The streets of Saint Denis weren’t empty, per say, but there was a certain feeling to the town as night rolled in. A sense of freedom, of secrets blanketed with the slight chill of later hours.
It was here you found yourself, pulling Arthur along as you got closer and closer to the saloon. It was one of the few places in the “civilized world” he felt anything close to comfortable, and after all he’d done for you today, you thought it nice to pay him back.
You told him so over a glass of whiskey, to which he smiled and said, “Figured it was ‘bout time to have a proper outing, you an’ me.”
You smiled too, leaning a bit closer to him. “It’s a nice change of pace, all in all.”
Arthur nods and drinks his whiskey. Not too much, just enough to calm down. You place your hand on his arm, just resting there. He tenses— tenses and then hates himself for it, but you move your thumb in calming circles. “It’s okay,” you remind him with the movement. “I understand.”
Casual touch isn’t something he’s used to, not something he’s explored too much. Introduced by you a few months prior, when you had toed the line of friends and something more, then reinforced a little after, when you crossed that line with a day-long fishing trip that ended with a kiss. A soft kiss, hesitant and soft, but caring.
Not unlike the one that you press against his cheek now, though this is less hesitant, more teasing. Flirting.
The richer folk of Saint Denis pay little mind to the two of you and maybe that’s the reason he feels confident enough to take the hand you haven’t moved to his lips, kissing the back of it in an imitation of a scene in the moving picture you saw that day.
You giggle at the gesture and Arthur’s blue eyes seem to shine at the sound. When you pull away and Arthur orders another drink, you look down at your lap.
The dress that adorns you is a pretty one, lace and frills and a large change of pace from your normal camp clothes. When you had mentioned, offhand, to Arthur the marvel of moving pictures being shown in the big cities, where it was far nicer than the theater in Valentine, and how you’d love to see one, you never thought you actually would. You’d almost forgotten you’d mentioned it, it’s been so long ago.
But Arthur hadn’t, and you suspected that journal of his had something to do with it. Early this morning, he had approached you, smiled bashfully, and offered a day away from camp. Before the show that evening, he’d taken you to get a new dress, then a fancy lunch, and finally the event you had waited for.
“Thank you so much for today,” you said, breaking the comfortable silence. “I had so much fun. I know how much you dislike the city; it was so considerate of you to do this for me.”
You punctuate the compliment with a kind smile, knowing he’ll deny it, refuse it, but you’ll gladly give him more praise. You figure his self-doubt cannot be a bottomless pit, but it does run as deep as an ocean. Still, you’ll freely offer up as much caring as it takes until he agrees: he’s wonderful.
And it starts now, as he looks away and says something about it not being that big of a deal. You silence him with a kiss— not on the lips, but rather right below his ear, where his jaw meets his neck. The sensitive spot quiets him immediately, a large hand of his coming to rest upon yours, tightening briefly. You smile, teasing tongue there, before pulling back.
Your smile is far more dubious, and you hope he accepts your offer: “Camp is a long way back from here. Maybe we could grab a room?”
The question is out, the intention is clear, the choice is his. Arthur has been respectful the entire time you’ve been together— though hesitantly nervous may be a better description. But you’re ready now; while you may sit among them here, you’re not like the “society gals” that need a ring on their finger to show their love. And that is what you feel. You’ve known it for a while now, even if you haven’t been with him that long.
Maybe that’s what you see in Arthur’s eyes as he nods, pronounces “Sure” in that way that drags out the u into an o and distances him further from the champagne society around you.
You’re filled with something akin to giddiness— though that seems too immature— a healthy dose of arousal and, when Arthur takes your hand in his— initiates that basic contact he’d been denied so long— a deep feeling of adoration.
The stairs up to the room are cleaner than Valentine, but not as appealing as Strawberry. The room isn’t too large, but, you note with something that may actually be giddiness, the bed is.
When you turn to Arthur, you already know it’s going to be an uphill battle to get him to give himself completely to you. Not for lack of trust, no, but because the deep-rooted doubt (or hate, as you hesitate to call it— how could someone like him despise himself?) that festers in him. You can almost feel it when he reaches for you, wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you in for a kiss. Feel it in the way he tries to distract you, get you too worked up to undress him properly and keep himself hidden from you.
But you stop that as soon as it starts. You slow the kiss into something more romantic, more caring. You trace along his jaw to his collarbones— another sensitive spot— and allow yourselves a chance to take comfort in how familiar this is.
