own heart. But the thought drifts away before it can become action, carried off like a leaf in fast water.

Another pulse answers from Arthur’s satchel.

Your gaze snaps to it.

The leather bag lies half-open in the grass where he tossed it down before hurrying away. You stare at it for one heartbeat, then another, your own breath growing louder in your ears. Something inside it calls without sound.

The stone woman warms in your hand.

You take one step toward his satchel.

Then another.

By the time you crouch beside it, your fingers are no longer steady. You tell yourself you are only looking. Only checking. Only trying to understand what is happening, because surely Arthur would want to know if something strange has gotten into his things.

You reach inside.

Your fingers close around stone.

The moment you pull it free, the world seems to narrow.

The second figurine is slightly heavier than the first, carved in the same crude hand, unmistakably its counterpart. A man. Broad, blunt, made with the same shameless intention as the woman in your other palm. Its cock juts from its stone-hewn hips, strange and old and almost foolish, but there is nothing foolish in the way the air changes when you hold them together.

The pulse becomes a drum beat.

You sit back hard in the grass, breath breaking.

The statues throb in alternating rhythm, one answering the other. Your hands move before you decide to move them. You turn the pieces. The hollows and shapes align. Of course they do. They mirror life. The coming together of pieces, of body parts.

The moment they lock together, you cry out.

It tears from you before you can stop it, sharp and startled, half pain and half relief. Heat rushes through you in a brutal wave, so sudden and complete that your body folds around it. The river, the cabin, the horses, the wide gold sky, everything bursts bright and then blurs.

The joined statues lie in your hands, caught in a crude, unmistakable pantomime of sex.

And you burn.

Not gently. Not like the simmering want you have carried for Arthur across miles and nights and too-small tents. This is wildfire thrown into dry grass. It catches everywhere at once.

Your hands fumble at your clothes.

“Arthur,” you gasp.

His name feels dragged out of you by the core.

No answer comes.

You pull at buttons, laces, fastenings. Your fingers are clumsy, frantic, half-useless in their haste. Fabric loosens around your shoulders. Your breath comes fast. The air kisses newly bared skin and only makes the ache sharper.

“Arthur!”

This time your cry is louder.

His horse lifts its head nearby, ears pricked.

You should be ashamed. Some part of you is ashamed. It flickers dimly beneath the flood, a candle trying to survive a storm. But the spell, or curse, or whatever hungry thing lives inside the stone, swallows that too.

You drop back into the grass.

The linked statues tumble from your hands and land beside you, still fitted together, still pulsing.

The world pulses with them.

You twist beneath it, half undressed, shaking, one hand clawed in the grass and the other pulling open your shirt, baring your breasts to the open, as if that could give you some relief. 

“Arthur,” you sob, and do not know whether it is a plea or a prayer.

Further upriver, Arthur hears his name.

At first, he can barely hear it over the sound he has just made, muffled under the harshness of his own breath and the rush of water around his shins. He stands there in the river with his pants unfastened, cock out, shirt clinging damp to his back, shame still hot in his throat.

He is trying to breathe.

Trying to gather himself.

Then you call again.

“Arthur!”

His head snaps up.

Everything in him goes still.

That was not memory. Not fantasy. Not the wicked echo of his own want throwing your voice into the wind. That was you. Crying out. 

His hands move fast, rough and clumsy as he shoves himself back into some semblance of decency. The water surges around his boots as he turns, nearly slipping on the slick stones beneath him. He grabs for balance, curses, then drives forward through the shallows.

You call again.

This time, the sound is broken.

Arthur runs.

He crashes out of the river, boots heavy with water, pants still loose at his hips, belt hanging open. He doesn’t care. Branches whip at his sleeves as he pushes through brush and reeds, heart hammering.

“Hold on,” he breathes, though you cannot hear him. “Hold on.”

The closer he gets, the worse it becomes.

At first, it is only the same terrible heat rising again, coiling low in his belly. He snarls under his breath, furious at himself, furious at his body, furious at the impossible timing of it. But then the sensation sharpens into something larger than him, something that does not ask permission.

It moves through his blood like a command.

He stumbles.

For a second, the world tilts. The path, the grass, the cabin, the glitter of the river, all of it bends around one fixed point ahead.

You.

He sees you in the grass near the bags.

Your clothes half undone. Your body trembling. 

