SluttiestAbsentFather

Arthur chanced a look over at Trelawny, whose eyes twinkled with fascination as he leaned in, at once absorbed by the action onstage.

In Arthur's view, all was controlled chaos. Lavish costumes. Set pieces that rivaled the architecture. He scanned the spectacle, keeping count.

"Looks real expensive…" He murmured promisingly. Trelawny only hummed in reply.

The music turned processional as the company formed an arc upstage. Oddly, many of them sat, turning their focus to the empty space down center. Arthur was relieved for the stillness if only for the chance to study their faces, searching for the one to match the cigarette card in his satchel.

There.

A woman joined from the wings. Three dandified male dancers broke rank to meet her. Long legs carried her across the stage in tight, controlled steps on the tips of her toes. With arms held above her head in a gesture of elegant precision, the ballerina paused when she reached center. Drawing her back leg in a long, slow arc skyward, the other rooted itself to the boards in a pillar of strength.

And then she was still.

Whole measures of music passed like an afterthought. Elsie Rose remained suspended in time, with only the barest tremble of her tautly-muscled calf betraying the magnitude of effort behind her feat.

"Damn." Arthur grunted, reluctantly impressed. "Ain't her toes hurtin'?"

"Shh!"

In the seat directly ahead of his own, an older patron turned to glower at Arthur disapprovingly over the rim of his wiry spectacles. Arthur glowered back. The man sniffed and faced the proscenium.

Back onstage, the three suitors (or at least that's what they looked like to Arthur) took turns genuflecting, each with an offering of a single rose. Elsie accepted them, sustaining her impossible posture. Arthur shifted forward, squinting at the rafters, half-expecting to discover some hidden piece of stage magic—puppet strings, or something—but found only lights.

One by one, they took her hand, presenting her to the room in a promenade. The illusion was that they turned her—but it was she who spun herself—slowly and on the tips of her toes with tiny, precise shifts in the muscles of her foot. And all the while the line she held with her leg from stem to stern was as straight and unyielding as a divining rod.

Arthur leaned into Trelawny and whispered, "Look at these chumps. All they're doin' is twirlin' around in them funny-lookin' hats—she's the one doin' all the work."

"Do you mind?" The bespectacled patron hissed over his shoulder. To his neighbor, he complained, "No tact, no culture."

Arthur's fists curled in his lap. "Oh, I'll culture you, alright…"

A gloved hand found his shoulder—Trelawny's. A silent point made. Sighing grumpily, Arthur sat back in his seat.

The lobby thrummed with enlivened conversation as the audience emptied the theater. Arthur and Trelawny sifted through the throng, with Arthur rolling his stiffened shoulder in the little space permitted.

"You have an uncanny ability to make friends everywhere you go, dear boy." Trelawny remarked, speaking above the din.

“Would’a gotten even friendlier, if you hadn’t been here to stop me.” The other darkly replied.

“I've no doubt…"

Slipping through to the left, they found solace in the much quieter lounge. The bar was unmanned and Arthur was half-tempted to help himself as he surreptitiously peered at their whiskey selection.

"So—what say you?" Trelawny prompted, planting his cane.

"Looks like there was about…thirty of 'em. More, if y'count the orchestra…" Arthur mused, thumbing the scar on his chin in thought. "Reckon that train'll be packed. Unless you was talkin' about the show?" He added, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Trelawny smirked beneath his wax-curled mustache. "Best saved for later, perhaps—once we've found ourselves moored safely at the Bastille." He lowered his voice as if divulging a salacious secret. "A terrible faux pas, dear boy, to voice one's thoughts on a performance while still in the venue."

"Where are my manners," said Arthur dryly. He propped his weight back against the bar. Mapping the place in his mind, he tried to surmise where the numerous doors and staircases lining these halls might lead. "Where d'you reckon we should start lookin'?"

"I suppose that depends…" Trelawny pretended to adjust his cuff links as a small cluster of well-dressed men filtered past. "If it were merely one night's meager sales we were after, I imagine a brutish negotiation with the box office would suffice."

Arthur chuckled. "Then you'd be speakin' my language. But you know Dutch—he ain't exactly the meager type."

"Indeed. In that case…" Trelawny's keen gaze hovered near the men as they disappeared behind a door at the end of the hall. "If there's a fortune to be found, my guess is it would be close to our leading lady."

Arthur grunted in affirmation. "Should we split up?"

"I think not." Said Trelawny, all innocence as he made to follow them. "Certainly, there's no crime in two gentlemen finding themselves hopelessly lost in their wayward search for the facilities?"

Arthur smiled crookedly. "Ain't no crime at all."

Deeper into the theater they drew, the fading echo of lobby chatter lost to the encroaching silence. Neither of them spoke; Arthur on the alert, his narrowed gaze tracking for potential threats; and Trelawny, adopting the veneer of a witless tourist.

They didn't make it far. Guarding a gold-embossed entryway was a uniformed doorman, no older than twenty, with a hat worn slightly askew.

"Good evening, sirs." The kid bowed briefly at the waist. "Are you looking for the foyer de la danse?"

Trelawny inclined his head, seizing his cue. "Indeed, we most certainly are."

"This way, please." He stepped aside, gesturing them onward.

How big is this goddamn place? Arthur thought, prickling with unease. Steeling himself, he followed Trelawny's tailcoats inside.

Dancers stretched work-weary bodies before high, floor-length mirrors. Others socialized with wealthy-looking patrons by a refreshments table topped with wine, olives, and platters of cured meats. Nearby on an upholstered bench, a dancing girl sat wincing as she tended to a swath of angry blisters. Beside her sat a pale, satin shoe stained with blood.

Arthur spotted the men they'd followed, this time with cigars and crystals of brandy. They were crowding a pair of pretty dancers who laughed at their jokes through forced smiles. An older gentleman's hand assumed the small of a girl's back, too low to be polite, too lingering to be tolerable. In the low lamplight, his wedding ring gleamed.

A muscle flexed in Arthur's jaw. "What're we doin', Trelawny?"

"Patience, my friend." The other sang lightly in reply. "We've only just arrived."

Cane in hand, Trelawny ambled along the wall with the casual confidence of one who belonged. He tipped his top hat politely to someone in the crowd unseen. "We are…patrons of substance…come to sample the ripened fruits on offer…grim, but true."

"I'd rather be shootin'."

Off the foyer, a large archway split into two corridors, warmly lit with wall sconces. A lively traffic of dancers to the right seemed to gesture towards the dressing rooms; but the path to the left was remarkably quiet in comparison. Neither area was decorated with the same decadence as the rest of the theater—as if the deeper they wormed themselves, layer by layer, the uglier were its unvarnished truths.

Arthur watched the same, hapless doorman who invited them into the foyer patrol the party, head down, keeping to the edges. He shuffled self-consciously past before a short, sharp whistle rang out from the left-sided corridor.

The doorman froze, eyes snapping to attention.

"You, boy." A disembodied voice, weighted with authority, called from down the hall. "Come here."

He nearly tripped over himself in his eagerness to comply.

The voice spoke again, its owner hidden inside what Arthur presumed to be some kind of administrator's office. "Has Mr. Hall's liaison confirmed the arrangements?"

"Yes, sir. Simply waiting for the ink to dry, sir." The doorman quickly replied. He stood just outside with shined shoes clamped together, as if not daring to fully enter the space without explicit invitation.

"Good. Let's hope it doesn't dally in doing so. Before you go—"

Arthur heard movement—the scrape of a chair's wooden legs across the floor—and subtly craned his neck around the archway to get a visual. A small, leather portmanteau with a heavy lock was handed off to the doorman, who gathered it clumsily with both arms.

"See to it this is safely returned where it belongs." Ordered the faceless man. "And be quick about it—you'll remember what happened last time…"

Arthur read the initials emblazoned on the side of the bag: E. R.

Jackpot.

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir."

The kid doubled back, passing behind them without so much as a sideways glance.

Arthur nodded. "Let's go."

"Just a moment, my eager friend." Trelawny murmured, dark blue eyes trained down the hall. "Three…two…one…go."

Briskly, they went. Flashes of painted faces in mirrors—bruised legs—half-dressed dancers arguing in French. Arthur pulled Trelawny out of the way of an incoming stagehand, burdened with unwashed linens.

They reached the end of the corridor.

Trelawny motioned for Arthur to peer around the corner.

Midway down the secluded, connecting passage was the doorman, standing before a closed room. Shifting the portmanteau to one hand, he tentatively knocked with the other. Only when no reply came, did he enter.

"Where're you goin', kid?" Arthur breathed, forehead creased with focus.

A moment later he emerged, empty-handed. Arthur tensed, prepared to double back—but the doorman hurried on and out of sight.

Arthur and Trelawny shared a look.

"We doin' this?"

"Swiftly, now."

Once inside, Arthur quickly surveyed the room. Racks of costumes lined the richly-patterned walls. Pushed beneath a gilded portrait was an armchair with a gown strewn across it, as though abandoned mid-change.

His eyes fell on the portmanteau. It sat beneath a light-rimmed vanity covered in cosmetics, spotlighted amidst the backstage clutter.

"We should take it."

"Now?" Trelawny whipped around, eyes wide. "You're mad."

"Why not? S'just sittin' there. Maybe we ain't even have to hit the train—"

Trelawny hissed, "This is not. The time. To improvise."

Footsteps.

Arthur stiffened. A look of shared panic.

They turned to find a woman framed in the doorway.

Though she'd traded her leotard for a turquoise dressing gown, she still wore her inky hair in a ballerina's bun. She'd seemed taller onstage—the top of her head barely level with the middle of Arthur's chest—yet she stood with such unflinching poise, all else felt diminished by contrast.

Elsie Rose was startlingly calm as she said, "Excuse me, gentlemen. I believe you're in my dressing room."

Trelawny removed his top hat and offered a guileless smile. "Aha! Just the wonder we were looking for. An honor to meet your acquaintance, Miss Rose. Please pardon our impropriety—we simply hoped to have a word with you for an article, and, well…this place is quite the labyrinth, isn't it?"

Elsie stared. "Who are you?"

“Giuseppe Muldoon,” He lied with a flourish, bowing so deeply Arthur was surprised his nose didn’t scrape the carpet. “Arts columnist for the Saint Denis Cultural Chronicle.”

“Charmed.” Elsie offered a slender hand, which Trelawny squeezed. She tilted her head, regarding him with curiosity. “You must forgive me; I’m afraid I haven’t heard of you or your…esteemed publication.”

There was something funny about her voice and it took Arthur longer than he’d care to admit to realize it was on account of her being English. She spoke quickly, musically, in a tone warmed by modest indulgences in cigarettes and brandy.  

“You wouldn't, my dear lady.” Trelawny folded his gloved hands behind his waistcoat. “Our fledgling paper should only hope to earn its credibility by courting comment from talents such as yourself.”

Christ, Trelawny was laying it on thick, even by his standards. Arthur remained stoic, wondering how much of this routine was bullshit and how much of it was Trelawny, for once sincerely starstruck. 

Elsie lifted her brow. "Then you must know Hector."

Arthur watched Trelawny from the corner of his eye.

"I'd wager there isn't a circle in Saint Denis that Mr. Fellowes doesn't intersect." He evaded with an indulgent chuckle. "Though you'll find he and I have…differing journalistic priorities."

Elsie hummed. Her eyes, framed with winged lashes, lingered probingly before they darted to Arthur—pinning him to the spot. “And who might this be?” 

Trelawny straightened. "How tactless of me. This strapping individual would be my associate, a Mister—"

"Callahan." Arthur answered gruffly. "Arthur Callahan."

"Are you a lover of the ballet, Mr. Callahan?"

Arthur shifted. "Well, I—"

"I'm sorry to say my associate is something of a cultural neanderthal, my dear lady." Trelawny swooped in magnanimously. "One of his many shortcomings."

Elsie's eyes never strayed from Arthur's face, polite yet unreadable. She awaited his answer.

"No, I—I'm afraid I ain't too familiar with, uh—all of this." He admitted, somewhat awkward as he made a vague gesture around the dressing room. "But…I reckon what you were doin' up there looked like tough work, miss."

She blinked, gently surprised. "It is. Thank you."

Trelawny procured from his pocket a tin of premium cigarettes. He flicked it open, presenting her with one in a way that almost reminded Arthur of those fancy-footed fools with the roses.

"Do you smoke, madam?"

Elsie stilled, deliberating. She accepted, posing the cigarette between two fingers.

Trelawny looked to Arthur expectantly.

"Oh—" He patted his pockets for a light. As he struck the match, Elsie's eyes met his over the flame as she leaned in, torching the end of her cigarette, pulling sharp in a way Arthur had to respect. Ribbons of smoke danced around her head as she exhaled through her nose, slow and steady.

"I'm afraid I only have a few minutes before I must retire." She allowed, crossing to the vanity and sinking, straight-backed, onto the stool before it. Arthur refrained himself from glancing down at the portmanteau by her feet. "But, yes—I suppose a few questions will do."

The game was afoot.

"Plainly, you are a well-traveled woman." Trelawny began, a hint of rakishness about him. "Is this your first time in Saint Denis, or have you graced us before?"

"Oh, yes. Many times."

Trelawny hummed politely, scribbling in a tiny notebook he'd pulled from his jacket. "How does it compare?"

"Not without its growing pains. But Saint Denis and I have come to an amicable truce." Elsie leaned over the coffee table to ash her cigarette. "Despite my work, the city insists on pleasure."

Trelawny's eyes crinkled. "That it does."

Partly tucked beneath the ash tray, a folded piece of parchment caught Arthur's eye. The letterhead looked almost familiar—as if he'd seen the design in passing once and never bothered to commit it to memory.

"A tour of this ambitious size must incur significant expenses." Trelawny went on, face drawn in a facsimile of journalistic interest. "Does the company hope to recoup its costs?"

Something in Elsie sharpened.

Arthur squinted, studying the insignia, wracking his memory for where he'd seen it before. Then it came to him—a painted logo on a speeding train car—Trelawny's voice as they rode into the city.

The Pacific Union Railroad.

Elsie fluttered her lashes with calculated innocence. "Oh, I'm afraid that's better asked of the box office. But if you ask me, the true value of a performance lies not in its profits, but in its audience." She turned to Arthur coolly. "What would be your assessment, Mister Callahan?"

Arthur's eyes darted up from the parchment. They locked with Elsie's, blue-green on brown.

Trelawny's gaze was a brand. He swallowed against the rising resentment that always dogged him in these moments, when failure and success balanced not on how well he could fight, but on how much shit from rich folks he could stand to eat with a smile.

"To be honest wit'cha, miss…" He drawled. "I ain't understand a damn thing about it."

The apples of Elsie's cheeks rose in a genuine, disarming smile.

Feverish from their narrow getaway, the uncharacteristically cool Lemoyne air was a balm on their skin. With the theater at their backs and the moon as their spotlight, even Trelawny elected not to speak until they'd seen themselves halfway down Hestia Street.

"You played your role well, dear boy. For the most part." Trelawny croaked, dabbing the back of his neck with a handkerchief. "All in all, I'd say that was quite the successful dress rehearsal."

Arthur chuckled and shook his head, casting a parting glance at the marquee as they crossed the cobblestoned street. Hitched on iron posts side by side, their horses nickered in recognition as they came into view. "That's the difference between you'n me. All you do is pretend—reckon with me, it's do or die."

"Be that as it may…for all of our sakes, please refrain from the latter."

