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A celebration for the ages.
The Braithwaite’s legacy was now nothing more than ashes in the wind. One less inbred stain on Rhodes’ history - Dutch vehemently made sure of that.
It was a bloody affair, bordering on barbaric. But Dutch insisted, as he is want to do, that it was necessary. Had to be done. And because of his spontaneous action fueled by a restless trigger finger, the youngest Van der Linde found himself home, nestled safely in his mother’s arms.
The pain of past failures, grieving and loss are forgotten for the time being. There would be time to nurse those wounds later, but now is time for merriments!
More importantly, drinking.
Lots and lots of drinking.
Crates of beer and whiskey are unboxed and passed around generously from one eager hand to the next as songs of victory begin to drift into the starry night. A choir so bombastic and jovial even the alligators lurking beyond the swampy underbrush seem entertained.
The party is shy a voice, however. Two to be exact.
It seems Arthur had favored abandoning the festivities, tired of receiving the praise he adamantly believes he doesn’t deserve. He doesn’t need kind words in return for doing the right thing - something that needed to be done.
If he is to be rewarded, Arthur yearns for something sweeter, honeyed and intoxicating.
A craving he aimed to satiate with you.
He wordlessly leads you from the campfire’s glow back to the imposing homestead that is Shady Belle, a faded scar against the skyline of Lemoyne.
From the way he grips your hand, firm and insistent, you know he needs you. Now. It’s a familiar hold. And again, again, again you comply, answering his every beck and call with the same silent affirmation and tender smile.
Some of the men hoot and holler profanities in response to his intentions, lascivious but harmless in nature; Arthur will deal with them later.
For now, he focuses on escorting you up the weathered staircase, so briskly the wood barely has time to creak under you. He’s ever chivalrous though despite his hurried pace, a hand on the small of your back as he makes sure you mount each step before himself. It’s endearing in its simplicity - at how it comes so naturally.
The gossamer of said chivalry is soon pulled back before you even reach the door to his quarters. It’s replaced with rough hands on your cheeks as he pulls you in for a hungry kiss; silk and lace turn to leather and calloused palms.
You’re pressed immodestly against the wall as Arthur moves his lips against you with fervor. It’s a song and dance you’ve become well accustomed to thanks to his teachings, and you respond in kind. Lips soft against his, sighing in blissful content with each pass of his mouth. Pleasured elation transitions into surprise when you feel his tongue tracing your bottom lip, accompanied by a fervent hand palming your rear through layers of skirts.
Your relationship with Arthur was still relatively new, fresh, only engaging in kissing and occasional heavy petting. You had never been with another man before, not so much as a chaste kiss on the cheek in contrast to this emblazoned act of passion against a dirty, peeling wall in an outlaw camp. He had been considerate in that regard, gently easing you into physicality at a leisured pace.
Arthur would never overstep himself, not with you; despite his incessant denial to the contrary, Arthur Morgan is a gentleman at heart. He’s patient, the tip of his tongue barely grazing your lips now as he awaits your consent, verbal or otherwise.
He doesn’t wait long.
Timidly, you part your lips for him and he spares no time deepening the connection. Arthur revels at how sweet you taste and your head is reeling at the hint of whiskey on his tongue. It’s, again, all so new for you, another first for Arthur to claim. And you’d gladly give them all to him.
You whine in response when he pulls away, but it’s shushed with a gentler kiss and a soft hand on your hip.
“Hush now, darlin’.” His voice has a teasing lilt to it; you can’t help but smile. He kisses you again, with slightly more intensity before he leads you (finally) to his room.
It’s as neat as it can be, considering the circumstances. You notice his bed is made, albeit with a single worn blanket and pillow, but it’s the thought that counts. A coy smile graces your lips and Arthur can’t help the tinge of pink that dusts his cheeks ever so slightly.
“W-was hopin’ you’d be willin’ to - I mean I would be honored if ya-” he struggles to find the right words while still maintaining his composure. Arthur has spoken to women of high society before, courted one in particular. And he’s trying his best to show you the same respect, to remind you of home. Your smile only widens.
“Christ,” his words are becoming a jumbled mess and his face is growing hotter. “What I’m tryin’ to say is-”
Now it’s your turn to hush him up with a kiss.
You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him with his same intensity. Arthur is momentarily caught by surprise, the back of his knees hitting the edge of the bed. It doesn’t take him long to recover, his hands finding purchase on your waist as he returns your affections in kind.
“Yes,” is all you whisper against the shell of his ear. Arthur is a big man, as tough and tumble as they come. But feeling him shiver against you has a satisfaction surging through you, as well as a newfound sense of confidence as you dare to place one of Arthur’s large palms over your breast. He gawks at you, eyes going comically wide at this shift in dynamics.