Arthur’s mind empties. He stops only when he sees the statues.

They lie beside you in the grass, fitted together.

Stone against stone.

Locked in some obscene little union.

Pulsing.

Arthur stares at them, and understanding does not come, not cleanly. It arrives in fragments. Your strange heat after Van Horn. His own sudden madness in the mountain cold. The look in your eyes by the river. The thing he found in the cabin was crude, old, and warm in his hand. Needing to run away and take care of himself.

The two pieces, together.

“Jesus,” he rasps.

You turn your head toward him.

Your face is flushed, eyes dark and wet, mouth parted around his name. The sight of you hits him harder than any fist ever has. Your skirt is hiked up immodestly, and you are naked from the waist up. Shamelessly, your hand rubs at yourself through your drawers as you pant, wild-eyed. His knees nearly buckle.

“Arthur,” you whisper.

That is the end of whatever restraint he had left.

He moves to you with a strangled sound, falling to his knees in the grass. His hands hover for one wild second, as if some last decent part of him is trying to remember how to ask, how to speak, how to make sense of the spell pulling both of you under.

“Are you hurt?” he manages.

You shake your head, “No.” Your hand leaves your cunt and catches his sleeve and pulls, weak but desperate. “No. I need you.”

When he moves closer to you, it isn’t graceful. There is nothing polished in the way you collide. You reach for him at the same time he reaches for you, and then his arms are around you, yours around his neck, and the first contact is a shock so fierce it leaves you both gasping.

His mouth finds yours.

The kiss is nothing like the soft goodnight at MacFarlane’s Ranch. This is answer, hunger, and terror all tangled together. He kisses you as if he has been starving in silence for years. You kiss him back with the same wildness, your fingers digging into his shoulders, his hair, the damp collar of his shirt.

The statues pulse beside you.

Arthur groans against your mouth and breaks away only to drag in air.

“We shouldn’t,” he says, but the words are wrecked.

“I know,” you breathe.

Neither of you moves away.

His forehead drops to yours. His breath shakes. Your hands slide down to his chest, feeling the thunder of his heart beneath damp fabric.

“This ain’t right,” he says.

“I know.”

His eyes open. They are blown dark, the blue almost swallowed whole. “Tell me to stop.”

The command hangs between you.  But the statues pulse, and your body arches toward his. 

“Don’t stop,” you whisper.

Arthur breaks.

Not into violence. Not into force. Into surrender.

He kisses you again, and the world vanishes down to hands, breath, grass, and heat. His hat falls somewhere beside you. Your fingers find the buttons of his shirt and fumble them open, one after another, your knuckles brushing the warm skin beneath. He shudders so hard you feel it through your palms.

His own hands are careful despite the storm in him. That is what makes your chest ache, even now. Even under whatever power has seized you both, Arthur is still Arthur, trembling and trying to be gentle with hands made for murder.

He peels loosened fabric from your waist, pausing whenever you gasp, watching your face like it is the only map he trusts. You push at his shirt in answer, frantic with the need to feel less cloth between you, less world, less anything.

The shirt goes first, thrown blindly into the grass.

Then his pants hang open, damp from the river and the exertion of his run, and your hands press to the hard warmth beneath, just above his hip. He makes a rough, helpless sound and kisses you again, deeper, his hands sliding to your waist as if he needs to anchor himself or he will be swept away entirely.

You are already half out of your clothes, but not enough. Nothing is enough.

The spell pours through you both, relentless as floodwater.

Arthur’s belt slips loose. Your remaining fastenings give beneath desperate fingers. Fabric catches, tangles, resists. You laugh once, breathless and almost broken, because the absurdity of it flickers through the haze for one impossible second.

Arthur huffs against your mouth, the sound jagged but real.

“Damn clothes,” he mutters.

You help him. He helps you. Neither of you knows where one fumbled motion ends and the next begins. It becomes a fevered choreography of undoing, all straining fabric and shaking hands, boots kicked aside, wet skirts dragging over grass, his damp clothes falling in a dark heap with yours.

The air touches more of you, more of him.

Every newly bared inch feels like flint struck against steel. You do not know what to call what is happening. You do not know whether either of you will forgive yourselves when the spell loosens its grip. You only know that beneath the unnatural heat, beneath the stone-born compulsion, there is something that has been waiting in both of you long before the statues ever touched.

The last of the clothing falls away.