"Y'know, we might actually be onto somethin' here." Arthur interjected, the spark of adrenaline simmering now with real interest. "There was some letter in there, 'bout that railroad company you mentioned. And you seen how they was actin' around that bag. I ain't sure what, but I bet'chu there's somethin' in there." He scoffed under his breath. "Maybe Bill weren't such a fool after all."

"A broken clock is drunk twice a day—or however the saying goes."

They laughed.

Sighing, Trelawny wryly went on, "I suppose tomorrow you'll find out for yourself. For once, dear boy, I'm envious."

"'Bout what, the job?" Arthur scoffed at him sideways, popping a hard-earned cigarette between his teeth. "Bullshit. You never wanna get your hands dirty—might ruin them fancy gloves."

The end of Trelawny's mustache twitched in a lopsided smirk. "For Elsie Rose? Oh, I'm sure I'd find a way to endure…"

Arthur bristled. He took a drag. “Folk like her don’t make you sick?”

“Lithe and luxurious socialites with legs as long as the Lannahechee? Nausea is not what comes to mind, no.” Trelawny tutted with a sigh. “Then again, I am a married man; I suppose the state of such is one of abject longing for what one cannot have...” His eyes slid in Arthur’s direction as a carriage rattled noisily past. “She seemed to take an interest in you, though, dear boy.”

Arthur turned and spit in the street. "Shut up, 'Giuseppe'. Let's go get us that drink."

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Arthur stood in the shade of the eaves, swatting at a fly with one hand and studying a cigarette card in the other. Gazing back was a dancer with a pale, heart-shaped face, painted lips, and eyes of a bottomless brown that seemed almost…bored. Impassive. Or perhaps, if he squinted, a little bit sad.

“Elsie Rose…” He muttered, reading the name in small print above her head. Delicately posed, she wore a bodice as white as her skin, rendering her more ghost than girl.

Arthur's brow creased. “...Are you boys sure about this?” 

“I don’t see you comin’ up with any big ideas, Morgan.” Bill was quick to accuse, hovering nearby like a gnat. His faded blue flannel was half-open and stained with sweat, and Arthur could smell the consequence of the heat from here.

He scowled over his shoulder. “Forgive me if I ain’t sold on your half-baked pipe dream that the fix to all our troubles is tucked up inside some – dancin’ girl’s tutu.” 

“It ain’t a pipe dream and it ain’t half-nothin’!” Bill snarled – but one cool look from the other man stalled him in his tracks. “N-now it’s like I was sayin', the information’s good! Dutch even thinks we—” 

His protest stopped short. Slithering from around the gallery's other side was Micah, smirking beneath the brim of his milky white Big Valley hat — looking more at home than ever here among the reptiles. 

“Mister Morgan: the Doubtin’ Man himself, right on cue.” Micah grinned like a cat who got the curdled cream as he leaned against a weathered pillar. "Told you he'd kick up a fuss over nothin', Williamson."

“Micah.” Arthur said flatly, turning back in time to watch Bill thwack himself in the chest.

"Goddamn mosquitoes…" He grumbled, wiping his palm off on his jeans.

Arthur loosed a long-suffering sigh. “Look — all I’m sayin’ is, a fancy-lookin’ picture don’t mean nothin’. I mean," he chuckled humorlessly, waving the card around between his thumb and forefinger. "Hell, if this broad's like all the other sorry suckers that get put on these things, the paper's probably worth more'n she is!"

Bill looked at him incredulously. “Ain't you been listenin' to a word I said?!"

"Try not to, if I can help it."

"Oh, very funny." Leaning in at the waist, he spoke loud and slow as though he thought Arthur were the latter. "Are you goin' deaf there, Morgan? Or is that just all the swamp water y'got cloggin' up your ears?"

Arthur reclined on his heel, eyes narrowing coldly. “S'pose that's the perils of bathing for them of us that bother, Bill.” He quipped. “Now, back the hell up — 'fore I start stinkin’ by association.”

Bill’s bearded face twisted with fury, but back up he did. “It's like I told you before — I’ve been lookin’ into this and the woman’s a goddamn cash cow!”

Prima ballerina Elsie Rose and her company of dancers were on a multi-city tour of the states, performing selections of Sleeping Beauty to sold out crowds in an effort to drum up interest and prestige in the art form – whatever the hell any of that meant. It was the gist of what Arthur managed to skim from the section of the Saint Denis Times Bill shoved under his nose not half an hour before. Arthur had barely finished his morning cigarette and cup of hot tar and there was Bill, yammering away about "box office sales" and "piles of cash" and what a "surefire score" this would be. 

Arthur didn’t like the sound of it one bit. 

“I know what’chu said.” Arthur waved him off dismissively, frowning down at the picture as if it were an odd piece to an unfit puzzle. “Somethin’ about it just…don’t sit right.”

“You always did have a soft spot when it came to the women-folk, Mister Morgan.” Micah needled, lazily gripping his gun belt. “Just none of the luck.”

Arthur scoffed, refusing to dignify the bait despite how the back of his neck prickled with irritation.

He flipped over the card, finding nothing of note about their mark — just a list of other artists, writers, and poets belonging to the set. None of their names rang a bell save for Evelyn Miller's, whose philosophies about "the destruction of American society" and "man's enslavement of himself to his dominion over nature" were ones Dutch was rhapsodic to parrot. To Arthur, well — all that bunk more or less went over his head.

“Sure, I reckon you’d know all about that." He drawled, tucking the card away in his satchel. "Regular lady-killer like yourself.”

Micah bared his yellowed teeth. “A man don’t need luck when he’s got force, cowpoke.” 

The doors to the house swung open with an almighty groan. Dutch emerged from the molding depths of the foyer, an unlit cigar in his jeweled hand. He was adorned in his usual everyday opulence, gold chains swinging purposefully against his vest. He had that dark glint in his eye – the one hellbent on outrunning their next failure. 

And hell, they'd had plenty as of late.

Arthur still saw the earth through Sean’s skull, heard the buzz of flies, eager to make maggots of the kid before he had half a chance to turn cold. He shook his head as if to clear it.

“You boys ought'a be ashamed —if you put half the energy you spent fighting one another as you did our real enemies, why, I reckon we’d have none.” Scolded Dutch, leveling looks of fatherly disapproval at the lot of them. 

"You're right, boss." Micah turned watery blue eyes on Arthur's as he brought his hat to his heart. “I’m sorry, cowpoke – I don’t mean to criticize; that’s just my prickly way of tryin’ to help a brother in arms when he’s startin' to act soft.”

Bill snickered. Arthur grit his teeth. Dutch ignored this, steering Arthur aside for a private word.

“Son – I need you to trust me on this." He said quietly. "Now, I know you haven’t been keen on my ideas lately…” he went on, pointedly enough to leave guilt-shaped puncture wounds in Arthur’s doubt. “But something like this is exactly what we need to help lift ourselves up and out of the filth. If you're gonna turn on me, now is not the time!"

Arthur's expression faltered as if stricken. "C'mon, Dutch, it ain't like that — you know I always got your back." Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Bill in the midst of using the corner of a pillar to scratch an unreachable itch between his shoulder blades — like something Arthur had seen a bear do once with a tree up in the Grizzlies. "…It's Williamson's I'd rather avoid."

Dutch addressed the others. "All of you need to straighten up and listen to what it is I'm tryin' to tell you, for Christ's sake!" He plowed on, "Now, I’ve got us a plan – but we have to act quick and we have to act right. Otherwise, we can kiss this opportunity goodbye. Arthur," He looked over, expectant. "Are you with us or not?"

Arthur shifted, swallowing his exasperation. “I — fine. What is the damn plan, anyhow?” 

“It’s genius, is what it is.” He grinned conspiratorially. “Now, Trelawny's done most of the leg work already. But according to him, tonight this little dance troupe will be puttin' Sleeping Beauty to bed; tomorrow they’ll be on a train headed north, bound for Chicago; and you and I, son…” Dutch chuckled darkly, giving Arthur's shoulder a bracing squeeze. “We are gonna be on that train.” 

“We’re what?” Arthur hissed. His eyes darted out to camp, to the women toiling in the heat, hanging soggy clothes up to dry — to little Jack making pictures in the mud with a stick while Abigail lingered vigilantly nearby, her son never far out of sight.

He lowered his voice. "We just left a heap of bodies back in Rhodes, burned them plantations to the ground, got the law on us — and now you wanna rob another train?"

"Please, Arthur, will you at least pretend to have a modicum of faith in me?" Dutch glared. "You and I are not robbing a train, we're robbing a woman who's gonna be on a train — there is a difference!"

Bill appeared over Dutch’s shoulder. “Hey, what about me?”

Dutch barely glanced his way. “You and Micah are gonna meet us in Annesburg.”

“Annesburg?” Bill sputtered, gaping between them. “What the hell are we gonna be doin’ there?” 

“Waiting for us.” Dutch told him with the withering patience. “Don't you see? That's the beauty of it! This time, we don't need to go in there guns blazing with a whole, nasty crew of us makin' this into some — big production. No, we get in and get out, nice and inconspicuous, and the poor bastards won't hardly know what hit 'em til they're halfway to Illinois."

Bill blinked. "Well…how're we gonna to do that?"

"Arthur and I," Dutch said slowly, "will board tomorrow's train as but humble passengers. Then, on my signal, we’ll slip into Miss Elsie Rose’s private car, quietly handle any obstacles we may encounter —“

“And what?” Arthur interjected. “Just — put a gun to her head and ask pretty for everything she’s got?” 

Dutch smiled a crocodile’s smile. “Exactly.”

They listened raptly as Dutch explained the rest; if timed right, they could help themselves to the ballerina's fortune, threaten her within an inch of her life, and quietly disembark once the train rolled into the station at Annesburg. There, Bill and Micah would be waiting with horses in tow, ready to help them make their getaway should all go according to plan — and ready to shoot should it not.

"That sounds…" Arthur mused, rubbing his stubbly jaw in thought. "...Just crazy enough to work."

Bill turned purple.

"You're the boss, Boss." Micah chimed in as he sidled up to Dutch's flank. "Whatever needs doin' will get done, you have my word."

"Now that is what I like to hear!" Dutch praised. "Micah, you take Bill and go make sure we got what we need. Arthur — you head on into Saint Denis. See if you can't get into that theater she's holed up in and have yourself a look around, get a picture of who and what it is we're dealin' with — and bring Trelawny with you." He added, gesturing off towards the shaded gazebo, where the well-dressed magician lounged with a pipe in hand, looking comically out of place amidst the squalor. "I'm sure his skills are precisely suited to the occasion. Now let's get out there and make us some money!"

Dismissed, the other two men peeled off to prepare, with Bill silently apoplectic at the injustice of it all. Arthur nodded dutifully and stepped out into the unrepentant daylight.

“And son?”

He heeled, squinting from beneath the brim of his hat to see Dutch still in the shade, striking a match and lighting the end of his cigar like a fuse.

“Wear something decent, for once.” 

Arthur and Trelawny kept a brisk pace, riding side by side as they followed the bayou's well-trodden path towards the city. The journey was short but no less oppressive; Lemoyne had its own scenic charms at times, Arthur supposed, though it was difficult to appreciate them knowing the predators — man, reptile or otherwise — that lurked in the water, in the grass, in the trees.

And damn the humidity of it all, too. As they trotted along, Arthur slipped the reins over the saddle horn to open the first few buttons of his stand-collar shirt. The cloth was already dampened with sweat, his menial efforts to appear "decent" at Dutch's behest, diminished.

“I won’t pretend to know the first thing about it…" He said after a while. "But I thought dancin’ girls barely had pots to piss in, let alone train cars full of cash.”

“Ordinarily they don't." Trelawny agreed. "Although, our Elsie Rose may very well be the exception — now that she's found herself engaged to one of Howard Hall's sons, of course. I presume that's her financier.” He clicked his tongue regrettably. "Should you ever consider a career change, Arthur, I would caution you against show business. It's rarely so lucrative."

"I'll keep that in mind." Arthur grunted. "So, this money she's got…you're sayin' it ain't even hers? Just some rich bastard's she's gettin' hitched to?"

“Not just any 'rich bastard', my dear boy. A Mister Percy Hall. I believe he's the middle of seven sons, should my research serve…and it always does.” Trelawny straightened with self-importance as he steered his mare, Gwydion, around a particularly filthy-looking mud puddle. “...You are familiar with the Hall family, I trust?”

“Remind me.”

Trelawny lifted a sleek brow. “Howard H. Hall? Railroad magnate? Architect of the Pacific Union Railroad, connecting the Western and Gulf coast ports — ?”

“Oh, great.” Arthur growled through his teeth. “Weren’t enough that we pissed off Cornwall and his oil cronies, let’s add them railroad sons of bitches to the list, too. Bet they love bein’ robbed.”

“You boys are nothing if not well-diversified in your entrepreneurial efforts, I must say.” 

Arthur snorted bitterly. 

Trelawny regarded him with interest. “I’m surprised by you, Arthur. A few years ago, I’d have pictured you chomping at the proverbial bit at the chance to relieve a wealthy man of his excess."

“Yeah, well – a few years ago we weren’t in the kinda trouble we’re in now.” Arthur shot back. “...Or if we were, it ain’t like how I remember it.” 

“Ah, I see.” 

They rode in silence for a few paces before Arthur spoke again.

“It’s just…well, we lost a lot of folks. Jenny, Mac, Davey…" He swallowed with difficulty. "Now Sean, too — I don’t wanna see anymore of us put in the ground sooner’n we have to be there. That’s all I’m sayin.’”

Silence. Arthur sighed, steeling himself. “But I reckon there ain’t much else for us to do other'n…keep movin' forward, come hell or high water."

Trelawny pursed his lips pityingly. “Spoken like a true son of Dutch, my dear boy.”

"You look happy, bein' back in the city." Arthur unhappily observed.

Hestia Street was considered a posh part of Saint Denis, with affluence on full display everywhere from its high-end boutiques to the manicured residences lining the cobbled avenue. But as far as Arthur's nostrils were concerned, the smog and shit here didn't smell any better than it did in the slums.

Trelawny chuckled, using his reflection in a shop window to adjust his bowtie. "Naturally, dear boy. I fear another day spent mired in that deplorable swamp would have propelled me to madness…"

"Yeah, well." Arthur grunted, crushing a cigarette beneath the toe of his wingtip gaiter. "I reckon the swamp's still prettier."

The Théâtre Râleur commanded close to an entire block. Drawn like moths to flame, the marquee lights beckoned theatergoers in droves. Arthur watched a number of them arrive by carriage, laughing gaily, privileged with the kind of cluelessness only money could buy.

Inside, the lobby was a cavernous, circular room dipped in gold and red velvet. Heels clicked on the ornate tiling as people milled about with drinks in hand, dressed in all their finery. The center of the floor was embossed with the theater's garish insignia, rivaled in ostentatiousness only by the massive crystal chandelier hanging high overhead.

Arthur let out a low whistle. "Well, shit. Never mind the lady — why ain't we robbin' this place?"

Trelawny tsked in warning. "Subtlety, my dear boy, subtlety…"

Straight ahead were the richly carpeted stairs leading further inside. To the right was the box office where a line of patrons waited to speak with the ticket clerk. On either side were two hallways, each flanked with velvet curtains, lined with wallpaper of a dark, intricate damask. Arthur curiously peeked down one such hallway, eyes trailing over the large, gold-framed portraits on the walls, all emblazoned with names of fancy-looking people Arthur didn't hope to recognize.

