Lana Llama Bun Pajamas

Dinners had passed with relative ease. You could sit quietly while the men spoke of business and railroads and futures decided without you. But today was different.

Today was yours and Edward’s first outing unchaperoned.

A knock sounded at your door.

You opened it to find him precisely as you expected: clean-shaven, hair slicked neatly back with pomade, gloves folded in one hand. His suit was tailored to perfection—far too fine for a town like Valentine. By sundown those twenty-dollar shoes would be ruined in mud.

“Good afternoon, ma’am.” He took your hand gently, pressing a careful kiss to your knuckles.

You inclined your head. “Good afternoon.”

“Are you ready for our date?” He gave you a boyish grin.

You collected your parasol and sun hat from the side table. “I am.”

He immediately took the parasol from you, opening it himself and holding it at just the proper angle. You looped your arm through his as you stepped into the sunlight.

It was a pleasant day. A light breeze. Birds in the trees. The kind of day Arthur would’ve called good riding weather.

“I was thinking,” Edward began, eager, “we might find a teahouse for afternoon tea. Afterward perhaps a play? Or we could visit the tailor and see about something new for you.”

You looked at him slowly. “A teahouse?”

“Yes. Do you enjoy tea?”

“Tea’s fine.” You adjusted your grip on his arm. “But I ain’t too sure where you expect to find a teahouse in Valentine.”

He hesitated. “There must be one.”

“Unless the tea’s mixed with whiskey, you ain’t finding much of it.”

He frowned thoughtfully. “No teahouse…”

“Nor any theatres,” you added. “Unless you count the tent by the hotel.”

His head snapped toward you. “That is not a public lavatory?”

The horror on his face made heat creep up your neck. Valentine wasn’t the fanciest town, but it was still your home. “Afraid not.”

He cleared his throat quickly, smoothing his expression. “Of course. My mistake.”

As you reached the main street, Edward scanned the shop signs, desperate for refuge. “I’m certain there must be somewhere suitable for a meal.”

“The saloon’s got decent bread rolls.”

He looked at the weathered wooden building, its porch crowded with men who hadn’t seen a pressed collar in their lives. “Right,” he said after a moment. “Of course. The saloon.”

Inside, conversation dipped briefly. Edward was easily the best-dressed man in the room. Shirts were patched with mismatched colors. Boots were caked in mud. A few men didn’t even bother hiding their stares.

He kept his posture straight, jaw tight.

You could feel his discomfort radiating off of him.

When the food came, he examined it politely before taking a careful bite. It wasn’t the steak dinners and fresh vegetables he was accustomed to in Saint Denis. But he said nothing.

He clears his throat between bites. “I’m quite looking forward to marrying such a beautiful woman.”

You hesitate.

A few months ago, that might have warmed you, even made you giddy. Now they don’t hold nearly as much weight as they would or should have.

“Thank you.”

“I imagine,” he continues carefully, “we ought to discuss our future while we have a moment without our families intervening.”

You wipe the corners of your mouth and nod. “I agree.”

A man nearby sloshes beer across the floor while spinning a girl around. The piano is half a note flat. The barber trims someone’s beard three tables over.

This is not how Edward pictured having this talk with his future wife.

Still, he presses on.

“While Valentine is… charming,” he says, choosing the words wisely, “I would very much like you to return to Saint Denis with me.”

There it is.

You knew it was coming. You prepared to leave this town your whole life, and yet, hearing it makes something in your chest tighten.

“Saint Denis,” you repeat. “That’s rather far.”

He reaches across the table, taking your gloved hand with deliberate tenderness. “I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t prepared to give you everything. I’ve already purchased a big beautiful white home on the safest street in town with seven large bedrooms.”

Seven.

“Must we need so many rooms?”

“For us,” he continues, pleased with himself. “Our four children. And additional rooms for extended family or clients who may need lodging.”

Four.

He says it the way one discusses shipments or investments. Planned. Accounted for.