When Arthur’s hold is more relaxed, you pull away. He looks down at you, gaze adoring but lust-filled. “You’re so beautiful,” you say. Then, quoting the earlier show, you add, “my darling.” The term of endearment had been spoken to one spouse to another, but you figured it could work well for you both too. Unlike earlier, when Arthur had mimicked the romantic action, your words held a serious kind of weight to them, one he didn’t seem to miss.
“May I?” You ask, fingers poised on the top button of his dress shirt, bought specifically for this day. You move from one course of action from another, not giving him time to deny your compliment, but still slow enough not to scare him.
“Darlin’,” he starts, voice deep in a way that sends pangs of heat downwards. “We don’t— ya don’t wanna see me.”
“Arthur,” you look straight into his eyes, make sure he’s paying attention to you, “there is nothing I’ve thought of more than how you look in these past two months. I’d love to see you, if you let me.”
He mustn’t of been expecting such an honest response. When he nods again, you brush your lips against his in a sort of thanks, then undo the first few buttons. Enough to see part of his union suit. When you’re done with that, you step back, admiring your handiwork. Arthur follows, almost instinctively, then stops.
You move your hands behind you, finding the fastening of your dress. “I’m wearing so much more than you, I’m sure it’d take double the time to get undressed.” It the truth, but only part of it. You didn’t want him becoming too uncomfortable if you undressed him too fast. It’s always been about an equal exchange with Arthur, from chores and hunting to personal lives. It’s what makes him comfortable, and you see no reason to not utilize it now.
“Need some help?” He asks, and you’re surprised but not unaccepting. You turn, moving your hair out of the way. He steps in close, warm hands staring where you left off.
“This really is a beautiful dress. You have excellent taste,” you say as the the feeling of him moving down your back sends shivers up your spine. “I can’t wait to wear it again.”
“Those kinda chances don’t come to often. Not in our lives.” He sounds almost sad, apologetic, and your quick to try and remedy that.
“You think I can’t wear this around camp? I think if I look pretty enough, Ms. Grimshaw will be too taken by my beauty to yell at me.”
He huffs a laugh behind you, and his fingers finish their work. You almost wished he hadn’t; the movement had been so intimate that it had almost let you pretend you weren’t in a temporary room, but rather a house of your own, somewhere free. But the moment’s over, and your much more taken with what is about to happen.
You turn back to Arthur. With your attention back on him, he seems more hesitant. Now that won’t do at all. You guide him to the bed, sit him down. He looks up at you, so trusting and open, that your heart melts. You’re quick to follow, move to his lap and calm him. Something familiar, again.
Your pleasantly surprised when he reaches for you on his own accord, and you encourage it with a moan, pressed tightly against his lips. Maybe, if he were a less mature man, he would have bucked his hips up at that. Instead, his hands, one on the curve of your back and the other cupping your face, draw you closer. You oblige readily, greedily, willing to give him anything he asks. You push your hips forward, testing, and move against the growing hardness in his pants.
You do it again, then once more, relishing in the sound it pulls from the man under you. A groan, so deep you almost can’t hear it, that starts in the back of his throat and ends in yours and tells you how much this is appreciated. How much he needs this.
Your hands undo more of his shirt, and don’t stop until it’s completely undone. You pull away from him again, stoping your rocking motions. He still holds you as close as he can though. “Is this alright?”
He looks at you, and you still yourself for the denial you’re sure is coming. He says nothing, just stares at you until a big smile breaks across his face. It’s contagious. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough in a way that’s so appealing. “Yeah.”
You push the fabric off his shoulders, throwing it to the same chair your dress was moved to. You ask for permission once more as you grasp onto his belt. He gives his consent with a hushed whisper, face tucked into the right side of your neck, seemingly intent on leaving a mark. Your fumble with his pants until the red of his undergarments peaks through. When that’s done, you test the waters by pushing him back, gently. He complies readily, and you apply a bit more pressure: “Stay.” And he does stay, laying back on the bed and looking like pure sin.
Laying on his back, chest riding and falling heavily to replenish the breath that you’d taken from him. His cheeks are flushed, color high and warm on his face. His eyes, darken by pure want, look back at you when you meet them, intent and longing.
You could admire him forever, and the breath you inhale to tell him of that reminds you that your corset is uncomfortable and you are far too dressed. Still, you speak up: “You’re gorgeous.”