Tickets in hand, the two ascended the stairs.

If Arthur thought the lobby was fancy, the theater itself was overkill.

"Jesus." He hissed, craning his neck to take in the masterfully painted cherubic scenes on the ceiling; the hand-carved moldings; the second-story balcony seats cradled in gold. His lip curled in disgust. "What a goddamn waste."

"You have a certain lethal grace about you, Arthur." Trelawny remarked amusedly as they settled in a pair of aisle seats near the back of the house. "Have you ever considered dance as a hobby?"

That earned a rare laugh. "Me? No. Reckon I ain't ever looked right in the leotard. Besides," Arthur went on, "you seen how this gang's got me runnin' all over creation — I ain't got time for hobbies."

"Surely, you take pleasure in more than drink, smoke, and violence, my dear boy?"

Arthur smirked. "What's more pleasurable than that?"

The lights dimmed.

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"Sadie! Take my hand." You lean over the railing, wrapped in the flimsy silk nighty. She takes it and hauls herself over the railing, her long legs flashing.

It has been a month since you have seen her, and the desire long unsatisfied flares at the sight of her. The rifle around her shoulder gleams in the streetlight, and her face is made severe under the brim of her hat.

"Christ." She hisses as she smooths her rumpled coat. A few strands from her plait have come loose, and they hang around her face. "Does it gotta be so high?"

"Shh. Someone will hear you. Delilah has ears like a bat."

"Where's your husband?" She says, raising her brows.

"Away. Business in Rhodes," you say quietly. "He won't be back for weeks. Delilah's staying downstairs till he's back."

Delilah is the aged housekeeper your husband has employed to keep things running smoothly and to keep an eye on you. Sadie stands in the low light of your bedroom; the open window behind her frames her in the glow of the streetlight. She removes her hat, and her face is revealed to you. The smooth, freckled curve of her cheek and the upturned nose. You move to help her out of her coat, and she waves you away, pressing her mouth to yours instead. She sighs into your mouth as you fist the lapels of her coat; you pull it off her shoulders as she removes her rifle, stowing it against the windowsill. The nightgown you wear is thin, and the draught from the window makes them harden. Wasting no time, she slips a rough palm into the neckline and cups the full breast.

"Mmph. They're sore. Getting my blood soon."

Caressing the swell, she kisses you again, pulling the forked pin from your hair so it spills over your neck and shoulders. Carefully, she pushes it back and kisses your neck, making you arch up into her.

Sadie scoops your breast out of your gown. Her fingers are rough, and you groan as she bends her head to suck the nipple into her mouth. It's wet and hot. Her teeth graze along the peaking bud, and you pull at her braid.

"Gentle." You say, and she softens her pink mouth. She releases it from the nipple and blows cool air onto the wet tip. You shiver.

"Sorry." She says a little sheepishly. "Missed this."

Missed this. Not missed you.

"Sadie." You say softly. "I'm already so wet for you." You take her hand, hitching up your nightgown with the other, and pull her to cup your cunt. A low whistle hums in her throat. She rubs her fingers into the heat of it, smearing fluid along the seam. Gripping her wrist, you urge her to speed up her fingers.

"You're a sweet thing." She says, mockingly, resisting a little. "I ain't even been gone a month."

"He doesn't—he doesn't even touch me." You say, leaning forward, into her mouth. "He doesn't make me come."

"Aw. Poor thing." A smug grin curves at her mouth, and she licks her lips like a predator.

"I thought about you the whole month." You implore, "Touched myself but—"

"But what?"

"I needed you."

Sadie presses the heel of her palm against your heat slowly, and two of her fingers tease the entrance.

"Please." You are whining now, humping at her fingers pathetically. She withdraws her hand, and your knees tremble.

"Tch." The noise is soft. "How 'bout you show me first?"

"Show you?" You press your face to her throat, your breasts smushed up against her, and she smells like sweat.

"Show me what you do when I'm ain't around to make you come."

Sadie steps back from you and pulls up the armchair you had tucked next to the window to read on. She angles her head at your bed. Still made. Sitting in the chair, she unbuttons her vest and sheds her weapons and leather gear. They lie in a heap at her feet. You sit on the edge of the bed, one of your breasts hanging out of the gown.

"Touch yourself." She says, her voice cool. You wonder if she uses this voice when she chases down her bounties. "And then, maybe I'll let you eat my pussy."

"Sadie. Don't play games; it's been so long."

"I know it has." She says, her voice brimming with smug laughter. "That's why I wanna enjoy it."

You exhale. Try to relax. Drawing a hand up, you cup your breast, and you massage the sore globe. Scooping the other breast out of the gown, you rub them in tandem, playing with the tips. Your cycle must be close; it's so sensitive that you mewl softly.

She leans back in the chair, her eyes heavy-lidded. Slowly, you lift your night gown up your legs. You spread your thighs apart. Your cunt is already soaking, leaking shiny slick. Her eyes go dark.

"Every night. "You begin. "Every night, I would think of you—touching me."

Taking two fingers, you circle the swollen bud in the cleft of your cunt. It pulses painfully.  You ease the whole finger in now and cry out.

"Is that so?" She cocks her head. You slip the tip of your finger inside yourself, and your thighs clench. You add a second finger, rubbing that spot inside of you desperately. Only she can reach it, though.

"I think about you—putting your fingers inside me." You gasp, "And rubbing my little cunt."  In the low lamplight, you see her hand slip inside her collar to cup her own breast. You open your knees, spreading them apart so she can see the way your cunt clenches. She pulls at the fastenings of her breeches and untucks her shirt. She hisses, and her hand disappears into her breeches.

“Dirty word for a spoiled little wife." She rasps, but you can hear her own desire seeping into her voice, her head lolls in the armchair, and her hips buck into her hand. "Put another one in."

"It won't fit." A pathetic moan slips past your lips.

"It will." She says firmly. "Spit on your hand."

You obey her.

"Go slow." She grunts a little as her wrist works faster to rub herself inside her breeches. A dark spot is beginning to show on them. "Be gentle with her."

Slowly, you slick the entrance with your spit and then ease the third finger in. The pressure building in your belly pulls.

"Oh. Sadie." You bite your lip. "It's sensitive. You do it; you're better at it."

"Quit beggin' and spread 'em wider."

"Sadie. Sadie, I think I'm going to—"

"Not yet." She grits out. "I waited too long."

"Please. Please, I'll do anything." You whine. Clenching, you bury your fingers deeper inside yourself.

"Take 'em out." She says firmly. You do. "Now, suck them."

Tasting your own salty slick, you suck at your fingers. She beckons you forward with a finger. Slipping off the bed, you practically crawl over to her, still dressed in your flimsy gown. Her breeches are still on, but her shirt is rucked up and a sliver of tanned skin peeks through.

Lifting her slim hips, she kicks off her breeches. You are already kneeling at her feet. Her cunt is furred with soft, brown hair. Your mouth waters. Nuzzling at her, you breathe in the musk of a long day's work. Her fingers come into your hair, caressing it. She lifts your chin, her thumb slipping into your mouth; you nip at it.

"Look at you." She grins, her shirt is mostly undone, and the curves of her breasts are just visible. "What would all those decent folk say? Pretty society lady like you, lookin' like a little whore."

"Please let me." You beg, nuzzling at the soft thatch between her legs.

"Let you what?" She mocks, cocking her head.

"Let me kiss your pussy," you whisper.

"Pussy?" Nah. Use the word you were usin' before."

You flush.

"C'mon." She strokes your hair back, tucking it behind your ears. "You was all bold a few minutes ago."

"Cunt." You whisper. "Let me kiss your cunt."

"Sure, angel. Since you're so pretty."

You poke your tongue out and use your hand to part her in the centre. Aha. You think, there it is, she wants you just as much as you want her. Her cunt is puffy, swollen, red, and shiny with slick. You lick the pulsing bud in the middle, and her fingers tighten in your hair. Taking it in your mouth, you suck it hard, the way you know she likes. Her hips buck, and she presses your face down. The musky, salty scent of her fills your nostrils and your mouth. You lick harder, just to feel her fist in your hair and grind her cunt into your mouth.

"Fuck." She groans, "That's good. You're gettin' good at this."

Fluttering your lashes at her, you pause and look up.

"Am I, Sadie?"

"Yeah, baby. You are." You lick another stripe down her centre again. "Got a real sweet mouth."

Your pussy is pulsing with need at the feeling of her cunt against your face and the salty taste of her arousal. Reaching down, you squeeze your breasts together—for her benefit. She groans at the sight, her hand coming up to tweak her own nipple. She cries out and throws her head back at the friction, and you feel her cunt clench around your tongue; you lick more furiously. Sadie comes on your mouth with a rough exhale and presses your face into her slick folds; you lick all her wet up eagerly.

"Sadie?" You mumble, muffled in her soft, wet cunt.

"Yeah, honey?"

"Can I touch your—can I touch these too?" You lift your head and lick your lips, angling your head towards her breasts.

"My tits?" She says, and undoes the last button on her shirt. It falls open, revealing round, high breasts; the nipples are dark pink and so hard. Sweat glistens between them. "Ask properly."

"Can I touch your tits?" you beg, salivating a little at the sight of those freckled mounds.

"'Course you can. Come here."

Leaning up, you lick at the soft golden seam of hair below her belly button. It tastes of her pussy; she must have smeared all her wet up her belly. Then you kiss the tensed muscles of her abdomen, tanned from all those weeks bathing in the creek. Then, finally, you crawl up her, settling in her lap on those muscular thighs. You take one hard nipple in your mouth and suck hard. She arches into your mouth a little, stroking your hair. Your cunt finds friction against her thigh, and you hump against it, mouth attached to her nipple. You bend your head to her other breast, sucking as much into your mouth as will go. The fat of her breasts is making your cheek bulge.

"Little housewife like you. Who knew you was so needy? She muses.

Burying your face between her breasts and licking at the sweat on her sternum, you grind your aching pussy against her leg. She bounces it erratically, speeding up as you get closer and slowing down as you start to beg her. She stills completely, then.

"Sadie—please let me come." Mindlessly, you rub yourself harder, burying your face in her neck. "I've been so good."

She stills you, her hands clamping down on your jerking hips, and then tips your head up to look at her. Swiping the spit and salty arousal off your lips, she considers your request. For a moment, you think she might deny you. She likes to do that. Deny you and leave you aching in your bed, your fingers in your sore pussy trying desperately to come without her.

"Yeah. You been good," she says slowly, licking her lips. "Lie down on the bed."

You do, stripping off your sweat-soaked nightgown.

Sadie stands above you, spreads your legs to peer at your cunt. Her braid has come mostly loose, strands of hair framing her face. She's naked, and a scar runs down her side; you reach to touch it, and she catches your hand before you can. Her shoulders are square as she braces a knee on the bed and slowly presses her cunt to yours.

"Ah—Sadie." The feeling of her pussy, pressed against yours, sliding against you, is so electrifying. Your leg kicks out, and she steadies it with her strong hand, her nails digging into your thigh. "More."

"You're greedy." She says, the muscles in her stomach rippling as she pinches your swollen nub of your clit. "So desperate, look at all that mess."

"I missed you so much." You wail, covering your hot face with a hand. One of your tits swings as you turn your head to the cool fabric of the duvet. She slaps it lightly; it stings. "Didn't know—ah—when you'd come back."

"Got you a gift too." She says casually, as if her cunt isn't grinding against yours.

"A present?" Your voice is breathy with pleasure.

"Yeah." She says smugly, pushing your thigh back a little. "A chain. It's going to look so pretty between these." Sadie reaches up to squeeze a reddened, swollen breast in her hand, soothing the sting from earlier.

You come hard, her name on your lips and your cunt releasing a humiliating little spurt of liquid. She dips her fingers into it and licks them clean.

Afterwards, you lie cocooned in your massive, plush bed. Sadie props herself against your fat, stuffed throw pillows, cigarette dangling between her lips. You lie cradled against her breast; she absently strokes your back with her deft fingers. Kissing the smattering of freckles at the swell, you rest your chin on it, looking up at her.

Suspending the cigarette in two fingers, she holds it to your mouth for a second, only letting you take in a little drag. She laughs when you splutter, her eyes creased at the edges. The turquoise silk of your duvet contrasts with her skin, still glowing with sweat.

"Sadie," you say, a little wheedling. "Where's my present?"

She puts out the cigarette on your ash tray on the nightstand and leans over it to fumble in her satchel. She finds it and closes it in her palm so you cannot see it.

"Turn around."

You sit up, turning away from her. She kisses the knobs of your spine as the cool weight of the necklace rests just between your breasts. It's a teardrop-shaped red stone, heavy against your sternum.

"Pretty." She says as you turn towards her. You bat your eyes at her a little; she adjusts it so it sits centered on your chest. Her callouses catch on the skin there. "It's a goodbye present."

"What?" Your heart sinks suddenly, a sharp pain going through it.

"I'm leavin' here." She yawns, stretching. "Won't be back for a while. Or at all."

"You're leaving me?" you say, voice dangerously tremulous.

"Not you specifically." She scoffs, "This place."

"Take me with you," you say suddenly. "I don't love him."

"I ain't be doin' that." She says, finally. "And I won't be hearin' more on it."

"But Sadie, I—"

"Shh." She says, and then to your surprise, cradles your face in her hands. "You're a sweet girl. But it ain't a life for you. Yeah?"

You nod silently, biting your lip so you do not sob.

"Smart girl." She says approvingly. "C'mere. Lie down, and I'll make you feel better."

oh I love me some sneaking in and sneaking around THIS FIC ALREADY MEANS THE WORLD TO ME

I want to point out something I’ve said before but I’ll say again,, I’m obsessed with just how alive your fics feel. the added fact about the housekeeper being there and the little description about her just breathes so much life into this story and sets the scene perfectly!!!

“Missed this. Not missed you.” <- THIS WAS A BLOW TO THE HEART and also made me realize why I don’t like that sort of line one bit, but I do like messy relationships especially between women😛

‘“Touch yourself." She says, her voice cool. You wonder if she uses this voice when she chases down her bounties. "And then, maybe I'll let you eat my pussy."’ <- blink blink blink….. this has me staring blankly at my screen IM FERAL the “maybe” is too good

Sadie being meannnnnnnnn im blushing tysm zoe for writing this and blessing me

‘“Look at you." She grins, her shirt is mostly undone, and the curves of her breasts are just visible. "What would all those decent folk say? Pretty society lady like you, lookin' like a little whore."’ <- i’ll always be of the belief that these sort of lines are ten times better being said by women but I might be just a tiny bit biased ONLY A TINY BIT like yes ladies degrade me hahahahahahaha

“Suspending the cigarette in two fingers, she holds it to your mouth for a second, only letting you take in a little drag. She laughs when you splutter, her eyes creased at the edges.”

THE EXACT POSE I JUST HIT READING THAT HELPPPP

The ending WHAT don’t do this to me☹️☹️☹️☹️ I felt reader’s desperation to leave so bad that’s gonna make me sobbbbb like the way Sadie is not willing to talk about it further aahhhhhhhhhhhhghgggg i see why that line about her not missing reader was snuck in DAMN ITTTTT SADIEEEW DAMN IT TERRIBLE CIRCUMSTANCES but also I really liked how unattached Sadie was and how this is just a means of pleasure to her while it is like that for reader but she seems a little more attached, she finds solace in sadie and sometimes things like that have to enddddd fuck FUCK even in my silly fanfics I have to face that truth sighhhhh I love it don’t worry I’m the biggest angst fan ever lmao

OH AND you captured Sadie’s likeness so well, I really enjoy that while reader was still very subby she was also the one giving half the time instead of it being fully Sadie’s job🙂‍↕️ love that Sadie was receiving just as much!!