Your thoughts scramble to keep pace.

“I don’t mind where we hold the wedding,” he adds generously. “That may be entirely your domain. And you needn’t trouble your pretty little self over expenses. I will ensure everything is handled. After the honeymoon,” he continues then corrects himself, “or perhaps during, we should begin trying for children. A woman’s window for these things is not forever. It would be wise to start early while you’re in your prime for childbaring."

You stare at him.

“Does that sound agreeable?”

“It’s…” You swallow. “It’s a lot.”

“I know.” He lifts your knuckles to his lips, a soothing gesture. “But you will never have to worry. I will provide a safe, respectable life. You will have a devoted husband in me.”

“Sure is the dream,” you murmur.

“It is,” he says, missing the tone entirely. “And I have worked very hard to build it for you.”

After the meal, you walk the wooden sidewalks. The boards creak beneath his polished shoes. Dust settles along the hem of his trousers no matter how he tries to avoid it.

“You must allow me to buy you a new gown,” he insists brightly. “Something to commemorate our first outing.”

“I have plenty already. My armoire’s near bursting.”

“Ah, but in Saint Denis you’ll have an entire dressing room for yourself. You’ll need something to fill it.”

You pause. A whole room? Only the wealthiest of women had entire rooms dedicated to clothes.

He smiles, recognizing the awe on your face.

“I believe I’ve won our first disagreement,” he says, clearly pleased. “Though I assure you, I don’t intend to make a habit of contradictin’ my sweet intended.”

“I’d like the finest gown you have for my betrothed,” he calls to the shopkeeper as the door swings shut behind you.

The shopkeeper scratches his jaw. “Ain’t got much call the ‘finest.’ Best one’s been sittin’ on the top shelf near a year.”

“If it suits her, we’ll take it.”

He scoffs at his confidence. “It’ll cost ya ninety dollars.”

You don’t even have time to react before Edward is rifling through his wallet. He lays the bills down flat against the counter without hesitation.

“Done.”

Both you and the shopkeeper stare at the money.

“That’s too much-”

He cuts you off gently. “Just you wait until Saint Denis. This is nothing.”

The shopkeeper hands you the box and points toward the small dressing room in the back.

The gown was your favorite shade of blue, complimenting your skin tone. The corset cinches you neatly, shaping your curves just right. It’s as though it had been waiting for you.

When you step back out, Edward goes still.

He removes his hat, holding it against his chest like a man witnessing something sacred.

“Please have her previous gown delivered to Saint Denis,” he tells the shopkeeper, adding two extra dollars to the counter. Then he offers you his arm.

“How do you like it?” His attention is unwavering as he escorts you outside.

You glance down at yourself, a smile curling onto your lips. “I feel rather pretty,” you admit.

He leans close, his mouth near your ear. “It appears I’ll need to increase your tailor allowance if this is the result.”

A giggle breaks from your lips just as he presses a slow and tender kiss to your cheek.

And that’s when you feel it.

You look up.

Across the street, half-shadowed beneath the awning of the hotel, stands Arthur.

His expression doesn’t change. But his jaw is set hard enough to cut glass. His hand rests on his holstered revolver until his knuckles turn white.

Your smile vanishes and stomach drops. Your heart pounds so loud you’re certain Edward must hear it.

How could you forget?

Even for a moment?

Arthur doesn’t move. Doesn’t call out. Doesn’t look away.

“I’m rather tired,” you say quickly, eyes lifting toward the sinking sun. “Would you escort me home?”

“Of course.” Edward adjusts his hat and leads you down the boardwalk.

He speaks the entire walk about renovations to the Saint Denis house, about a garden he intends to expand, about which rooms might serve as nurseries.

You don’t hear a word.

It isn’t as though you and Arthur ever made promises. There was never a ring. Never a vow. Only something wordless. Unnamed.

So why does it feel like betrayal?