The other girls had teased you incessantly for your lack of...experience as they so ineloquently put it. It seems they had all had their fair share of romps in the hay, some even happening within the confines of camp! (Karen doesn’t have the decency to blush at the very easily proven accusations.)
However, you were raised differently than them, proper as some might call it. A woman’s body was meant only for children - any act of intimacy outside of a lawful marriage would bring damnation. Fire and brimstone and all the other horribly dreadful words your mother would caterwaul anytime you glanced at the opposite sex.
But now? There’s no mother hissing in your ear, no manor walls acting as the cold bars of a gilded cage.
It’s just Arthur.
And the promise of something glorious.
Arthur looks to you again.
Are you sure...with me?
You offer him a coy smile and a squeeze of his hand for reassurance - doubt has no place between the two of you. He can’t respond with anything but a shaky sigh as he starts to undo the buttons of your blouse with trembling hands. Your nervousness stems from a place of complete naivety, his comes from a long drought of knowing a woman’s touch.
It’s a fresh experience for the both of you, but Arthur doesn’t plan on using you for a refresher of how man and woman lay together.
The top buttons come loose slowly but surely. And it doesn’t take long for Arthur’s yearning to be sparked like flint and he picks up his pace, impatient. The skin of your collarbone is soon exposed to him and he hungrily latches on, making you keen. He sucks on it feverishly, not being able to help or stop himself from creating small red blossoms just shy of where is considered modest or decent. They’re a naughty secret, a reminder for the both of you.
Your hands find purchase in his hair, soft under your fingertips from a recent bath. Arthur is exploring, his lips and tongue roaming new territory not even traversed by you. Fear had kept you from knowing your own body, an apprehension that quickly burns away from Arthur’s heated touches.
Let those wretched emotions join what’s left of the Braithwaite manor.
Arthur frees you from your blouse, leaving your chest fully bare to him. You can’t help the attempt to cover your indecency, face red with shame; how foolish of you to think you could overcome years of conditioning.
You’re no nymph.
You’re just a scared little girl playing at some semblance of confidence.
Mother was right.
Mother was right.
Tears threaten to spill but Arthur doesn’t let them. With a reserved gentleness, he takes your hands and brings them up to his lips, placing a tender kiss on the inside of each palm.
“You’re beautiful,” is all he says. It’s all you need.
Again you kiss him - you just can’t help yourself. It seems Arthur can’t help himself either as he rolls his hips against your own.
In that moment you feel him, truly feel him, warm, eager, and hard against you.
It sets your body aflame.
You hurriedly go to work rescuing Arthur from the burden of his own clothing, fingers deft as if they’ve done this before. Who ever said sewing and removing mens’ shirts couldn’t be one in the same? Arthur mimics you, albeit a bit more clumsy in his motions as he works you out of your skirt and onto the bed. He’s getting greedy now, roaming and touching everywhere, anywhere he can. Timidness no longer rears its ugly head in your mind and you welcome each and every sensation, traveling further and further downward.
Arthur somehow manages to shimmy out of his pants, leaving you both in nothing but undergarments. Your nervous flush is still heavily apparent but you barely notice it, too enamored by Arthur’s half naked physique. Karen and Mary-Beth had shared with you lewd cigarette cards from their “private” collection (you’d hardly call the piss poor hiding spot under Karen’s pillow private).
But seeing Arthur undressed and on top of you: chest heaving, hair disheveled, and cheeks a deep crimson? It paints an entirely different picture than those glorified Adonises on flimsy cards. He’s real, adorned with scars from an unkind life but each with its own story to tell.
You want to know them all, you muse as his mouth trails over your breast to capture a nipple between his lips. Gasps and sighs escape you, all melodic and decadent to Arthur’s ear. Such beautiful symphonies he aims to compose with your voice alone.
You arch your back, desperate for more, more, more.
Arthur was never one to deny a lady in waiting.
He licks a circle around the tender flesh with the tip of his tongue, breath hot on your skin while his free hand dares to traverse to the hem of your drawers, toying idly with the linen as he sucks and nips as he pleases.
Your blush turns into an unbearable heat all across your body, practically singeing the tips of your fingers and toes from its intensity. You feel the pulsing need for him in the pit of your stomach, begging to be satiated however he sees fit. However he’ll have you.
How lewd, you humor the thought for a moment.
It soon turns to oblivion within Hell’s second circle.
Who cares? Who cares. Who cares!
“A-Arthur,” you manage to pant. He never thought his name could sound so heavenly falling from your lips.