“You done good.”, he then speaks up and your gaze falls down to the leather bag strapped around his chest.

Several thousands of dollars are in there. Unfortunately, you didn’t find any gold bars within the safes like your source claimed you would, but the cash will do just fine too.

“Told you I could pull it off.”, you respond, aiming for a light tone, but your voice is shaking a bit too much for that.

The outlaw let’s out a curt scoff, though the corners of his mouth are still pointing upwards. In one swift motion, he slides the bag off his body and holds it out to you. It falls against your chest and your hands instinctively reach for it, clutching it close. Feeling the weight in your palms elevates your mood only more.

“I reckon you should give it to Dutch. He’ll be happy.”

“You think so?”, you ask as if you don’t already know.

“Sure. If there’s anything he likes then it’s money.”, Arthur tells you before giving your shoulder another pat and sauntering over to his tent.

Right next to it stands Dutch’s, though the man is nowhere to be seen. You grip the bag so harshly that the whites of your knuckles are showing and you swallow the lump in your throat. Dutch Van Der Linde, the man you owe your life to and who might or might not be the sole reason you had even planned this robbery.

It’s not that you were in his bad graces before, but his opinion of you has always been neutral. At least that’s how it seems in your eyes. Holding onto the earnings for dear life, you march through camp and keep an eye out for the gang leader.

Then you spot him over by the cliff with his back to the camp and a cigar in one hand. You take a brief second to admire him from afar before approaching the lion. From the first time your eyes had landed on him, you knew he would mean trouble. There is just something about him that draws you in and you’re unable to put to finger on it.

Perhaps it’s the charismatic air surrounding him or how he always does his utmost to see everyone right. No matter what shit the gang finds itself in, you all can trust for Dutch to get you back on track again. Capable and competent Dutch. A warm jolt runs through your veins, burning the flesh beneath your skin- nay, scorching it.

What you wouldn’t give to have his attention on you if only for a mere second, to bask in his dazzling smile, to taste his favor on your tongue like a sweet summer wine. For his heat to burn you, to seep into your very core until there’s nothing left but ashes for him to palm. Oh, how you wish for him to just finally see and perceive you.

You want that deep and rumbling baritone of his voice to ring in your ears in a low whisper, for his hands to wander over your body and to feel that thick mustache nuzzled against that sweet, aching spot between your legs. Your core throbs at the mere thought.

Banning all inappropriate thoughts of the older man, you walk over to where he is standing and softly clear your throat. He notices you immediately, turning his head and gazing at you with mild curiosity.

“What can I do for you?”, he asks, his voice cutting right into you like an exquisite knife.

It takes all willpower to school your features. Standing under his piercing stare, the bank robbery suddenly doesn’t seem so nerve wrecking anymore. Not trusting your own voice, you simply hold the bag out to him in silence. Understanding gleams in his eyes and he tucks the cigar between his teeth (you wish that could be you instead), before accepting the piece of leather.

Only a moment later, he opens it and glances inside, his eyebrows instantly shooting up. Disbelief is written all over his face, quickly replaced by pure joy.

“From the bank that Arthur and I robbed.”, you curtly explain, relieved to find your voice so firm.

“That so? He did tell me you were planning on hittin’ it.”, he mumbles more to himself than you.

“We didn’t have the time to count, but it should be a few thousands in there.”

A long pause stretches on in which Dutch is fishing out a couple of stacks and running his thumb over them.

“Good, good.”, he murmurs and looks back at you again. The look in his eyes is knocking all air out of your body. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

You can’t help the silly grin from taking form on your lips. His excitement sure is infecting you at a rapid pace and the pride oozing in his words isn’t doing you any favors either. Praises from Dutch is a lot like being hit with the warm rays of the morning sun. It wraps you up in a layer of coziness, much like a thick and soft blanket.

The smile he shoots you is wide and sincere and for a brief moment, it feels like you are the center of the universe.

“It was nothing. There were barely any guards.”, you helplessly chime in, feeling rather awkward under all the attention, but at the same time, you can’t stop basking in his compliments.

Each word is like a medal being hung around your neck or like a crown being placed on top of your head.

“Nonsense! Don’t downplay your success, my dear!”, he exclaims with such vigor that it nearly brings tears to your eyes. “This is big! We should celebrate this. Yes…yes.”

Hearing the nickname has your head spin and you struggle to remain steady on your feet.

“I don’t think that’s necessary-“

“Oh, how I love how humble you are, but no. This-“ He holds up the bag. “-is a great deal. You have done a great deal for us.”

“Dutch-“

The feel of his large, warm hand on your elbow immediately shuts you up.

“Let tonight be about you.”

Your throat dries up and you simply stand there, gawking at him like some deranged fool. There is something about his tone that has your ears perk up, almost like there is more to it.

Let tonight be about you…

Have you imagined that strange shift behind his eyes when he said that? Has his praise gone that much to your head? As you watch him walk off and bark orders to get the drinks out and ready, you can’t help but to stay rooted in place. Your heart is drumming against your ribcage and you fear that it will leap out of you any moment.

Taking in a deep breath, you gently swat at your own cheek in hopes to snap out of your delusions. His charm has done a number on you alright, but you’re a fool for believing that there is more to it.

---

All evening, you have been listening to your praises being sung and can’t help but slightly shrink away from all the attention. Dutch has managed to put everyone in a festive mood with a proud speech and as much as you tried to deflect it all and redirect it at Arthur, who was a part of the robbery too after all, it was all for naught.

So, you’re sitting by the fire now and hoping that the burning sensation underneath your face will soon leave for good. Your ears are burning from how bashful the situation is making you and take regular sips from the bottle in your grasp to avoid talking. Zoning out of the many conversations happening around you, you stare into the fire.

The flames lick at the logs, blackening the bark and producing a cozy crackling as the wood pops. There are bodies all around you, cackling and sharing stories, some of them even singing. As you straighten your back, you wince at the uncomfortable pop of your spine. It runs down, the next one more hollow than the previous and you scramble back onto your feet.

Having sat in a slouched position on top of that log for such a long time has left your limbs stiff and aching. Figuring that it might be a fine idea to stretch your legs, you wander around the camp, drinking up the good mood. All this time walking and smiling and listening in on bits and bops of several different conversations, you don’t notice the broad frame in front of you at first.

Much to your delight and horror, it’s Dutch. You’ve been hoping to run into him, yet at the same time you wish you hadn’t. The back of your head has been prickling every now and then with the sensation of being watched which is both frightening and exhilarating. You feel it now too as you gaze into his eyes that seem to burn with the conviction of a thousand suns.

“How are you enjoying yourself?”, he asks with a crystal clear voice, so unlike most of the gang members who have been slurring their words for some time now.

“Just fine. Thank you so much.”, you say and feel like it’s not nearly enough.

A steady arm is being wrapped around your waist and its warmth tells you that you’re right where you’re supposed to be. He leads you further away from the others and towards the edged of camp that is teetering between the flickering light of the campfire and complete darkness. Dutch melts into the shadows, though the red parts of his outfit protrude it.

This is your own little corner, a small private pocket for just the two of you to share. Suddenly, his arm leaves you together with the comfort it brought and you have to fight the urge to lean forward, to chase it back to him. Squinting your eyes against the darkness, you can make out the swift movements of his hands, but can’t tell exactly what he’s doing or how on earth he can see anything all the way back here in the first place.

Then light penetrates your little pocket, flickering and dancing on the end of a match that he brings close to a cigarette tucked between his lips. When did he manage to take that one out without your notice? With one practiced flick of his wrist the match goes out again, only to land on the damp forest floor.

“I thought you’re more of a cigar kind of man.”, you remark as you watch the smoke float upwards.

“That’s because I am, my dear.”, he answers after a quick inhale and then he holds the lit cigarette out to you. “But I also know that you’re more of a cigarette kind of woman.”

Your heart leaps and flips and performs all sorts of acrobatics the very moment his words sink in. Although it is just a small gesture compared to the big picture - to choose another thing over his favorite for your sake, it feels like he plucked the stars right out of the sky for you. A cigarette has never looked this promising, so brimming with potential and you accept it without missing a beat.

Adrenaline pumps through your blood. It’s not exactly the same as it was during the bank robbery earlier today. No, you’d describe it more as an itch for action instead of the fear of something going terribly wrong. Suddenly, you feel like you could rob a hundred more. Bringing the cigarette up to your mouth, you breathe in the tobacco and imagine to detect a subtle taste of Dutch’s lips.

“What a fine woman you’ve grown into. When we first took you in, you didn’t seem anything more than a girl and look at you now.”, he points out and you swallow the urge to remind him that you weren’t even that young when you joined the gang. Aside from that, it’s also only been a year or two between then and now.

“You think so?”, you ask, hoping to get more out of him with this.

“I know so.” His voice almost sounds like a purr. “I’m surprised that I haven’t had to fight off any men with a stick yet.”

As the image pops into your mind, you can’t help but chuckle at it. “Why would you have to fight anyone off?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

The shift of his tone has you perk up your ears and you closely gauge his expression. A certain anticipation is swirling in his features mixed in with mild curiosity and the hint of a challenge. Panic rises behind your chest as you hasten to find a fitting response as if you’re going to lose everything with just one wrong word.

Of course this would happen, the vicious voice in the back of your mind whispers. After all, Dutch is the sun and like Icarus, you’ve been flying too close to him even if only for a day.

“I don’t think you have to whack anyone over the head with a stick.”, you answer after finally finding the courage and your voice.

Something gleams in his eyes. You’ve seen it before on the street cats in your hometown before landing a fatal blow on a mouse or a bird.

“That so? Has no gentleman caught your eye?”, he asks and you chew on the soft filter of the cigarette to distract yourself.

You give the gang members a pointed look. “I hardly know any.”

The laugh leaving him at your dry comment is like music to your ears and you can’t fight the lopsided grin spreading on your face.

“With that you are right.”

His hand finds your back in a casual manner as if he has touched you many times before like this. It’s the first. Sure, he has given you the occasional shoulder squeeze or pat, but nothing like this. Nothing that lingered so. Dutch’s palm is flat against your blouse and you’re silently sending its fabric to hell and back for standing in the way.

Though his heat still manages to leave its mark, hotter than sitting by a fire, hotter than standing directly in its flames. His thumb is moving in circular motions, too familiar to not mean anything. Then his fingers pinch the cigarette in your mouth, their tips not even half an inch away from your lips and you part them without command to allow him to slide it out with ease.

The way his eyes bore into you rewires your brain entirely. It slices straight into your soul, scarring it for eternity and the pain of it is so sweet that you don’t ever want to feel anything else again. The end of the cigarette gleams as he breathes in the burned tobacco and he blows the smoke right at you. No, not at you, but into you.

You have no idea what prompts you to open your mouth to welcome the smoke leaving his. You saw the silent message flash in his eyes and simply did as you’re told. As he blows the cloud into you, he moves closer and you don’t even notice it at first through the darkness and the foggy veil of the cigarette between you two.

Next thing you know his lips are on yours, his mustache brushing over your face and the lingering taste of the cigar he had before this setting your nerve endings ablaze. It catches you off-guard, certainly, but your body springs into action as if a long lost muscle memory is kicking in. It’s only natural to return the kiss, to let him embrace you and to welcome his warm tongue.

It’s fierce as befitting for a man of his caliber. His body looms over yours as if to consume you, both arms encaging you like iron and lips moving with a fervor meant to dizzy. You allow yourself to be fully and entirely devoured, clinging onto him for dear life, clutching him so close to your chest as if he’s a priced treasure.

And thus, you stand here in the darkness of the night, kissing a man many years your senior and feeling more mischievous and slyer than you ever have while stalking the shadows on a job.

“Dutch-“, you start in a hushed voice. His name simply bubbled up inside your throat, the only right thing in that moment.

He shushes you with a soft ‘sh-sh-sh’ like you’re some frightened, wild horse that he’s trying to calm and break. “I know.”

As he utters those words, you don’t doubt them one bit. No, you fully believe that he knows. He knows what you were attempting to say with his name, he knows you, split open and free for him to read and observe. Then, much to your confusion and disappointment, he pulls away and it takes about all your willpower not to grab him by the collar of his shirt and yank him back into your orbit.

“Enjoy the party. Folk will notice if you’re gone for too long.”, he says and you school your features to avoid the frown threatening to take form on your face.

Going back to join the others at the fire is the last thing you want to find yourself doing and you open your mouth to protest and perhaps to even ask if you’ve done something wrong to have him send you away all of a sudden. The words die on your tongue when he cups your cheek and runs his thumb over your bruised lips.

DONT CALL ME OUT LIKE THIS:

“What you wouldn’t give to have his attention on you if only for a mere second, to bask in his dazzling smile, to taste his favor on your tongue like a sweet summer wine. For his heat to burn you, to seep into your very core until there’s nothing left but ashes for him to palm. Oh, how you wish for him to just finally see and perceive you.” <- daddy issues and comphet are a killer combination that plague me and this honestly summarizes both really well. Dutch please🙏perceive🙏me🙏itll make my stomach stop hurting, for just a moment pleasee

“he tucks the cigar between his teeth (you wish that could be you instead)” LAUGHED OUT LOUD

“A steady arm is being wrapped around your waist and its warmth tells you that you’re right where you’re supposed to be.” NO NO GET HIM AWAYYYYYY

“Although it is just a small gesture compared to the big picture - to choose another thing over his favorite for your sake, it feels like he plucked the stars right out of the sky for you.” oh goddddd oh nooooooo

‘“What a fine woman you’ve grown into. When we first took you in, you didn’t seem anything more than a girl and look at you now.”’ Duuuutch….. don’t say that DUTCH nuh uh

“Of course this would happen, the vicious voice in the back of your mind whispers. After all, Dutch is the sun and like Icarus, you’ve been flying too close to him even if only for a day.” okay no over the top reaction for this one I just really like it

WHAT IS HAPPENING WHAT IS HAPPENINGGGGGVVV THE SMOKE HIM JUST DOING IT SO CASUALLY IM NOT OKAY

“Then his fingers pinch the cigarette in your mouth, their tips not even half an inch away from your lips and you part them without command to allow him to slide it out with ease.”

“The end of the cigarette gleams as he breathes in the burned tobacco and he blows the smoke right at you. No, not at you, but into you.”

“It’s fierce as befitting for a man of his caliber. His body looms over yours as if to consume you, both arms encaging you like iron and lips moving with a fervor meant to dizzy. “

“No, you fully believe that he knows. He knows what you were attempting to say with his name, he knows you, split open and free for him to read and observe.”

my stomach literally dropped oooHMY GOODNESS IN A GOOD AND BAD WAY I need to cool off

I NEED TO PACE AROUND MY ROOM FOR A MINUTE OHMYYGGGGGG

okay okay im finished, my thoughts are collected and firstly I have to say that the way you characterized Dutch in this was genuinely PERFECT because while reading there’s just this lingering sinister feeling when he does anything, like that little bastard always knows damn well what he’s doinghis stupid charms I hate him but also his allure is too strong😔

But my god the part THE PARTTTTT where he takes the cigarette out of her mouth I CANT STOP REREADING IT HELP ME

Now, nothing has happened since then, nothing so intimate at least … or perhaps even more intimate? Arthur didn’t know any more. It had been a quiet week, well that is if you didn’t count the oil wagon he had to steal so John’s planned train robbery might work out. But nevertheless, it had been the first somewhat calm week since they fled Blackwater and, as he feared, it was just the quiet before the storm. But in this time he and Ethel had further developed this emerging trend.