The grass is warm beneath your back, the evening sky huge overhead, the San Luis whispering nearby as if it knows magic older than the two of you. Arthur is above you now, around you, with nothing left between your skin and his but trembling breath and the terrible, glowing need rolling through both of you.

Beside you, half-hidden in the grass, the joined statues throb like a second heart.

Arthur lowers his forehead to yours.

"As best I can, staying warm and on Dutch's good side " you reply grabbing a blanket, ever since the doctor in Black Water said you were pregnant. Everything shifted, all of a sudden everything was unsafe, you were paranoid, and questioned everything Dutch did- especially now with Micah in the gang. He snorted helping you make the bed less shitty. "yeah well guess pregnancy will do that to ya"

It goes quiet in the cabin, the fire Arthur had built filling the emptiness with warmth. You stopped unpacking turning to face him.

"Arthur, what did happen on the ferry?"

"I dunno they ain't tellin' me"

"Why" you asked, Arthur stopped for a moment. He never thought of why usually whatever Dutch said was the law of the land, and he knew to not question him.

Dutch always had a plan, and thought ahead. That was just the Dutch they knew. "Ah, uh I dunno" he replied moving towards you, kissing your forehead while muttering a 'I'm sorry'.

Arthur knew something changed in you since you found out a baby was on the way, the life of an outlaw wasn't for families. He knew that, he disliked John for it. He regretted not being there more for Issac, but now that he had a second chance.

He wasn't throwing it away, not again.

"We'll be here for a few days so you can rest... I'll make sure pearson gives you the best parts" he mumbled grabbin' his things.

"Let's leave" his hand stopped caressing your face, "leave?".

"We can't stay here, it'll only endanger us. I love Abigail and little Jack but I don't wanna raise my baby here, not when we have a chance to live a normal life".

Arthur had thought about it briefly, he was Dutch's errand boy already slowly being demoted. They had no money, he was expected to put in his share of anything he returned with, Dutch gave him everything when he had nothing. He couldn't just leave, Dutch would shoot 'im with his gun if he did.

"Baby we can't-"

"Arthur we can, you just can't"

You both went silent, the wind filling in the silence. Your eyes avoided his while turning down the oil lamp, "Daveys gone, Jennys dead, John, Sean and Mac are god knows where. Whats next you? Me? Theres no tellin' whose next Arthur-"

You made sense, Arthur wanted to believe in Dutch but so much had happened he felt like he didn't know the man anymore. He sighed rubbing his face and deciding to leave you alone for the night, "g'night darlin' sleep well" he said opening the door to the cabin.

--

You all finally left Colter after Arthur nagging Dutch and the train robbery being a success, now on your way to Valentine on Arthurs horse softly humming whilst looking around at the scenery.

"I gotta do some jobs to get money, Dutch wants everyone to pitch in".

"He always wants people to donate while he 'plots'" you reply holding onto the saddle while Arthur led you towards the developing town, "..." he stayed silent.

Ever since you pointed out Dutch's flaws he saw them, to Arthur- Dutch was like a father his mentor and to see him like this. It hurt, the thought of him leaving the gang hurt him. "I feel bad, he used to be better ya know?"

"took care of me when I was boy, taught me everythin' I needed to know. I thought I could pass on what he taught me to our kid"

"you still can, he's just not all there Arthur. Why the hell is he listening to Micah and not you? Why is he always questioning your loyalty to him?"

You both were silent after you comment about Micah. Everyone disliked him, especially Arthur since the rat was always teasing you.

Arriving at the bank Arthur spoke to the man behind the counter asking about saving money and opening a bank account.

While you stood beside him, eyes flickering around the banks interior. Admiring the details, when Arthur tapped you on the shoulder.

"Want somethin' to eat?"

"Sure"

You nod feeling his hand on the small of your back, leading you to the bar where he ordered stew with bread. "Wanna sleep here for the night, I know the cot's tough to sleep on"

"Only if you'd like"

"Your always askin' what I want first" he sighed kissing your knuckles.

"Alright I'll rent out a room and a bath"

Arthur disliked sleeping in the camp nowadays, he was just so paranoid about everything. He knew town wasn't so safe either but at least you were far from Micah and bears.

--

"Strauss asked me to collect some debt from a farmer" he told you as he packed his horse, you felt something your gut twist instinctively grabbing his hand. "Don't go Arthur,"

"I know but I gotta do this-" His brows furrowing at your stubbornness.