“I had a lovely day,” Edward says once you reach your porch, lifting your hand to his lips again.

“As did I.” Your eyes do not smile back.

“Until next time.”

He steps down from the porch.

You wait until the door is shut and the lock clicks into place before you exhale.

Your hands tremble as you pull away from it.

Upstairs, your room is bathed in pink light, the sky outside bleeding into dusk. The new gown feels too tight, like it’s constricting you.

You begin to pace without realizing it.

Seven bedrooms. Four children. Saint Denis.

Arthur’s eyes… the pain behind them.

The sound comes from outside your window. The soft rustle of leaves and flapping of startled birds was not caused by the wind.

You freeze before rushing to the window to shove it open.

“You can’t be here. My father could come home early.” You say in a panicked whisper as if your father were downstairs now.

Arthur doesn’t answer. He plants his hands on the sill and hauls himself inside in one fluid motion. The room feels smaller the second his boots hit the floor. He's quiet as he looks around your room. He looks wildly out of place— a large gruff outlaw in a room full of lace and porcelain.

“He make you happy?” That deep voice of his breaks the silence.

“Arthur, don’t-”

“Look.” His jaw flexes, unable to make eye contact. “I know we ain’t promised each other nothin’. So if he’s what ya want… just say the word. I’ll see myself out.”

You should.

You should tell him to go. End it clean. End it now.

But the words stall in your throat.

“It ain’t like that.” You step closer, placing a hand on his arm. The muscle tightens beneath your palm, but he doesn’t pull away. “My father arranged it. I didn’t even know until days ago.”

“You didn’t look too broken up about it.” He scoffed

“I didn’t kiss him back.” You search his face. “And I didn’t share his bed.”

His eyes finally meet yours. “You want to?”

The way he asks it sends a chill through you.

“No.”

He studies you, unconvinced.

“No,” you repeat, firmer.

Silence stretches.

“I saw the way he looked at you,” Arthur mutters, beginning to pace. He runs a hand along the edge of your dresser, glances at the small trinkets you’ve collected over the years—several, he’s gifted you after his adventures.

“And how did he look at me?”

Arthur turns back slowly.

“The same way I do.”

The air leaves your lungs.

He steps closer again, stopping just short of touching you. His fingers brush the blue fabric at your waist, not quite daring to hold it.

“I ain’t seen this before,” he says quietly, brows furrowing. “It’s new.”

“It is.” You replied simply, hoping he won’t press.

“Did he buy it?”

You didn’t want to answer, knowing exactly what he’s getting at.

“Yes.” You lift your chin. “It was a kind gesture.” The attempt to justify the purchase didn’t work.

Arthur’s gaze drags over the dress, the way it fits you, the way it doesn’t belong in this room any more than he does.

“Kind,” he repeats, not convinced.

His hand lifts, but instead of roaming, it stops at your waist, feeling the bones of the corset underneath.

“Men like him don’t spend this much money on a gown just to be kind.” His jaw clenches. “He was thinkin’ about takin’ you away,” Arthur continues, voice low but steady. “ ‘Bout whatever rich city he’ll marry you in. ‘Bout that life he’s built in his head.” His voice lowers. “ ‘Bout how much he wants to rip this dress off of you.”

Your heart stutters. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.” His gaze leaves your torso and back to your eyes while his hands move up to play with the deep neckline of your gown. “Come on, sweet thing, tell me you want this.” He practically pleads.

You get lost in his blue-green eyes as his breath ghosts over your lips. “I want you-“

A loud RIIP cut you off. You gasp as the top of your gown is violently torn into two—your breasts freed from the material.

“Arthur!” You’re cut off with a kiss that you instantly melt into.

Threads continue to snap as he tears the material open. “You know he could never worship ya like I can.” He growls and maneuvers you to your bed.

The cool air washed over your exposed skin as you laid down on your back. “God, we should stop.” You moan as he kisses down your neck.