He skipped back a page, looking down on the sketches of this woman who seemed to have such a grip on him, not matter how much he tried to tell himself it’s all no strings attached. His finger gently traced the lines he’d compiled her likeness of, her round cheeks, the soft jawline, never mind that he was smudging the pencil with the caress of the image. He still didn’t know what drew her to him – he barely understood why he couldn’t let her go – seeing that he couldn’t find anything desirable about himself.

Why did she seek him out when she saw him sat in a quiet corner in camp? He was sat there sketching or writing, she would come sit down and read.

He tended to his weapons, she’d come tend to some horse tack and mend his broken bridle while she was at it. Of course he cleaned her guns, no questions asked then. It was quiet, little was talked during this moment but it was comfortable.

He kicked back after a long day with a plate full of food, she was there right next to him and he wordlessly handed her his spoon to share with her.

He let out a soft sigh as his thumb stroked down the length of the second sketch, the better one. He felt like he’d messed up the first one, couldn’t get the shape of her face right, shoulder ratio off – so he’d tired again. Arthur didn’t stand a chance at distance from Ethel even if he tired … his resolve was too weak for it anyway, he’d meant what he’d written, of course he had. He’d realised that.

He brushed his hair back from his face, it has grown longer and the way it fell into his face bugged him sometimes. In the motion he leaned his head back against the tree he was sat against, which of course gave him the perfect eyeline to watch Ethel. She had one arm crossed under her chest, the other holding a tin mug, probably her morning coffee, that she swung around ever so often, talking animatedly with Charles. The man was looking up at her from where he was sat with a smile. She made him laugh with something she said before she upturned the mug to pour out the last bit of coffee she never drank, didn’t like it when it got cold, she’d once told him. He thought it was a waste to which she had replied that it was a habit.

With the mug disposed of, she waved to Charles and walked towards Arthur. Her steps sure and steady with purpose. She stopped right in front of him, and Arthur had just the mind to close his journal, lest she saw his sketches of her, drawn like he was some lovesick school boy.

She gently nudged his boot with hers.

“Come to Valentine with me?”

It wasn’t really a question.

“Valentine? What d’ya need?”

“Company, mostly.” That’s not what he meant. He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Just- c’mon Arthur.” Her hand extended towards him to help him off the ground. He eyed it for a moment, his gaze lingered on the missing tip of her ring finger, a story he was curious about but never asked. He relented and extended his own hand.

Who was he to say no. He grasped her hand, though made it off the ground mostly on his own. With a little squeeze, he let go again of her smaller hand.

As they make their way towards the horses Arthur picked up his saddle as they passed his tent. His shoulder didn’t strain anymore at the movement. Alwyn was saddled up quickly and Arthur was surprised to see Wilma tacked up already.

Right, he remembered. She went out hunting with Charles. She’s been trying to pick up skills wherever she could. Smart girl she was.

Ethel fastened the bridle on the gelding and they were good to go.

As she approached her mare, Arthur was just a step behind her, his hands already hovering over the valley of her waist, right where they make space for the width of her hips. She grabbed a handful of her skirts to get her leg in the stirrup. This is when his hands made contact, callused skin on the stiff

fabric of the vest she wore today. His hands had itched to feel the full shape of her again and so he helped her up into the saddle of which she was more than capable on her own, he was well aware. He let go as she settled, his hands wanted to linger but he willed them away to get on his own horse and they finally set a leisurely pace out of camp. It was only a short way through the wooded area that tucked away their camp so neatly behind the thick of the bushes and trees looming above them.

“I think the plan is stupid.” Ethel turned around, her hand holding the reins sat relaxed on the saddle horn. Wilma marched straight on, faster than Alwyn. She was a stocky thing but boy she had a gait.

“Pardon?”

A gentle nudge of his heels made the gelding speed up a little in his walk so the outlaws were on par.

“The oil wagon,” she clarified as if Arthur surely must have known what she was referring to. “It’s really the best you scheming geniuses came up with?”

“Marston’s idea,” he grunted. “Got anything better?” The way she brought it up, she probably did.

“The plan is to block off the rails for the train to slow down, yeah?” She didn’t wait for clarification from Arthur before she continued. He nodded anyway. “What if the train don’t slow down? There’s gonna be an accident and an explosion probably that’s gonna do a whole lotta damage, a whole mess and we won’t get no money to show for our troubles.”

“Hold on-” he tried to interject. “We? As in we as the gang or ‘we’ and you think you’re coming along to rob the train.”

She glared at him, the sharpness of her hazel eyes meeting his. “I’m getting to that.”

She shifted her seat a little.

“As I was sayin’, it’s a set up for disaster. The operator might see it too late and then the whole thing was for nothing.”

She seemed very sure of herself there, but he could see how the plan was … faulty. He tiled his head, scratching the stubble covering his jaw. “What do ya suggest then?” His curiosity was peaked.

“Explosives along the track!” She exclaimed, her free hand gesturing to mimic an explosion, the tips of her fingers pressed to each other before opening up in motion.

“You always wanna blow stuff up, huh?” She had an affinity for it, having worked in a factory when she came to the U.S. and her knowledge and skill was definitely an asset.

She huffed out a little laugh. “Think about it, they’re loud and if I mix in some salts they’re colourful, too, hence visible from further away and sure to cause ruckus enough to stop the train on time.” There was an expectant glint in her eyes. “To clarify, I don’t wanna blow up the tracks or the train, just cause a bit of noise along the way.”

He nodded, rolling the thoughts over in his head for a moment.

“It’s genius.” Ah she was so humble. She threw up her hand again with her self-affirming words, the sudden gesture spooked Wilma who darted forward. But it was just a blink of an eye moment before Ethel had it under control again, murmuring apologies and calming words to her girl, patting her neck.

Arthur nudged Alwyn into a lazy trot, seeing as the mare was alright again, to catch up with them.

“You alright?” His tone was soft, soothing. Ethel nodded. “Got a little too enthusiastic.” She sounded a little sheepish. “We’re alright, sorry again girl.” She gave her a last pat and then looked back to Arthur.

“So what do ya say? Think my plan is smarter than John’s?”

“It’s worth… considerin’ it.” Any plan was likely going to be smarter than John’s.

“Great,” there was glee in her eyes. “I was gonna restock supplies for dynamite in Valentine, thought I pitch my idea to you if you came along.”

His eyes were on her, there was a subtle flush of excitement spread across her cheeks.

“You’re still not coming along to the robbery,” he said then, voice grown gruff, trying to put a note of finality into his words.

There it was again, the pestering in the back of his head that made him see red, nothing but blood red. A shadow fell over his face at the thought. Train robberies could work out with relatively little violence, but they could also end up bad.

She noticed how he was frowning at her from under the rim of his hat.

She raised an eyebrow. She knew better than to challenge him but sometimes she couldn’t help herself.

“We’ll see about that, big guy.”

With that she spurred on Wilma to give Arthur a race into Valentine. Her hooves kicked up the dry dirt of the dusty road that flung towards him. “Hey, wait. What – Ethel!” He was a little dumbfounded and barely reacted to nudge Alwyn into a canter before the horse bounded onwards, not to be left behind by his companion.

Wilma was nimble and with her head start Ethel made it to the train tracks before Arthur, surroundings a blur and the wind in her eyes. She reined her horse back, putting her weight back into the saddle.

“Alright, woah girl.”

She turned her around to see Arthur ride up to her. He’s already slowed down. It was hard to rein Alwyn in from full canter and he didn’t want to risk running into Valentine full speed.

Once he was close enough Ethel rode on and they made their way civilly into the livestock town. It was lively, bustling even for a relatively new and small place. The sound of livestock and talking people filled the air, that of hooves and the wagon wheels against the muddy ground. Arthur saw Ethel crinkling her nose from the corner of his eyes and it made him chuckle softly under his breath. For someone who grew up on a farm she sure liked to complain about the smell of Valentine.

“Let’s hitch up the horses there.” She pointed to a free post, just around the corner from the gun smith. Once dismounted Ethel stepped up to Arthur.

“Alright, I’m gonna make my rounds and get what I need.” She gestured towards the gun smith and then further towards the rest of the shops along the street.

She stood real close to Arthur and he couldn’t help but notice it. Sure, it was likely due to the bustle of people and horses but he could feel a slight flush creep up his neck. His hand extended to hover over the small of her back – a protective instinct perhaps – as she set into motion to walk towards her first stop.

“Meet you here in a bit?” Just as his hand finally made contact with her back she waved him off. Elusive thing she was sometimes.

“Meet you in a bit,” he sighed as he watched her walk off. Maybe he stared a little too long but he liked looking at her, noticing the little things about her. Like the weight she’s put on since joining them. She must be getting closer to what she looked like back in England still from what he’s seen from that one picture she kept. He liked that, the supple flesh to hold on to, the soft cheeks, the ampleness of her breasts under his lips – alright woah, get a grip, you fool.

As if she could sense his thoughts transported by his burning gaze she turned around, her hand already on the shop’s door handle. And she winked before disappearing inside.

The flush spread to his cheeks if the hotness of them were anything for Arthur to go by. He turned on his heels and wandered down the street, a little aimlessly if he was honest but away from the busier parts.

He found himself walking up to the church to sit on the steps leading up to the hallowed halls – well, wooden room. He’s sat here before and decided he liked it, could watch what was going on on the main street, have a good overview. And it was quieter here. He never dared to go inside. He would taint the space with his sins. Would feel like a reverent or priest would be able to look right through him. See his kills, the blood seeping off his hands, see the lies, the stealing and his willing participation in it all. Not all men of the church were drunks like the camp’s very own Reverend Swanson, they had their wits about them and their morals straight. So he stayed outside, perhaps even here a weak aura of forgiveness and mercy may seep into his soul for when he passed onto the next world.

He placed his hat next to him on the steps and ran his hand down his face, momentarily blocking out the sun and the view before him.

“Sir?” a small voice asked.

Arthur looked up, his eyes met with the sight of two little girls, no older than eight, he’d guessed.

The shorter one held out a little bundle of flowers towards him. He dumbly looked at them before looking up. The girl smiled at him in a way only a kid could She was missing two front teeth, milk teeth, one of the adult teeth just breaking through. There was mischief in her he could tell, but in that innocently child-like way.

“For the pretty missus.” She clarified, a little more insistently now as she took a step closer. Arthur was surprised that she did. Hadn’t her parents taught her not to approach strangers, especially men like him?

He reached out to pluck the flowers from her.

“Missus?” Had they seen him with Ethel? Must have been. “She’s not-” no, he stopped himself, he didn’t need to account for that in front of kids. “That’s mighty kind of ya, thanks.” He tried it with a smile and the girls took off giggling.

He couldn’t help himself, calling after them: “You shouldn’t talk to strangers, tho.” But he doubted they could hear him.

He turned over the small bundle in his hand. He studied it for a moment. It was a small arrangement of feverfew blooms and milkweed. Heartwarmingly sweet that two little girls thought to approach him with flowers for … his missus. Who wasn’t his missus at all. And why did he find himself smiling right now? He carefully tucked the flowers into the chest pocket of his jacket to hand to Ethel later.

He set his hat back atop his head and pulled it down as he shifted to lean his back against the banister. Lost in thought and maybe dozed off a little he is drawn out of his state a little while later when a familiar voice called his name.

“There you are.” A soft thud sounded next to him, a shoulder brushed against his arm, the outline of a thigh pressing against his own as he sat up.

“Got everything you needed?” he asked, pushing back his hat to look at Ethel properly.

“And more,” she grins, holding out a paper bag towards him, an offering. The red white stripes and the blue writing of the Snowberger’s Candy bag were familiar to him.

“Y’got candy? Thought you wanted chemicals.” He reached into the bag to get a small piece of sugary goodness out of the bag to pop into his mouth.

“I always stop to get some candy whenever I’m here.” There was a glint in her eyes. “Shop boy gives it to me for free whenever I flirt with him a little.” She reached into the bag to get a piece of hard candy for herself.

“My, my Miss Wright,” a surprised laugh came over Arthur’s lips. “Usin’ the wiles of a woman on a poor lad for candy.” He shook his head, frown on his face to mimic disappointment.

“That what you do with me? Use what you got to offer to get what you want for free?” He nudged her gently.

“Yeah, that’s what I do, dear Mr. Morgan.” She clearly felt absolutely no shame for how she got the free sweets, why should she? To underline her words her hand reached out to pluck the collar of Arthur’s jacket into place, as if the disarrange was of the utmost important to be righted. Her hand smothered down his chest from there, her eyes and fingers pausing at the flowers peeking from his pocket. His fingers ghosted along her arm up to her hand where he plucked the bundle up again and held it out to her, a smile, almost bashful, on his face.

“For the missus,” he cleared his throat. “They said- two little girls, must’a seen us.”

She gently thumbed at the petals of the feverfew, feeling for that soft and waxy material she loved to pick at, before she took it from his hand.

“Isn’t that the sweetest thing I’ve heard today. Yet here I thought you went and got me flowers.”

His ears burned, he cleared his throat again. Dammit, why was this getting him so flustered, over flowers of all things?

Ethel took off her hat and fastened the flowers on it, tucking it in the braided leather band that decorated it. She held the hat out in front of her to look at her composition. Her head dipped, just barely in a satisfied little nod.

“What do we think?” Her gaze lifted to look at Arthur. “Adds a nice touch, don’t it?”

“Real pretty,” he agreed, his eyes, too, moving from the hat.

He hesitated for a moment before lifting his hand up to tuck that stubborn strand of hair back behind Ethel’s ear. It never liked to stay in place. He often saw her brush it back in exasperation because it tickled her face. But he let his hand sink back down, clearing his throat again. He didn’t trust himself to not do something foolish.

“Let’s head back, shall we?”

He was right to not trust himself, foolish as he was as he slipped Ethel a small piece of paper in passing, headed for Alwyn, the next morning. There was a time once where he’d been surprised she even knew how to read, to which she took great offence. Sure, what he knew back then was that she was born to farmers in England that she’d made her living as a factory worker in St. Denis. But she came from a wealthy family, the industrial revolution had made no halt from farms and her family was neither poor nor uneducated. She knew labour, but she also knew the insides of a class room – though tryst and cold as it may have been.

As for the note, she didn’t need to open it to know what it said but she did so anyway. The elegantly arched letters spelled out what she already knew:

Saint Valentine’s tonight.

Room down the hall on the right.

Meet me?

Of course she would. She knew he would respect her if she said no. And that is something she appreciated greatly. The freedom, the choice she had in spending time with him, and the choice of how that time would be spent. Sure, there was an expectation implicit in the note. One she was eager for to comply with in her craving for warmth, a solidness to cling on to if merely for a few hours. It was a connection she needed, one that Arthur out of all people was willing to give her – to an extent that she knew she’d been pushing.