You stand, undoing your underthings as quickly as you can. Arthur watches you, and you let him. Let your your fingers trail from your hair to the right fastenings that push up your breasts presenting yourself in a way you know must be alluring to him.
“I’ve thought about this night so much,” you tell him. “I’ve thought of the way you’d look at me, the way you’d look. My imagination could never do it justice.”
It’s true; the way his pants are pushed open just enough that the significant bulge pushes through, taunting and teasing you is better than any image you could of conjured in your head on many a lonely night.
When the ties binding your corset are set free, you breath in deep. Your ribs thank you and you let the tight fabric fall away. All you’re left in now is a loose undershirt and the skirt that had poofed your skirt. Your hands find the waistband of it and push it down, little by little until it reaches your mid-thigh.
“Darlin’,” Arthur says from the bed. Your teasing has only been half-intentional, unused to the fastenings of the fancy dresses. But you’ve relished in the fact that he hasn’t taken his eyes off you and watches, intently, as you let gravity take the fabric away, the chamise pooling at your feet. The shirt has kept your modesty, but you could be quick to remedy that.
Could be, but choose not to be. Instead, your hands go to the pins in your hair, letting your arms wind up and pull the shirt with it, tantalizing up, up, up until you see Arthur’s hands ball into the sheets of the bed. How far could you push the teasing on this first night together? Not too much longer, you promise yourself. And Arthur too as his Adam’s apple bobs with a swallow, so desperate to see all of you.
You promise him too, in a voice that’s earnest, not condescending. “I promise I’ll make you feel so good, handsome.”
Finally, your hair is free, and you take to pulling the shirt over your head. Not slow, but not hurried either. You slow just as it reaches the bottom of your breasts, just to tease that little bit more.
At last, when your last article of clothing is thrown to the floor, you climb upon him again. Kneel over him and meet him for another kiss. One so unlike any others before, more heated and begging. His hands move to were your knees are bent at his sides and, when not told to stop, moves up your thighs and traces up your curves.
You bring your hips against him again, grinding hard and fast. You’re able to brush your clit against his hard cock in a way that almost makes you wonder if you could get off just like this.
“Shit,” he hisses, hands gripping your hips and pulling you against him. This time, his hips do buck up, searching for purchase against you and, yeah, you figure you probably could. “Darl’ I can feel you.”
Your wetness coats the front of his union suit, the fabric a darker shade of maroon. Any embarrassment you would of felt is wiped away by the way Arthur looks at you, desperate out of his mind. “It’s all for you, baby.”
He curses again, some word lost in the way he goes back to the crook of your neck. It’s almost cute, but you don’t allow yourself to dwell on it. Instead, you force yourself to stand again, almost tempted not to when he makes an attempt to pull you back.
He seems to mind less when you start to pull down his pants. There’s no hesitation this time, no resistance. He raises his hips to help you, then sits up at your beckoning. Sitting again, he almost seems like he should be taking on the commanding role, and intimidating as he is. And then he looks at you, blue eyes almost drowned in a sea of lust that threatens to spill over and encompass you too, and you’re reminded that he wants to give up control.
You gladly take it and his union suit off of him, throwing the red fabric to the side. You guide him with a steady hand to the headboard, laying propped up by pillows. You know he’ll give as good as he gets, but you wonder what it would be like to just let him relax and take care of him.
You’ve no time to dwell on it as you move to straddle him once more. Before you continue moving upward, you take in the sight of him, just once more.
His cock exposed to you dribbles our precum in steady amounts, trickles down his thick shaft until it pools on his balls, begging to be licked. You want to, but you want him in you more. Feel him stretching you out, a perfect for you know he’ll provide. You look back at his face, still burning red.
“We still good?” You ask. He nods. Doesn’t respond more than that, so you reach forward and cup his face. “Arthur?”
“Been a while, that’s all,” he says it like it’s something to be shameful of. You tell him it’s not. “Just... don’t want to disappoint you.”
“You could never disappoint me. Just being with you is enough.” You make sure to put emphasis on the word; it didn’t matter if it was with him here, now, or every day, when he makes you much happier than you’ve been in a long time. “I— I care about you so much.”
He smiled in a way that’s almost too sweet for the situation, then pulls you into a kiss that’s even sweeter. When you pull away you wait till he’s verbally said to continue before doing so.