"Can't anyone else do it for you?"

"I- He asked me darlin'-"

"Arthur, please" you begged your head finding its way on to his shoulder, you felt it in your stomach that if he went something terrible would happen. "Besides you aren't his goon, he can send any other member"

"I'm the most menacin' one apparently"

"He can send Micah, Arthur"

He nodded going back to argue his case, saying he could leave you here and that he promised to take you to the towns doctor. So Strauss ends up finding Micah for the job.

-- The gang got worst, they lost more and more members until they ended up on the edge of the map. And in the pinnacle of industrialization, Saint Denis. Arthur felt it in his gut, Dutch really wasn't well. Nights arguing with each other about what was best, Arthur being gone for long periods of time.

"Doctor said I'm healthy, I just need to eat more" you added handing Arthur the papers, "Yer picky as hell don't always want Pearsons stew, an' we don't got money to eat at the bar for every meal either". "Well he makes the same thing for three meals a day, it can't be healthy"

"'least yer eatin" he retorted looking over the papers.

"The hell why I got pay this?"

"He gave me medicine"

"Why's it so expensive?"

"It's for expecting mothers"

"This baby better work in the mine when it's born" he uttered looking at the papers you handed him, but he was grateful to have been in Saint Denis with real doctors and people who can help. Even if it was more expensive than some small town doctors, you were happy and healthy. That's all that mattered.

--

It was the middle of the night when Arthur woke you, he'd gotten a wagon and with the help of Lenny & Hosea.

"Arthur?" you ask rubbing the sleepiness from your eyes, looking your jewlry he was packing. "Darlin' I didn't mean to wake you just yet" he mumbled kissing your forehead, "What're you doin'"

"packing"

"But Dutch said we ain't leavin' yet-"

"And what if we left."

"Arthur-"

"It ain't safe for us no more, I got something to protect now"

All your belongings were packed by the time you picked out a dress. Helped you dress and grab whatever was left and snuck out of the abandoned estate, leading you to the carriage where Hosea lead the horses away and lenny sat across from you.

"So your really leavin' us Arthur?"

"I gotta, and you all got too as well." he added pointing to both of them "find you a nice girl and get out of there, Dutch ain't the same". Everyone knew by now, it was whether or not they had the courage.

You dozed in and out of a sleep on the wagon, until it came to a stop at a small home. "Where are we?" you ask shielding your eyes from the rising sun, admiring the cozy home with a farm. "Home"

"Home?"

Oh, it was your home.

It would finally be alright.

--

Epilogue: Arthur sat on the porch looking at the sunset holding his little girl in his arms, gently stroking her downy hair that looked the same color as his. She was bundled up in soft blankets you'd sewn during pregnancy, "yer sleepy already? You just woke up" he cooed to the infant, who was cozying up against him. "You gotta learn how to help daddy take care of the chickens, and help mama cook. An' here you are sleeping the day away." he gently smiled kissing her soft head, "it's okay I guess your just a little baby".

Arthur hired men to build your dream house with land, it was fully furnished when you entered. So you both could do nothing but live the life you always wanted, not on the run, not sleeping on some shitty cot or on the floor. But a warm bed after a hardy meal you made, not pearson.

"The sunsets' pretty today"

"yeah, summer startin' I see it in the crops"

"Do you like this life? It's nothing like the one you've lived"

"I don't mind it, I miss the thrill but I'm gettin' old."

"You've changed, you don't bully everyone you see now" a laugh escaping you while admiring the man with the bundle of fuzzy blankets.

"What, you miss it?" he teased standing up once the sun disappeared.

"I like this version of you, you've always been a good man. Being in the gang just hid it from us". Arthur smiled, looking back at the sun he had everything he needed. A wife, a daughter, a warm home and animals to keep them company. He didn't need Dutch, just his family. His mind wonders to what if you hadn't left, he didn't even wanna think about what would've happened if he went through with the bank heist. The baby brought him back with her squirming and small sounds of discomfort, "ah you want mama huh" he said passing the fussing girl onto you.

"I'll be out here for a bit longer" he decided, pulling out a cigarette. Arthur live on the run for so long it was hard for him to now believe that he was-

He was a free man.

--

did you guy know i love arthur morgan . papa doesn't play about rdr2 .