She neatly folded the paper, making sure to follow the creases in the material left by Arthur, thumbs smoothing out the wrinkles the note had sustained by how the man had it clutched in his hand. She slipped it into her pocket where she would keep it safe as a reminder that she hadn't merely imagined it, that someone seemed to crave her, her company, just as much as she did his.

A warmth bloomed in her chest, her heart speeding up at the though – a hopeful, incorrigible thing it was.

And Arthur? He’d scribbled the note in a sort of desperate frenzy, one where his thoughts had been plagued by Ethel again. Thoughts of fresh flowers wilting away in her hand, thoughts of her bright eyes and looming darkness and thoughts of her soft face dissolving into red – all reasons for him to stay away, yet intensifying his need all the more. Not just for her body, no, for her attention and company that both seemed to ease his mind off of the reality that haunted him, the bounties, the bodies, the desperation for survival, his and the gangs, and made it double down with the intensity it hit him when she eluded him again. So he’d written the note, slipped it into her hand on his way to do Dutch’s bidding. He would seek penance in her body tonight.

And so, here Ethel was crossing the street to get to the Valentine Hotel. She’d ridden into town later than she would have liked but Ms. Grimshaw had chores lined up for her all day. There had barely been time to freshen up and change clothes if she wanted to make it to Valentine before nightfall. She always left Wilma in the stables just across the street, not trusting the people around to not harm her horse if she was just hitched out front. With her taken care of she made her way to the hotel, hurried steps on the muddy ground, it had rained today and Ethel didn’t want to know what exactly the mud was mixed with. By the smell of it she could only guess.

Her legs all but skipped up the steps leading to the door of the hotel before her hand pushed down the handle, the other still holding up her skirts now wet from the muddy road. She was met with the warmth and comforting smell that she’d come to associate with the hotel. It always felt like stepping into another world for a serene few hours.

The clerk looked up from where he was writing and recognition flashed across his face. His arms spread as he greeted Ethel.

“Ahh, I was wondering if it was just Mr. Morgan tonight.”

His tone was friendly, but as per usual there was suspicion behind it. Sure, they’d been lying to him because which reputable establishment would rent a room to two unmarried people… but he had probably never believed them anyway. Still, by the sounds coming from the other rooms most nights, they were far from the most scandalous people that stayed in here.

Ethel stepped up to the counter, conscious of the trail of mud she left.

She shook her head.

“No, not just Mr. Morgan.” She pointed towards the stairs. “He upstairs already?”

“No, no, he’s takin’ a bath, right through here.” The clerk jerked his head to point to the door behind him. “Last door on the left.” Ethel’s feet carried her towards it before he was even finished and opened it, giving him a little smile before disappearing into the hallway. She nearly bumped into a tall, blond woman coming out of the room that Arthur must be in.

“Oh, s’cuse me,” Ethel muttered just as the other woman’s thickly southern accented “oh sorry honey” reached her ears. Ethel eyed her for just a moment before she reached for the door handle just as the other woman let go of it. She was definitely pretty, but Ethel didn’t let her mind linger on it, she wasn’t stupid enough to get jealous, right.

She pushed her way into the room where she was met with air thick with heat. Her hand immediately reached for her hat to take it off, the less clothes worn in here the better.

“Didn’t I just say I don’t need no help?”

The words were gruff, though not unfriendly. There was an undeniable exhaustion in them, though.

Ethel’s eyes finally found the man spread out in the wooden tub. His head was laid back against the rim, his eyes closed, arms slung over the sides and his knees bumping against the top on each side. God what a picture.

“Afraid you did ask for me, though.”

She put her hat down atop a pile of Arthur’s clothes on a chair and reached for her thin scarf that was loosely tied around her neck – more accessories than practical gear.

Though he didn’t open his eyes a weary smile spread over his face as he recognized her voice. His lips twitched into a barely noticeable grin at her words, immediately recognising her voice.

“Sorry, didn’t notice it was you.” He sat up slowly, a grunt leaving his lips as he pulled himself forward, movements almost sluggish in the sloshing water. He finally did look at her as her fingers deftly fiddled with her neckerchief. He also didn’t miss how the flowers were still attached to her hat – the memory of the little girl’s words made his heart rate speed up.

“Care to join? Promise I got rid of the worst grime before I got in here.”

It took her a moment or two to peel away her layers of clothing, but with her drawers dropped onto the pile of her clothes – messier than Arthurs neat stack on the chair – she stepped into the tub, the hot water welcoming her as she settled down on the opposite site of the other outlaw.

Arthur’s eyes were near glued to her form as she undressed, layer by layer revealing what he had become so familiar with over the past months. The softness he now longed to feel beneath his fingers. He felt mesmerised as she drew close, the natural sway of her hips so incredibly alluring it made him feel hotter yet in the steaming water. His eyes roamed further, down the soft of her belly, down the patch of coarse dark hair leading to her core, her plush thighs – god what did he do to deserve her coming so willingly to him. She didn’t have time to settle, as soon as her feet were planted in the wooden tub, Arthur’s arms surge forwards, his paws settling on her hips to pull her down on his lap. The water was slopping over the edge of the tub with the sudden movement of two bodies, taking a few moments to calm down, the hectic movements resorting to lapping at them - warm and relaxing.

There was just enough space for the two of them to settle. Arthur leaned back against the tub as he kept Ethel against him, her knees framing his hips, thighs pressed against his own – and just the sight of her after the day he’d had, the fact that she’d came, and the minimal contact they shared so far had him half hard already. His digits thumbed at the supple flesh of her hips as she adjusted herself to get comfortable, a hand supporting herself on the rim of the tub, the other rested on his shoulder.

“This okay?” He finally breathed.

“Always act first, ask later, huh?” Ethel chuckled softly, her hand smothering down his chest.

“Yeah it’s okay.”

Her finger tips traced his skin. Arthur didn’t wince at it any more, she’d touched his scars countless times now. But then …

“Are you hurt?” Ethel’s voice grew concerned as her fingertips find irregular markings on his skin, red ones that would continue to darken over the next few days.

Truth is, yes, they did hurt. He caught her hand with his rougher, bigger, one to keep it still against his chest – his heart – but her other hand was already travelling to the side of his face to cup his jaw. He’d taken a couple of good hits to the face, not immediately noticeable in the dim light of the bathroom, but now that she was closer they were easy to notice.

“My god Arthur…” she breathed.

“I’m … okay.” His words sound lame even to his own ears.

She thumbed at the bruise forming under his left eye and he hissed. Her finger immediately retreated, never the intention to hurt him.

“You gonna tell me what happened or is this the point where I try to come up with a reason you look like you got beat up?” She grasped his chin to make him look at her. “Lemme guess, didn’t see the branch coming and it hit you square in the face at full gallop?”

Was she trying to make light of the situation or trying to tell him he wouldn't get away with silence or bullshit this time? Arthur didn’t know. But he also felt bad about what had happened that day.

He took a breath. Her gaze was steady, almost too much.

A sigh left his lips.

“I – I been actin’ kinda crazy.” His eyes dropped. Regret? Shame?

“You see, Strauss’ been sending me out to get money from the people we lend to, the ones who ain’t paid back yet, visited some of them today and I … I just keep getting’ violent with ‘em.”

It was hard for him to formulate these words. To admit them out loud.

It almost undid him when Ethel picked up the rag hanging over the side of the tub to gently start washing down his arms and upper body as he spoke.

She just let him speak, perhaps she felt he had need to get all this off his chest.

“Just last week when I broke Micah outta jail I was thinkin’ how … how senseless all that killin’ in Strawberry was, and I-I stand by it, it was senseless and it should’a happened, it didn’t have to but Micah…” He swallowed down the rage rising in his throat just at the though of what had happened. “But then I go out alone again and I just can’t help myself… beatin’ people up for money… I dunno what makes me so-” His jaw clenched. The softness of her actions was nearly unbearable but god have mercy should she stop.

“That’s bad…” She said, earnestly. She was always so real with him. “That’s real bad, Arthur.”

Her movement didn’t waver but she didn’t force him to look at her again. Her hand glided up his shoulder, letting the rag rub over his skin before she moved on to his neck, up to his ear.

He swallowed and nodded.

“I feel… like-like a dog in a blood rush sometimes.” Shame was underlying his tone now. But perhaps that’s what he was meant to be, the dog that got violent before he or his masters got bit.

“I don’t wanna be hurtin’ folks all the time.” His voice softened into a whisper, breaking off in the end. His finger grasped into Ethel’s skin, as if to make sure she wouldn't just disappear at his admittances.

“You ain’t hurting everyone all the time.” Her voice was soothingly low – her soft English lilt infused with distinct southernness learned from living here too long balm in his ears for his wounded soul. “But I cant say I haven’t noticed the way you been lately…”

“Why you still here then?”

“It takes a little more than that to scare me off, Morgan. I’ve been living with y’all long enough to know how it is… I’ve known you long enough now to know that that’s not all you are neither.”

“I don’t know… I’m a bad man, even you can’t deny that.” His forehead dropped to rest against Ethel’s shoulder.

“No one’s purely good or bad, Arthur.” Her finger glided through his hair, gently scratching at his scalp. “That’s just how it is, but that also means that we got choices to make.”

There was a stretch of silence. Arthur’s thoughts circled around this. He’d been struggling with this, the act he’s been stuck in. It’s like his brain shut off sometimes when he goes out there, playing the tough enforcer of the gang. He knew right from wrong just fine when it came to others but then he’s no better, not by an ounce. His arms now wrapped around her form, his hands sliding over her lower back from her hips to pull her flush against his body. Soft and real against him.

“You’re too good to me… dunno why you- dunno why you come to me all the time, lemme do all that stuff with you- to you.”

The words were murmured into her warm skin, his breath leaving goosebumps in its wake. His lips are so close already he doesn’t hesitate to brush them against Ethel’s skin.

As good as his lips felt, Ethel’s fingers gently tucked against his hair to pull him back, needing him to look at her.

“Hey, I ain’t some little thing you corrupted, remember?” She huffed, Arthur once more confronted with the earnestness in her eyes. “You’re not doing nothing to me, I sure as hell like what we do, and I guess we keep doin’ it cause we both get somethin’ out of it.” Even if it was to just feel good for a little while.

Her fingers were still tangled in his hair, his head tiled back, she was a little taller situated on his lap, him leaning back in the tub, so he had to look up. She took advantage of the situation and leaned in to brush her lips against his. Tentative as the first kiss always was to give him a chance to stop, but that cue never came. Instead, a deep rumble sounded from his chest and he leaned up, closer to her to slant his lips more fully against hers, the brushing of lips turning into a full kiss. Ethel’s hands moved back up to cup his cheeks, mindful of the bruises forming on his cheekbone and jaw. She held him so softly, steady but with a gentleness that made him believe he was precious cargo in need of extra care – lest he would break – if just for a moment.

A tentative hand wandered up Ethel’s back, soft barely-there touches until they reached the nape of her neck. His touch became firmer as he moved to sit up from his lounging position, rising in height over Ethel again. A gasp sounded against his lips, fingers tightening their grasp against his skin.

Within him a feeling rose, a sense of urgency that could only be sated in the proximity of her body, a feeling mirrored in the way his lips sought out hers.

Arthur felt warm, hot really, he was sure he was adding to the steaming vapours around them rising from the bath. A red flush rose over his chest and neck, a sure sign of just how he was affected by Ethel. Her hands wandered, he knew how she loved tracing over his skin just from the way she seemed to be drawn to all the scars and nicks strewn all over his body. Strangely he never felt like hiding them away from her. Soft but scarcely delicate fingers traced down his chest – her body could not hide her heritage, she was no lady, she had been shaped by the conditions lived by her ancestors. Her strong hips, accommodating the robust build of her body, and made for labour her hands may be but nimble and quick and treating him so softly.

The movement of their lips slowed to soft presses before they were back to a mere lingering, breathing in sync in the serenity of the room. Just then Arthur felt Ethel’s hand make the return way up his chest again. In a tentative touch it settled back against his jaw, mirroring the placement of her second. Her lips pulled from his finally, protest rising in his throat before he felt the warmth of her plush mouth against the corner of his lips, his jaw, the scarred patch on his chin before they wander up to his bruised cheek bone.

A sharp inhale of breath accompanied the soft touch – the lightest pressure sent a sharp sting though his nerves. But before Ethel could even think of pulling away, Arthur’s hand snapped up to the back of her head to keep her in place.

“Keep goin’,” he whispered, voice rough. “Please just- keep goin.’”

So she did. Her lips found the bruised skin again and again. The other cheekbone, under his eye, above his brow.

And god it hurt. Arthur’s eyes fell shut again, groans and hisses spill over his lips – it hurt so good. So good, he couldn’t suppress the twitch of his hips, couldn’t help the reaction his body had to the friction, the way his fingers gripped the flesh of her hips to keep her in place.

“Let me have you tonight?” Deep and low his voice rumbled but he couldn’t hide the urgency with which the words were uttered. Penance is what he told himself he’d seek in her tonight. And though he didn’t feel he deserved it, he also sought solace. Penance for what he’d done and solace for the wounds he’d sustained.

And Ethel? She didn’t say no, didn’t push him away or tell him to get lost, didn’t get up and leave for him to struggle through the night himself.

“Not giving myself to you clearly enough, Mr. Morgan?” She sounded amused but she wasn’t being mean about it. She reached back to take one of his hand off her hip and guided it up her torso to her breasts, placing both their hands over the left one. She closed her hand over his, almost forcing him to grasp the supple flesh. His other hand came up to take position on the other, no further coaxing by Ethel needed.

He got the message loud and clear then. There was no hesitation no more. He loved the way her breasts looked cradled in his hands, had from the moment she’d first let him open her blouse to get his hands on them months ago. He gently squeezed them, brushed his thumbs against her nipples almost reverently.

Finally, he nodded, letting out a breath.

“Lemme take care of you then,” he rasped, leaning forward to place kisses on her skin above where each of his hands were resting.

“Lemme- lemme take care of you,” he repeated, his voice muffled against here skin where he was leaving a trail of kisses, his beard rough against the supple skin.

“Take me upstairs then,” she breathed, lost in the soft burn his ministrations left in their wake. The water was growing cold, their skin shrivelling.

He didn’t move immediately, savouring another moment between the swell of her breasts. He left a last kiss before he pulled away, sitting up straight.

“Alright, upstairs.”

His hands guided Ethel up, the water dripping off her bare body as she got up.

She was waiting for him with a towel, another one already wrapped around her own body by the time he made it out of the tub. She slung it around his shoulders and turned towards her clothes while drying herself off.

Somewhat dry was good enough for both of them, as was being covered by the towels and nothing more as they made their way up to the room through the backdoor. Arthur had the neat stack of his clothes in his arms, his hat sat atop of it, while Ethel grabbed hers, messily gathered in her arms after putting her own hat back atop her hair. Like this, the pair made it out one back door and in the other on top of the stairs framing the outside of the hotel. Night had fallen, it was dark and it had grown cold without the sun illuminating the heartlands. The town was alive still, voices sounded from up and down the streets. Yet no one bore witness to the two outlaws scurrying through the darkness.

The door fell shut behind them and Ethel didn’t make it far into the room before she was pressed back against the smooth wood, hungry lips finding hers in an instant. Arthur plucked her hat from her head, blindly throwing it towards the dresser, where, impressively, it landed on top of. Ethel dropped the clothes she was holding in favour of wrapping her arms around his neck, a hand burying itself in his thick hair, damp from the bath. Arthur nipped at her bottom lip, his fingers working between them to pull the towel off her body, discarding it on the floor with all her other clothes.