“You wanna stop? Just tell me to stop and I will.” He looks up at you as he kisses your breasts. “Or, let me remind you all the ways that fool could never make you feel half as good as I can.”

He waits for your words, allowing his tongue to flick the hardening bud of your nipple.

Your back arches. “D-don’t stop”

With your permission, he yanks the rest of the gown off of you. “Get on your hands and knees.” He demands as he unbuttons his shirt.

You hesitate for a moment. This was new territory. “On my hands and knees?”

The shirt hits the ground with a light thud before he reaches out, grabbing your hips and flipping you over himself. “Hands. And. Knees.”

You squeak as you’re quickly turned around, hands finding purchase in the bedding beneath you. His belt buckle clinks before dropping to the floorboards.

“I saw your betrothed. That boy doesn’t have the balls go fuck you like I’m goin’ to.” His heavy cock slaps against your ass, leaving dabs of precum. “Just look how fast ya got all wet f’ me.” The tip of his cock slides up and down your slick lips before nuzzling against your aching weeping hole. “You want it don’t ya?”

“M-mhm.” You whine as you involuntarily buck back against him.

One of his calloused hands grips your hip while the other takes your shoulder before slowly sinking into you. Arthur hisses as your warm walls stretch and squeeze around him.

His head lulls back and half-mast eyes stare up at the canopy of your bed. “He wouldn’t last a second in this perfect cunt.”

Your arms wobble as a new type of pleasure washes over you. The first thrust is slow—meant to work your tight pussy open.

“Oh, god, Arthur.” You murmured, letting your head droop lazily.

After each roll of his hips, his speed picks up.

“Ya like that?” He punctuates with a sharp thrust to that sweet spot deep inside of you.

“Ah!” You yelp as he starts his brutal pace.

The vulgar sound of your skin slapping together fills the room. Each of his desperate thrusts are met with a grunt.

“You didn’t answer my question.” The hand on your shoulder moves to your hair, tugging a fistful by the roots.

“I-It’s so good.” You mumble, that thick cock of his, making it difficult to speak normally.

God, the way you sounded made him even more feral. “That son of a bitch won’t have any- ngh- any fucking clue what to do if he had this pretty pussy all to himself. Just look at ya. You're practically drooling.”

He pulls your head back further, allowing him to get a good look at you. Your eyes roll back in bliss and jaw slack, spilling the sweetest high pitched gasps and moans. This is what he fought for—your pleasure. He loved it. He was addicted to it. Arthur would give a thousand lives just for you to feel good.

“D-don’t be mean to Edward.”

His movements stuttered.

Those rough hands digging into you, follow the curves of your body to your ass. SMACK.

“Don’t say his fucking name while you’re pussy’s squeezing my cock!”

The swat stung. You expected to hate it, and yet… you didn’t. His pace didn’t dare let up. Unable to hold your own weight, your arms give out.

“Mhm,” you hum your acknowledgement into the pillow.

The mess between you two grew. Arthur couldn’t get enough of it. He had to watch the way his cock split you open. Both hands grabbed your ass, pulling them apart for him to watch the way his cock pumped in and out of your sopping cunt. With every stroke was a loud sloppy squelch. Around the base of his cock, a ring of peal formed and smeared between you.

He moaned and gritted his teeth. “He don’t deserve ya. He don’t deserve this.”

Arthur lost all control at that point. He bucked wildly. Every nerve grew more sensitive with every passing second. The tip of his cock rammed into your g-spot over and over forcing his name from your lungs.

PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP

The ornate wooden headboard of your bed hit the wall of your room, echoing a heavy THUNK THUNK THUNK throughout the room. The delicate wallpaper you begged your father for, less than a year ago, began to tear where the bedframe scraped your wall.

“Arthur!” You shriek in ecstasy.

He now pushed on your back, deepening the arch to get a deeper angle. Your toes curled and thighs quivered. It wasn’t enough, though. He plants his right foot beside your hip on the bed, driving more power into you.