You cup his face again, letting your thumb run across his lips. You wonder if he’ll get the hint or you should pull away when he opens his mouth, taking the digit between his lips. His warm tongue encompasses it, the flicks the tip slowly, once, twice, until you can imagine the same movements on your clit.
Your watch his mouth move for a second more until you decide you’ve missed his blush and move your other hand down to his cock. It’s thick, and you can’t wrap your hand around it entirely, but you pump him anyways.
Momentarily, his eyes lose focus, and you think you hear something that sounds like your name moaned around your thumb. But it’s not enough, not yet.
“Besides, your cock’s so big, I don’t think you could disappoint even if you tried.”
His eyes widen in shock, cheeks blazing a beautiful red. You smile at that and continue stroking him. A languid place that must be teasing with how hard he is, but you don’t dare go any faster, lest this night end too soon. You’re sure he would return in kind if that did happen, but you know he’d be so upset in himself.
His tongue continues, long strikes you can image elsewhere until you dip your hand a little lower, cupping his balls and feeling him up. He relaxes, eyes fluttering and it’s equal parts alluring and cute. He groans something you can’t quite understand. You free his mouth; “What was that, baby?”
“Please,” he murmurs in a way that makes it seem like the most shameful thing he’s said all night. You keep your hand in the same place, pleasuring him and relishing in the whimper he lets out.
You nod, even though he has his eyes closed. The bed creaks underneath you as you shift your weight, raising yourself over him, swallowing, then gripping him to steady him as you lowered down.
You inhale sharply as he enters you, almost too big, and Arthur holds your hips, preventing you from going any further. “Are you okay? D’ya need to stop?”
You shake your head. No. Maybe if you hadn’t been thinking about this since his first shot of whiskey, watching him swallow it down then sigh heavily, contently, and so easy to imagine in a different situation, or even earlier, when his steady hand met your waist and guided you through town— maybe then you would need more prep. But you don’t. You want to continue.
“I’m fine.” You push in further. He spears you apart in a way that would be painful, should be painful considering, but just makes you feel complete. “You feel so good. So perfect.”
He whines at your praise, fingers gripping harder, sure to leave bruises he’ll apologize for, but you love them. Love the way he loses controls for just a second, pulls you down closer. A second is all it takes for you to be sitting on him, him completely filling you up. You call his name, just to say it, to hear it in your voice that’s broken and wanting and so needy. Arthur responds in kind, calling back to you like some kind of imitation of the film earlier when the same thing had happened. In much a more pure situation, sure, but it’s because calling your lover’s name is the most natural thing there is.
You call for him again when you see his face, brow scrunched in concentration, mouth slightly agape. He looks at you, and you keep his eye and you raise your hips and fall once more. He pushes forward to kiss you as his hands help you find a rhythm.
Fast and hard seems to fulfill both of your desires. His hands drop to your ass like he’s wanted to all night and can’t find the will to resist now. He moans out shortly after you reach a hand down to find your clit.
He watches for a moment, seemingly taken with the way you please yourself, seeking your own pleasure. His chest rises and falls again, and lets out a cry of pleasure as you land particularly rough. His teeth catch his lip, seemingly embarrassed by the way he does.
“Don’t,” you gasp out. He looks up at you, charming eyes seemingly shocked by the reprimand. “I want— I’d love to hear you.”
He doesn’t hold his lip anymore, lets his breathing become audible and ragged. Sweet moans and breathy grunts come together to form something that promises his enjoyment. When he inhales sharply, you think you can make out your name. Arthur repeated it, clearer, a growl at the back of his throat.
“You feel so good,” you find yourself saying. “I always knew you’d feel so good.”
His head falls back, leaving his neck bare for you to make some marks of your own. You do happily, biting and sucking the skin you find. Arthur, maybe emboldened by this, or too gone to care, starts speaking.
“I was thinking ‘bout you too. Whenever you’d go down to the river and pull your skirt up to go in the water. Took everything I had not to take you right there.” He doesn’t stop bringing you up and down with his hands. The fast pace makes your thighs burn, unused the wide position you have to be in, but it’s worth it.
“You shouldn’t of held back,” you find yourself saying. “I did it so you would see.”
He groans at that, raising his hips to fuck further into you. “You tempt me in ways that are dangerous. Make me want things I shouldn’t.”
“Careful now,” you tease. You catch his lips again, a quick nip before you continue. “Keep talking like that and you’ll start sounding like a good man. And we both know how much you’d hate that.”