The gasp bubbling up her throat at the sudden exposure was swallowed against Arthurs lips. He couldn’t help the little grin that spread over his lips, a giddy feeling rising in him with the knowledge that he was about to draw more of those from her. His lips wandered over her jawline, down her neck and collarbone, his knees bending in the process as he lowered himself to the floor. A last kiss was placed on the swell of her stomach as he looked up at her with half lidded eyes.

There he was, on his knees in front of her to make true whatever it was he told himself he could seek in her. His fingers slid up her calf, lifting her leg to rest over his shoulder, parting her plush thighs to expose her core to him. He’d all but pleaded with her to let him take care of her and so he did not hesitate further, burying his face between her welcoming thighs.

He let himself get lost there, let his brain shut off until nothing but she mattered in there.

His lips trailed over the sensitive inside of her thighs, sloppy open-mouthed kisses leaving a trail of heat behind that had Ethel whine impatiently, emphasised by the tug on his long strands of hair that her fingers haven’t left. He purposely scratches his stubble along her thighs, skipping her core as his lips find the skin of her other thigh. Ethel protested, trying to guide him back to where she desperately wants him.

“So impatient,” he rumbled, a low chuckle leaving his lips as he nips at her thigh.

“Says- says the man who was-”

She doesn’t get to finish her retort because a gasp cut off her words as Arthur’s tongue trailed out, finally licking up all the way up to her core.

He worked her over both with fingers buried in her tightness and his tongue lapping at her – messily, desperately.

Ethel didn’t hold back, and how could she when Arthur drank her down like a man both dying of thirst and drowning in what she gave him. Her moans sounded loud in the quietness of the hotel room that was otherwise only filled by Arthur’s hums and the sound of the movement of his fingers through her wetness.

“Hmm Art-thur.”

Her high pitched, breathy sounds registered through the blood roaring in his ears, right on its way down south. He’s actively ignoring the ache in his lower belly, the hardening of his cock.

He would pay that no mind, not until he’d guided Ethel through each wave of pleasure crashing through her, elongating them with expert fingers until she’s been driven into oversensitivity.

Even then he didn’t let up until another whine of his name got through to him paired with a harsher tug on his hair to get him to ease up. He finally did, now breathless and with dazed eyes that finally looked up at Ethel. Her cheeks were coloured in a deep pink. The colour made its way down her collarbone and neck. Her chest was heaving with the heavy breaths she was sucking in, her lips parted as she stared right back at him with blown out pupils.

A chuckle bubbled over her lips now that they were looking at each other. Arthur turned his face to press a kiss to the inside of her knee, hiding his own smile, before he gently lifted it to settle back down on the ground. His hands never left her body even then, they wandered up to her hips, the dips of her waist, as he rose from his knees.

He was barely steady on his legs, his body instinctively leaning closer when he found himself being pushed backwards instead. Warm hands planted squarely on his chest and shoulder that guided him to the bed. The scratchy blanket, the dip of the mattress and the sound of the springs, all as familiar to him as the body now settling over him, the lips that sought out his again in a bruising kiss, a hand that now wandered, down, down.

A gasp left his lips, his head dropping when finally his neglected member received attention. The squeeze of her callused fingers near made him whimper. He only just so caught it between his teeth. He hadn’t realized just how worked up he had gotten over pleasuring her. But now that tingling heat licked at his spine already and the twisting steady movements of Ethel’s hand didn’t help. Not with the way she was thumbing at his leaking head anyway. It was nearly too much. To his shock he felt his balls draw tight. With a grunt his hand flew down to catch her wrist to still her movements, squeezing both their hands tighter to stave off the impeding orgasm.

“God dammit woman-” he choked out, cheeks flushed and breathing laboured. “Not like this.”

And there it was again, that amused twinkle in her mossy eyes as he looked into them.

He squeezed tighter, his eyelids fluttering shut for a moment, giving him a chance to collect himself before moving.

He sat up and before Ethel could react she was flipped onto her back, Arthur now hovering over her.

“Think this is funny?”

It could’ve sounded like a threat, but it was far from that. His flushed state and the fact that she seemed to soften him up the way she did was evident in the way his eyes found hers, in the way he leaned in close to nudge his nose against hers. It would’ve been evident to perhaps everyone but himself.

“A little.” She teased and to add insult to injury she reached for his length again, fingers a deft grip. “I mean I could finish you off in seconds right now could I?” She actually chuckled. He was fighting to not blow his load right then and there and she has the nerve to chuckle at him.

It really wouldn't take much for him right now but that’s not what he wanted and he was far too impatient to wait for a potential round two. But god dammit if Ethel didn’t know how to get under his skin. He took a steadying breath and reached down, his own fingers covering hers and he squeezed just a little to stave off the impending end – again.

“Stop that,” he grumbled but that only got another laugh out of her and god if that didn’t make him twitch some more. His brows furrowed in concentration as he nudged her thighs apart with his free hand to settle between them properly.

He looked at her flushed face for a sign of confirmation or hesitation but he was met with the same enthusiasm as before.

“C’mon, don’t keep a lady waitin’ all night.”

“Lady,” he snorted but any further comment on Ethel’s side died on her lips as he finally nudged his tip between her folds, gathering up a mixture of her slick and his spit.

The sensation sent a shudder through them both but Arthur bit through it and finally pushed in. It wasn’t particularly rough nor gentle, but he was met with no resistance. His hips drew back and he filled her over and over again, setting a pace that was far less steady than he wanted but he didn’t care. Ethel’s hands were everywhere at once it seemed to him, his face, his chest, his hair, always still careful to avoid the bruises. And for once her clever mouth was too occupied for smart remarks.

Arthur grasped her thighs to hitch them up his hips, her skin was hot and slick from the humidity that was building up in the room around them. The angle deepened his reach but also made it easier for him to lean forward and swallow her pretty sounds with his own lips but it did nothing to stop the whine sounding from Ethel at the new position. Her hips twitched upwards, never one to lay back and let Arthur do all the work. She knew what she wanted and she’d get it.

“That’a girl,” he panted against her lips, pushing himself up with a hand to watch as his cock dis,- and reappeared over and over again.

Sweat was forming at his hairline, little droplets slowly sliding down his face, the tip of his nose and finally they added to the sheen that glistened on Ethel’s chest just as her fingers trailed down over her stomach and between her parted thighs.

“Christ- yeah, c’mon get yourself-” His words were barely coherent, grunted in that rough voice that signalled he was about to lose it.

Ethel drew faster and faster and tighter and tighter circles on her bundle of nerves, her body coiling under the pressure until she snapped.

She cried out but her voice was muffled against Arthur’s biceps.

And god how he would have loved to draw it out for her but he barely so managed to pull out as she tightened around him, his spent landing on her thighs and the sheets instead.

Neither spoke for a good few moments, the only sound in the room their combined heavy breathing and the springs of the bed as Arthur let himself fall next to her on the mattress.

Finally, Ethel got up to retrieve the towel that was discarded on the floor earlier to clean herself up.

“You need to work on your aim.” Her nose scrunched as she tried to rub the remnants off the bed sheets. “I don’t wanna sleep in dirty sheets.” Like this hotel room wasn’t pure luxury despite the moth eaten curtains and the aged furniture. Compared to camp it was glorious.

Arthur just let out an amused huff and fished for his satchel for a cigarette which he promptly lighted with help of the candle on the bedside table.

He took a drag as he watched her settle back into bed, draping the sheets around her despite her complaints. She watched him, too, for a moment and he raised an eyebrow.

“Soo… have you given my plan any more thought?”

He titled his head.

“What plan?”

“The train tracks.”

“I’m not talkin’ ‘bout that now.” Smoke curled around them as he exhaled his words.

“C’mon you know it makes more sense how I-” She tired to protest.

“No, we’re not- just sleep, I ain’t discussing this with you now.”

red, red, red, it’s always red he’s seeing, a dripping substance oozing and seeping and-

His tone shifted to one of finality, he didn’t have the energy to deal with her over eagerness to be involved in … that part of the gang’s business.

“But-”

“No buts.” He held out his cigarette to her, a peace offering, perhaps, but he knows he has not heard the last of it. If only it will give him some more peace and quiet tonight.

Arthur’s eyes fluttered open. The sun was weak the next morning and a chill had crept into the room over night but he was running warm, a weight settled against him. Perhaps that’s what woke him up. He blinked the sleep from his eyes a couple times. The room was familiar to him by now and yet there was an unfamiliarity in the soft body he knows so well settled against him. It registered slowly in his sleep riddled brain. Usually they found themselves strictly on one side of the bed each but this morning … he couldn’t say that it was an unwelcome feeling and despite knowing that he should get up and leave, he couldn’t get his body to move, his eyes fluttering shut before his brain had fully formed the thought.

And anyway, what would it matter this one time, right?

I hope you enjoyed this, comments, reblogs, and likes are highly appreciated <33

I’m so glad you think Karen’s thoughts are in character that has me feeling super giddy, I remember being nervous to share this for multiple reasons but mostly because I didn’t want someone to read it and be mad at me for my characterization of Karen (or any of the characters) which is a bit of a silly thought but it happens

I truly appreciate your compliments on my writing here, I tend to avoid rereading this chapter specifically for the fact that it is 1. The first fic I ever posted. And 2. Poorly written in my eyes. So to know you think otherwise makes me extremely grateful! I’m coming around to finding strengths in my older writing, despite it having changed drastically over a few months

And lmao the chunk after chunk part I knew someone would relate!! I have intrusive thoughts like that way too often so projecting onto my oc was the easiest choice really

Same with what you said about overcompensating, I fear I still do that a lot and it makes me come off as quite intense so making/keeping friends is a hassle for sure.I’m realizing just how self-indulgent writing iris was for me 🤔 I gotta get back to it

Also I really like what you said about women usually being written to react with defiance that’s most often sexual in some manner. I completely agree! and I’m happy to know you like how Iris thinks. I definitely want her to come off as someone who isn’t afraid to stand up for herself or others but also can be quite shaken up and anxious in particular scenarios. Sometimes she’s doing the saving and sometimes she’s the one being saved, basically.

But again tysm for reading and sharing your thoughts with me!!! It’s always exciting to hear what others think of an older concept of mine and this reblog is just so sweet all of your compliments will be stored away for later, for when I’m feeling down🥺🫶💖 I appreciate you very much and I’m hoping you enjoy chapter 2

Spoken with a raspy and deep voice, you gawk at a man laying a few arm-lengths away from you. Half of his face is alarmingly red and you blink, convinced that you must be hallucinating. A big chunk of his face has been torn open by something you can only assume must have been a beast. Deep marks are stretched over his skin, exposing the flesh and your eyes fall on the clumsy stitches that are holding it all together. Or trying to, at least. It takes all your willpower to stifle a shout.

“Who are you? Where am I?”, you ask, your voice barely a whisper. It sounds like you have been doing nothing but screaming for the past few hours.

“The name’s John. John Marston.”

“Your face…” You trail off, not in the right mind to find the fitting words or any at all, for that matter. Even your own thoughts are slipping through your grasp whenever you attempt to hold onto one. You press your tongue against the roof of your mouth to get some feeling back into the muscle.

“It ain’t the prettiest sight, I know.” A coughing fit befalls him. If he finds your comment rude, then he doesn’t let it show.

Before any of you can utter anything more, the door to the cabin swings open. Whistling of wind rings in your ears and some of the snow is being blown inside as a cloud. Immediately, you pull the blanket higher, up to your chin. That little bit of exposure is enough to leave you shivering uncontrollably. Two men march inside, their heavy boots thumping over the floorboards, each step carrying purpose. With their thick, broad coats, they resemble a pair of bears and you fight back the urge to shrink away. You don’t know these people, only that one of them got mauled by who knows what.

“John, you’re awake!”, the first man exclaims almost ceremonially and then he notices you too. The next sentence leaves his lips softer, as if you’re a small animal he doesn’t want to frighten too much. “I see you are as well, Miss.”

You stay silent and vigilant. As much as you try to focus on every twitch of this guy’s body, the details seem to hide from you. Everything is so fleeting and paying too close attention has a splitting headache rumble through your skull.

“How are you feeling?”, he asks, speaking the question slow and you’re more than grateful for it.

“I don’t know.” All you know is that you’re alive. Barely. “What happened?”

“Mr. Morgan over here and one of our other men, Mr. Smith, found you out in the snow.”, he explains and gestures to the man standing on the side. You take him in, but can’t make out much besides the blue of his coat and his large frame. Closing your eyes, you get the sense as if something is squeezing your throat. The confusion turns into fear. It’s terrifying, not knowing what happened, when or why.

“I don’t know what happened. I don’t-“, you mumble, growing quieter with each word. Biting down on your lower lip, you stop it from quivering. At first glance, these men don’t seem like much of a threat.

“It’s okay, Miss. You can stay with us ‘til you’re feelin’ better. Then you can figure out what you want to do. My name is Dutch Van Der Linde.”, he says, soothing your nerves and you sigh. “Can you tell us yours?”

“I need to call my friend.”, you say after giving them your name.

“I’m afraid we’re stuck up here. We plan on headin’ back down once it all thaws.”, the man explains through humorless chuckles.

“And there’s no reception up here or anything?”, you ask, relieved to finally find the fog inside your mind clearing up a little bit. You don’t miss the puzzled looks the two men exchange with one another.

Suddenly, the door swings open another time, inviting back the cold that you nearly drove away. A young woman enters, her eyes set on the hurt man. John, was he called you remember. There is a boy holding her by the hand, following a little bit behind as if trying to hide behind her skirt. He stares at the man, a mix of worry and hope swirling in his big eyes and you feel the mood inside the cabin shift a bit. More tense. The sight of the two makes you relax on the other hand.

“The boy wanted to see you, John.”, the woman speaks, her tone as hard as iron, but something else swings underneath. A certain tenderness.

“Well, he has seen me now or what’s left of me.”

Her features contort with fury.

“You’re a rotten man, John Marston!”, she spits, voice dripping with venom and you get the strong suspicion that you’re witnessing a fight that has been going on for years. You squirm awkwardly underneath your blanket, catching the woman’s attention.

All hostility leaves her in an instant and she steps closer. For a brief moment you’re convinced she is going to give you an earful as well, for some reason, but then she starts to inspect you. A fleeting wave of discomfort wafts over you, feeling like an animal at a zoo under her watchful eyes, until you realize she is checking up on your state.

“How do you feel? Cold?”

You only manage a nod.

“I’ll fetch you another blanket. If I must, then I’ll steal it from that fool over there. It’s not like he deserves one anyways.”, she grumbles under her breath and your eyes flicker towards John, who is suddenly very interested in the ceiling it seems. “Is there anything other than the cold? Are you confused?”

Confused doesn’t even remotely sum up your mind.

“A bit.”, you curtly answer.

“She remembers her name.”, Dutch throws in and Abigail hums, satisfied.

“Do you know where you are or how you got here?”

“No.”

“What year is it?”

The gears in your head turn as you think. No matter what number you try to think off, they all blur together. It’s like something is moving in the corner of your eyes, not entirely out of your sight, but enough for you to not recognize its shapes.

“Two thousand- something, something.”, you answer and her head snaps up so suddenly that it makes your heart jump. She almost bumps against your nose, if you hadn’t flinched away just in time.