He looks at you, expectantly, waiting to answer your every beck and call. Fingers dip beneath the fabric and your already ragged breathing hitches in your throat.
“What is it darlin’?” It’s a rhetorical question, he’s fully aware. Arthur knows the cure to your incessant longing.
“Please,” you all but beg, voice trembling as you grip the sheet beneath you with white knuckles. You raise your hips, needing more contact.
How could Arthur deny you of that - of anything?
In one fluid motion, your drawers are pulled off and discarded only God knows where. And again Arthur’s fingers move lower, brushing over your hip bones and leaving goosebumps in their wake until they reach the apex of your womanhood. The rough pad of his thumb ghosts over a spot so decadent you turn into a quivering mess.
“You like that?” Arthur’s voice is smooth like the whiskey he was sampling, laced with the same warmth. It’s enveloping. All you can manage is a nod as he applies more pressure, tracing circles around your clit as his index finger rubs languidly at your entrance.
A white hot electricity shoots through you as he slips a finger into you with ease, caressing it against your soft inner walls. It’s a foreign intrusion, one that takes a minute to acclimate to, but the discomfort is assuaged by Arthur’s skilled hand as he starts moving and curling not one, but two fingers at a steady pace.
“More.”
Arthur is no stranger following orders, dropping everything to do as he is bid or told. On occasion it’s both. It’s cumbersome, tiring even. But if you’re the one cracking the whip...
Your wish is his command.
You can’t contain the cry of protest that wracks you as he withdraws his hand, leaving you terribly, horribly empty. But when you see him through half lidded eyes licking his fingers clean, the feeling is replaced with a white hot need. And a rapidly building pressure buried in the pit of your stomach that is ready to burst.
The pearly glow of Heaven’s gate is tantalizingly close.
Arthur sits up on his knees, breathing labored as he looks at you. His eyes are a raging storm, calm seas long since lost, and every muscle is coiled and taught. He offers nothing except a rough moan of your name, taking himself in his hands to seek his own pleasure while you prepare yourself for what’s next.
The fear comes back, gnarled and ugly.
“Arthur, I...I’ve never-“ The words refuse to come out and Arthur distracts you with a kiss as he climbs back on top of you.
“I know, it’s okay,” he smiles at you so sweetly, “I’ll be gentle.”
Arthur would never dream of hurting you.
He inches into you as slowly as he can, grunting profanities at how tight you feel around him. The stretch is uncomfortable, bordering on painful, and you hold onto Arthur’s shoulders as he sinks deeper within you.
“Are you-”
“I’m o-okay,” you reassure him. Arthur can’t help his concern, blatantly apparent on his face, but he trusts your judgement more than to let his worries hinder him. However, he still manages to practice some self restraint, pausing to allow you more time for pain to evolve into pleasure.
He’s inside you now, completely. The clouds don’t turn black and the ground doesn’t crumble beneath your feet. There’s just a dull ache.
And an insatiable need for more.
Should there be a cacophony of chaos and hellhounds growling at your heels in your wake, so be it.
You wrap your legs around his waist, silently urging him on. Arthur notices your readiness and begins to move slowly within you. Each roll of his hips has you writhing beneath him, gasps and moans escaping out the window to join the music of the night.
His composure is ironclad for your sake, careful to not overwhelm or hurt you in any capacity. But he’s far from perfect, and his resolve cracks with every moan of his name and pleasure induced beg.
More, God please more!
Arthur’s steady pace breaks, devolving into a rapid, hard cadence as he indulges himself for the first time in what feels like years. You’re giving him an insurmountable amount of trust - you’re giving him everything there is to give. Arthur is by no means a selfish man but God does he want it all.
Mine.
Dutch can take all the gold and Tahitian sand the world has to offer, leave Arthur with you in this god forsaken swamp on this rickety bed until his day of reckoning undoubtedly comes.
You stand on the precipice of something glorious. You were close to something, close to unraveling.
Arthur’s thrusts become forceful, erratic. One hand finds your clit while the other threatens to tear the pillow behind your head to shreds. And the world outside becomes overly acquainted with the sound of your lover’s name.
The pearl inlaid handle of Heaven’s gate unhinges. Angels reach out to lead you to rapture.
Take me now.
You come undone, spectacularly so: synapses firing, nerve endings singing, and a beautiful array of colors blooming behind closed eyes. It’s a glorious symphony that crescendos to a grand finale as you feel Arthur release himself onto your stomach, his heavy grunts matching your cries of ecstasy.
Basking in post orgasm opalescence, you suppose tomorrow the girls will have a new reason to tease you.
But who cares.
Certainly not you, now that you’ve found your own key to Heaven.