“Ah, shit!” He hisses as your cunt constricts his swollen, aching cock. “That- that’s it! You’re close f’ me ain’t ya!”.

“Y-yes! Oh, Arthur! I can’t take much more!” Your nails dig into the sheets, fisting them as you fight back your impending orgasm.

“C-cum. Cum for me. Scream my name, darlin!” He barked.

Within seconds, you’re roaring Arthur’s name. Waves of euphoria hit you as he fucks you through your high.

“That’s ma girl!” He moans. “Your gonna milk me dry, fuck!”

There was one last sharp thrust before he was spilling himself in you. You could feel his cock twitching and throbbing as he came. A few soft whimpers left your lips as he slowly rode out his high. He couldn’t hear it as he murmured a series of praises. That man adored you.

The bed finally stopped creaking and only your labored breaths could be heard. Arthur reluctantly slid out of you, leaving a leaky mess between your thighs.

“Ya alright?” His worn voice asks as presses a long kiss to your dewy temple.

“Wonderful.” You hum in content.

With a groan from his sore body, he rolls to lay beside you. Even after several nights together, he was still teaching you new things—showing you all the ways one can be worshipped.

He doesn’t speak at first. You know that look, though. Quiet. Calculating. His mind is moving faster than he lets on.

“What?” you ask, shifting upright. You draw the sheet to your chest for modesty, suddenly aware of your bare skin.

He exhales slowly. “What’re we gonna do?”

For a little while, you’d almost forgotten there was anything outside this room. No betrothals. No Saint Denis. No father. No responsibilities.

“I- I don’t quite know.” You frown. “Arthur… I’ve been promised to another man.”

There’s another beat of silence before he speaks again. “You’re beyond my wildest dreams,” he says softly. “I ain’t lettin’ him take ya without a fight.” He brings your hand up to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to the soft skin. “Until the day you tell me it’s over, imma fight for you… for us. Got that?”

You search his face. He isn’t smiling. He isn’t teasing. He means it with his whole chest.

“And what if my daddy won’t let me call it off?” you whisper. “You know he wouldn’t hesitate to rush the wedding if he suspected anythin’ between us. Lord knows I can’t convince him overnight.”

Arthur leans back against the headboard, thinking.

“Then we’ll run away.” He shrugs like it’s as simple as tying your shoes.

You scoff. “That easy, huh?”

“It ain’t easy.”

“And what if I’m not built for that life?” You gesture vaguely toward the window, toward the world he belongs to. “I’ve never slept under the stars. I’ve never had dirt under my nails.”

He looks at your hands. Soft. Carefully kept.

Then back at you.

He doesn’t lie to you—he wouldn’t.

“It’s hard,” he says. “It’s cold. It’s hungry some nights. And it sure as hell ain’t safe.” There’s no romance in his tone. “Edward can give you comfort,” he continues. “A house. Security. All the things I can’t guarantee right now.” It painted him to admit it to you. “But I can promise you this: I won’t cage you.” His eyes lock onto yours. “You get to choose your life. Not your daddy. Not your fiance. And not me.”

You swallow.

“Let him take you out,” Arthur adds, though the words taste bitter. “Let him show you what he’s offerin’. I’ll do the same. I’ll show you what life with me really is. The good stuff n’ bad.”

His thumb brushes over your wrist absentmindedly.

“And then you decide, fair ‘n square.”

You study him—this outlaw with nothing but a horse and stolen loot to his name, pleading for merely the chance.

“Does that sound like a fair deal?”

“Deal.”

Chapter 4 Coming Soon…

A/N: I wasn’t sure if those who asked to be tagged in the next chapter want to be apart of the series tag list so just lmk!

“Tag Me for Ch. 3 List”: @forverlostinspace @arthursdodobird @grussellsprout @saturnknows @b0nel3ss-bastard @edgarapoecolouredglasses