He doesn’t give you much of a response other than a huff of a laugh and a kiss that makes you think he might just love you too.
“You deserve everything I can give you,” you whisper to him, more serious. You push more of your weight on to him, making him lay back. The change of position takes the strain off your thighs and moves it to your knees, but it’s better. Arthur lays before you, face impassive but eyes begging for you to finish your thought, desperate for that validation. You give it to him tenfold. Pushing his hands flat against the bed near his head, you slide your fingers over his forearms, across his palms. Searching for something to hold onto. Until finally, your fingers are interlaced and you’re staring deeply into his eyes. Your pace has slowed, which makes him pay more attention to your words.
“You are a good man, Arthur Morgan. And so deserving of every kindness. And you’re— you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
He surges forward and kisses you. Holds you against him deeply as he nears his end. One hand untangles itself from its spot at your back and moves to your front, fingers finding your clit. You both let out an appreciative sound—you, as your orgasm draws ever closer, and him, at the way your walls contract ever tighter.
His eyes flutter closed, breath ragged and you know he’s close. Right on that precipice and you so desperately want to push him over. “Arthur, my love,” you murmur, sugar-sweet. “Please cum inside me.”
And he does, hips canting upward to bury himself deep inside of you. The warm that seems to spread upwards is enough to push you over the edge too.
Your walls flutter around him, twice in natural response, a few more times intentionally to watch his shoulders cave, coming to bury his face into your neck. “Yer gon’ be the death of me, sweetheart.”
“There are worse ways to go, I suppose,” you breathe out. You allow yourself to lay like that, awkwardly half on the bed, but numb enough not to care, for just a little while longer. Long enough for Arthur to find your mouth, meet it in a kiss that was sloppy, slow, and tired.
“Meant our first time to be a bit nicer,” you said as you removed yourself from atop him. The juices that flowed from you were less attractive in your post-orgasm clarity. You grab the nearest thing you have—the undershirt that had somehow landed near the bed—to clean up. It needed to be washed anyway, and you aren’t planning on wearing it anytime soon. “There’s always next time, I suppose.”
Arthur nods. He looks different, now. More relaxed then you’ve seen him in weeks, months even. Cute enough—dare you say—to warrant you leaning over and kissing him. A soft bite to his lip for good measure.
“Next time might have to wait,” he mumbles against your mouth when you pull away, eyes still closed. “‘M not as young as you used to be, remember.”
You smile, nod. The soft linen of your shirt cleans his thick cock, tracing downwards. Your fingers brush against his skin, pushing the cloth along, gentle to be an accident if he were naive enough to believe it.
“Darlin’,” he warns, voice a low growl.
You pull away. “The morning, then.”
With both of you as clean as you’re going to get without taking a bath, you reach for the next nearest item of clothing to keep you someway decent. Arthur’s shirt. It a bit rough, not meant to be slept in, but it smells like him. You only do up a few of the middle buttons, just to tease him a little. Then you take your spot at the head of the bed, looking to your lover to join you.
“Keep acting like that,” Arthur warns, taking his spot next to you, “and we ain’t gonna make it till morning.”
You smile, welcoming him into your arms. He pulls you against him, shifts the covers around until your both warm and wrapped in each other’s arms.
And yet, you’re not content. Not yet, not with a secret on your lips, and a burden on your chest. “Arthur—“ you start, a bit breathless as you force yourself to talk with any forethought. “I love you.”
He stiffens beside you. You can feel his arms tense, his heartbeat quicken. Stays like that for a moment before he responds; “Couldn’ta been that good.”
He tries to pass it off with humor, self-deprecation, but you know what he really means. Do you mean it?
“If you don’t feel the same way, that’s fine. But I wanted to tell you. So you know that I really do care. And everything I said before—I meant it. I really do think you’re wonderful. Beautiful, even. And I don’t care what you’ve been through, or how bad you think you are, because I’ll love you all the same.”
Through your ramble, he’s stayed quiet. And stays quiet still as a moment passes, then another. Give and take, that’s what this relationship is built on. You’ve given—
And he tugs you closer to him, pressed you thought against him in a hug that’s so warm you know his answer before he says it. But the way his deep timber, quiet, whispered against you, but still so sincere responds, with a gruff but honest, “I love you too.”
— it lets you know he’s ready to give it back too.
The streets of Saint Denis weren’t empty; per day, but here, content with the man you loved, they might as well be.