“Excuse me?” All gazes are boring into you and you faintly remember having a nightmare once where a crowd had stared you down. Obviously, it’s unfortunate that you can’t remember the exact year, but it’s not like you are too far off or anything.

“It’s 1899.”

Laughter bubbles up within your chest. Surely, that must be a joke! But when you look at every single face, you can’t find any hint towards it. They’re all dead serious and a shiver runs down your spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps.

“It’s normal that you’re still confused. Don’t worry about it, alright?”, Abigail says, having noticed the terror spreading in your features. She adjusts the blanket, much like a mother would for a child. Meanwhile the others are avoiding your eyes. All this talking has left you exhausted to the bones and your limbs grow heavy. Even breathing becomes tiring and when someone tells you to get more rest, you can’t place the voice. But they don’t have to tell you twice.

Even if you would try to fight it, shadows creep closer from the edge of your vision. They seep into your skin and nestle themselves by your bones. With a mouth full of cotton and a head made out of clay, you sink back into the flattened pillow. They all leave one by one or maybe you just tune them out, you don’t know.  

“I told you it’s a bad idea to keep her.”, you hear a man say, before passing out.

---

You don’t know when you wake up again, but it’s still bright outside or maybe it’s bright again. With the way your body feels like a lump of molten metal, it’s not too far-fetched to assume a day or two have passed since your conversation with Dutch. Their words swirl inside your head and you shiver at the memory.

You can’t come to terms with it, surely this is all a joke. A TV show must be behind all this, drugging and kidnapping you and trying to convince you that you traveled back in time. There must be an audience right about now, watching you through the cameras and taking a piss.

Only that you don’t remember ever signing anything to allow them to…well, drug and kidnap and convince you that you traveled back in time. That is when you remember Francis and his house. Francis, your time traveler friend, with weird gadgets and all sorts of trinkets. He never really explained how he travels, only that he can.

 An image of a cylinder flashes before your inner eye and you groan as searing pain cuts through your skull. That thing- that device. Could it be that this is what he uses? Did you accidentally manage to land in the past?

Dread crashes down on you and suddenly, the blanket becomes too heavy. Quickly, you push it back and sit up, ignoring how the world spins from this one simple act. It tips like a plate balancing on the edge of a table and you almost drop with it. Somewhere in the distance, you hear John speak your name and asking you something.

The question doesn’t reach you. You fear that nothing might, and so you pay him no mind. With the flimsy walls closing in on you, you stumble towards the door and rip it open. A gust hits you in the face and you instantly regret your decision.

In a matter of seconds, pain scorches your fingers and toes and a choked back noise tears from your throat. You pick up a blanket, the one that Abigail promised to bring you, and wrap it tightly around yourself.

“What do you think you’re doing?”, John asks, finally reaching you.

“I need fresh air.”

“Not like this, you don’t!”

But you’re on your way out once again already. As you pass through the cabin, you begin to notice the lack of outlets, light switches, anything to prove you’re still where you’re supposed to be. Facing the cold with an additional layer over your clothes, you march through the snow. It drenches your socks, wrapping around your feet like hands from the other side.

 For a brief moment, your breath catches in your throat and your eyes snap down to make sure nothing is there. That nothing is pulling you down. You can’t explain the cocktail of dread and paranoia frothing within you since you woke up the first time. They lap at the walls of your consciousness like waves at a lifeboat. Drinking up your surroundings, you notice that all the remaining cabins all share the same marks of age and neglect.

They as well show no signs of a modern, familiar touch. This entire place looks like it jumped straight out of a black and white photograph or a scene from an old western movie.  Nobody follows you outside. John is in no condition to rush out of his bed and the others…you don’t know. Now that you think about it, you can’t tell if there are more people around, perhaps in the other buildings.

Not wanting to run into anyone, you scurry towards what looks like a half standing stable. One half is completely demolished and it’s tough to tell whether it was by time or hands. The sound of huffs and neighing reaches your ears and you vanish behind a wall, slipping inside. At first glance, the stable looks to be abandoned with only the horses to keep you company.

Just as you hoped. But then you notice something on one of the pillars and you round it, careful to keep a generous distance. Ropes snake around the wood, fastened with thick knots that look like they need a sharp knife in order to loosen. That is when you spot what they’re supposed to keep tied up. A man.

Clasping both hands over your mouth to stifle a yelp and the blanket almost slides off your shoulders. The man spots you at the same time, eyes wide and filled with terror.

“Who are you? What will you do to me?”, he asks, the words shooting out his mouth so quickly that your still dazed mind barely comprehends them.

“Why would I do anything to you? Who are you? Why are you-?” You leave the question open.

Something shifts in his face, lighting up as if he solved a puzzle and suddenly, he becomes even more frantic than before.

“Are you saying you ain’t one of ‘em?” The urgency in his voice unsettles you. The longer this conversation goes on, the weaker you grow. You feel like one of the women in these old, classic novels who faint from the smallest of reasons. To avoid falling over like a plank, you seek support by one of the ruined walls. After it creaks suspiciously under your weight, you quickly jump an arm-length away.

“One of who?” With your patience running thin and the desperation to find out what the hell is going on here choking you, you dare take a step closer.

“You need to get me out of here. They’re- they’re insane!”

His panic, naked and wild, seeps into you and you straighten your back like a candle. The small hairs on the back of your neck stand up and suddenly being out in socks is one of the last things you worry about. It takes a good moment for your brain to process what he’s saying, either from your poor state or because of the ridiculousness of the situation.

“Did they kidnap you?”, you whisper, your own voice sounding foreign to your ears. You never believed that a time would come where you would ask this question in earnest.

“Yes!”

Blood running cold, worse than when you passed out in the middle of nowhere, you jump forward and fumble with the rope. Pushing your fingers underneath, you tug at the knots until your fingers scream and when that fails, you scratch at it with bleeding nails. It’s futile. Your body is too rigid from cold and you lack all strength. It’s a miracle that you even got this far.

“Please, hurry, please!”, he hisses through gritted teeth, sounding more desperate than a coyote caught with one leg in a trap. The added pressure doesn’t do you any favors. With hands on fire and stiff muscles, you don’t stand a chance against the rope.

“Hey! You!”, someone roars by the entrance and you whip your body around to face the source. “What do you think you’re doing?”

It’s a large man with a thick beard and a scowl edged so deep into his features that one might reckon he was born with it. Fast and menacing, he stomps in your direction and you back away like a cornered animal. One punch, you’re certain of that, and your brains would cover the floor. Maybe you won’t even earn a beating, given how his hand twitches by the holstered gun at his side.

His gaze snaps to the tied-up man, who immediately squirms with fright under the sudden attention. Taking the moment of distraction, you will your legs to move and swiftly slip past them. Though your absence doesn’t go by unnoticed and he yells after you. Fury soaks his voice and you only speed up. Stumbling through the snow and slowly losing your feeling in both legs, you miss the flash of blue in the corner of your eyes.

Mr. Morgan seems to materialize out of nowhere, as he enters your line of sight and catches you by your shoulders. Breaking free is impossible, with his grip like iron, stronger than the bonds around that poor feller in the stable. Shoving, writhing and punching, you refuse to give up and let yourself be taken that easily. The blanket slides off in the process and pools around your ankles. You size up his nose, bracing yourself to bite it off, if you must.

“What were you thinkin’ going out like this in the cold?”, he exclaims, eyes trailing over your clothes that have a layer of snow stuck to them again already.

“Let go of me!”

“Goddammit, Bill, what did you do to her?”, Mr. Morgan yells in a strained voice, busy keeping you in his arms. You notice how he doesn’t pull you too close, probably having caught wind of how you’re gawking at his face.

“I caught her tryin’ to free the O’Driscoll!”

“What?” He shakes you roughly by your shoulders, the anger in his eyes burning brighter than the sun. “Jesus, woman, will you calm down?”

“You’re criminals!”, you shriek. “You kidnapped a man!”

“Listen.”, he hisses, obviously struggling to avoid raising his voice. “I ain’t gonna lie to you now. We’re bad people, yes. We did take that bastard and tie him up, but that’s because- well, it’s a long story.”

“What will you do to me?”

“Nothing.”

“And how am I supposed to know that you’re telling the truth?”

He stares at you for a long time, hard and cold.

“You can’t.”

Well, he’s telling the truth regarding this at least. Something stirs in the back of your mind, a memory so insignificant that you can’t recall more than the most basic images. It’s an article. No, a paper maybe? It doesn’t really matter anyways, the content being what sticks out to you the most. It was about the 1880s and 1890s, back when banks and stagecoaches were robbed and outlaws were present around every corner. A name flickers before your inner eye and you could whack yourself for not recognizing it sooner.

Thinking of Dutch and his introduction, it really should have clicked inside your brain. The fog still hasn’t entirely lifted, but your mind is running laps now. Van Der Linde. It glares at you, as clear as day, as daunting as the barrel of a shotgun. And then Mr. Morgan, one of the most wanted men in the history of the wild west. You remember his wanted poster that was attached to the article, remember the words that were written on it in thick, bold letters.

DO NOT APPROACH.

Recognition floods your face, you can see it in the reflection of his blue-green eyes that burn into your mind like hot iron.

“I-“, you start, but quickly shut your mouth, unable to find a good way to talk yourself out of this situation, let alone look for the right words. How does one react to meeting a thief and killer, to be trapped in his hold? His face is all the proof you needed to convince you in the end. You did travel to the past after all. There is no denying it anymore.

“Would someone be so kind as to enlighten me of what all this fuss is about?”, a familiar voice booms behind you and your heart drops straight into your boots like a rock into water. It’s Dutch. Dutch Van Der Linde.

“I caught this new girl snoopin’ around the stable! She tried settin’ that O’Driscoll free!”, the man who chased you earlier shouts, face beet red from either the cold or madness.

“That so?”

His dark eyes find yours, fixing you. A question lies inside them, but he doesn’t seem as upset as the others. On the contrary, it seems as if the kindness he directed at you earlier has never left. With a flick of his wrist, he signals Mr. Morgan to follow him and apparently to bring you along, because his fingers are digging into your arm, as he drags you after him.

“Get her into the cabin and in front of the fire, son. This is no weather for someone who went through what she did.”, Dutch orders and though he sounds like your savior in this situation, you refuse to lull yourself into a sense of safety just yet.

Inside, Mr. Morgan finally let’s go of you and pulls a chair out and in front of the lit fireplace. Rubbing your tender skin, you flinch. That brute must have left bruises on your arm after squeezing you like that. If he wasn’t known as the DO NOT APPROACH type, you might have given him a piece of your mind for this harsh treatment. It’s not like you pose a genuine threat in your current state.

Dutch takes a seat right across from you and you spot movement behind him. A woman peaks around the corner, a few red hair strands sticking out of the green scarf wrapped around her head. Her features soften when she beholds your shivering form and you lean closer towards the fire.

“I apologize for the behavior of my friends.”, Dutch starts, glancing in Mr. Morgan’s direction. It was only for a split second, but the intention was clear. He doesn’t condone what happened. “It was truly unfortunate.”

Unfortunate doesn’t nearly capture it, but you bite your tongue.

“That being said, I assure you that we mean you no harm, Miss. You have my word.”

Arms crossed in front of your chest, you contemplate whether his word is worth anything. You tug your hands under your armpits to warm them up.

“Alright.”, is all what you utter instead, not wanting to start an argument with a known criminal.

“My offer still stands. You may stay for as long as you like with us.” He straightens his back, not breaking eye contact. “Now, I ain’t saying that we’re good people. We’re not. But we aren’t all bad either. For as long as you stay with us, you’ll be safe.”

“Dutch.”, Mr. Morgan chimes in, clearly unhappy about all this. The older man shoots him a piercing look.

“I’m certain that our guest will stay out of trouble from now on, ain’t that so?”

It takes you a short moment to realize that the question is directed at you.

“Yes”, you blurt out without thinking much about it. All you want is to leave this cabin, leave these people and time. “I’m sorry for…all that. I didn’t know that…what I’m trying to say is that-“

Dutch’s lighthearted chuckle interrupts you.

“Of course. I understand.”

Meeting his knowing gaze, you try to swallow down the rising panic within you. Being stuck in 1899, you really have no choice but to stay here. With them. For now, at least. As soon as the first opportunity arises, you will run.

“Now, Arthur, would you please escort her back to her bed? The poor woman is cold enough as it is.”

“Of course, Dutch.”

Before he can touch you, you jump up from your chair, not wanting your limbs to be abused like some stress toy once again. Conflicted, is what you feel as you walk back to the cabin that you share with your apparently criminal roommate. Using the blanket as a shield, you stare ahead and ignore the curiosity of the others that follows you. Only when the door is shut again and Mr. Morgan leaves as well, do you relax. Though John’s puzzled gaze bores into you, you slump down onto the bed and turn your back towards him.

Firstly, I just want to point out again just how gripping your writing style is to me like im always sucked in immediately as soon as I read a first sentence from youu. The way you build scenes truly brings your writing to life and the descriptors you choose just add such a richness that evokes every emotion youre trying to portray perfectly idk idk can you tell I just finished up in a fiction writing class lmao

But for example:

“Before any of you can utter anything more, the door to the cabin swings open. Whistling of wind rings in your ears and some of the snow is being blown inside as a cloud. Immediately, you pull the blanket higher, up to your chin. That little bit of exposure is enough to leave you shivering uncontrollably. Two men march inside, their heavy boots thumping over the floorboards, each step carrying purpose. With their thick, broad coats, they resemble a pair of bears and you fight back the urge to shrink away. You don’t know these people, only that one of them got mauled by who knows what.” <- this entire section stood out to me for a multitude of reasons but mainly for the way that I could quite literally feel that biting wind and the uncertainty from reader

oh I already love the confusion when reader asks if there’s reception up there, I have so much to catch up on and I just know I’m gonna have a blast when it comes to reader mentioning things from modern times I’m so ecstatic I seriously can’t wait

also im so intrigued by how reader is reacting to her surroundings as she begins to piece everything together, this is why this fic concept has always drawn me in because the fact that she didn’t willing time travel and now she has to not only find a way back to the modern world but she also has to adapt to this specific era she didn’t even want to come to in the first place ITS SO COOL and its playing out just as coolly

the part where she was untying Kieran had me so stressed I just knew someone was gonna catch her😭

Okay I must also say that you characterize everyone so well you dont even have to name them I can just tell from your descriptions who’s who I LOVE THIS

“It’s an article. No, a paper maybe? It doesn’t really matter anyways, the content being what sticks out to you the most. It was about the 1880s and 1890s, back when banks and stagecoaches were robbed and outlaws were present around every corner. A name flickers before your inner eye and you could whack yourself for not recognizing it sooner. Thinking of Dutch and his introduction, it really should have clicked inside your brain. The fog still hasn’t entirely lifted, but your mind is running laps now. Van Der Linde. It glares at you, as clear as day, as daunting as the barrel of a shotgun. And then Mr. Morgan, one of the most wanted men in the history of the wild west. You remember his wanted poster that was attached to the article, remember the words that were written on it in thick, bold letters. DO NOT APPROACH. Recognition floods your face, you can see it in the reflection of his blue-green eyes that burn into your mind like hot iron.” <- i just really like this part and how reader comes to this conclusion by recognizing Arthur

And honestly im kinda obsessed with john and reader’s dynamic idk they didnt interact too much but theres something about the way john is talking to her that just makes me think they could become friends at a point??? Possibly🤔 or they’ll hate each other and I’ll love it either way