Chapter Text
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A quiet groan left her as she woke from slumber, not remembering when she had even fallen asleep. Her eyes were bleary, eyes fogged with a sleep she tried to blink away. The only thing that she could think of in this moment was the overbearing pain—her head ached badly, her body alight with a burning sharpness every time she merely breathed. Every inhale shot sparks down her spine, and every exhale was a sore reminder of the wounds she gathered.
She tried to ignore it, let some of the pain subside as she focused on her surroundings. The rough canvas above her was clearly a tent, and a big one at that. Around her she noticed barrels with fine pelts laid above them, books scattered about in piles, a chair, a cot… most peculiarly, a gramophone.
As she tried to lift herself up, she realized her hands were tied behind her back. Her wrists scuffed together before she attempted to roughly pull them away from each other—it was no use, with how weak she was and how tough the rope was.
Oh, it was coming back to her now. The party, the other gang, the Van der Linde gang captured her. Captured her. She remembered how Dutch casually told Arthur to tie her up, and she had barely any time to react when she was hogtied like an animal. The man still held some form of sympathetic gentleness, surprisingly, when he had tossed her on the back of his horse. The rest was a haze to her, and she assumed she had promptly passed out along the way to their camp.
Great.
Her interest soon was piqued by the sound of voices coming closer, a garble of chatter that she couldn’t quite make out with how her head pounded, blood pulsing and veins thrumming to a harsh tune.
“Come on now, Dutch, I reckon she’d be a good addition,” That higher, strained voice, with a wise accent she couldn’t quite place—such a contrast to the low and gruff baritone of Dutch, and Hosea seemed intent on giving her a chance, “She needs a place to find herself.”
She realized they must have been talking about her. If the pain wasn’t as overwhelming as it was, she would have scoffed at that. Find herself? Speaking as if she needs their help?
The voices faded just enough to where she couldn’t decipher anymore, her eyes closing… body wanting to soothe back into sleep, despite her mind screaming at her to stay alert - that danger was near. Danger was a hand opening one flap of the tent, her eyes meeting dark pools… Dutch staring back at her, his gaze honed on her, flicking over her worn state.
She noticed behind him the sky was still dark, speckled with stars—only the hint of purple and orange teasing at the curtains of the world, dawn still a little away. Not much time had to have passed, most likely only an hour or two.
He entered, the fabric falling back into place behind him. In his hand there was a decent size bag, clearly full of something. As he stepped closer, she felt herself click into gear, digging her feet into the ground, pathetically trying to push herself back and away. What would they do… torture her for hours? Have some shred of mercy and kill her with a bullet to the head? Every thought of what this man could do to her ran rampant.
“Easy now,” He said, and while it was an attempt to calm her, it did the opposite.
He let the bag drop to the floor, and the thunk it made startled her enough to where she sat up, leg hitting hard to his ankle. His weight only buckled for a moment, and she didn’t have the strength to knock him down… so she made another attempt, only for him to take a step back just out of kicking reach.
“Listen here, I would send one of the girls to help you, but I’m not gonna force any of those ladies to deal with you, kickin’ like a goddamn feral beast,” Dutch sighed, undertones of exhaustion hardly hidden, “So I’m going to help you, you hear me, girl?”
Even as she gave him no response, he knelt towards her, getting to his knees and his hand reaching for the bag beside him. It was stupid… how her first instinctual reaction was to jolt her leg yet again—she kicked him hard in the face. Like that would get her anywhere in this situation, with her hands tied and surrounded by a camp full of armed men. And the heavy silence that followed was tense in the air, as his head was turned to the side, hand hovering just near where he was hit… the unreadable look in his eyes—she was scared.
The quiet stretched until he leaned back on his haunches, angling his head towards the sliver of light peeking in from the tent.
“Come here, Arthur,” Dutch yelled out, and she could tell by his tone he was in no mood.
Arthur Morgan was intimidating in his own way. While Dutch van der Linde had something in his eyes and an aura to him that demanded respect… Arthur had a charm to him, a quiet confidence that had no need to be spoken—seeing him step into the tent, his form looming, she could understand why people did not mess with him.
“Make sure she stays still,” Was all the instruction Dutch gave, eyes now cast down to the supplies in front of him, digging through the bag.
Her glare was fixed on both of the men now, her knees up to her chest, prepared to fight if needed—as much as she could fight, anyhow. They should have tied her legs together as well. His hat casted a hauntingly attractive shadow over his eyes as he tilted head at her, like it was cute how she thought she could take him on.
“We can do this nice… or we can do it hard,” The sound of his spurs clinking had her heart accelerating, each step towards her filling her with the need to get away, “I don’t think it wise to do the latter, miss.”
She was stubborn, or more so stupid—with the way she stayed still and tense, eyes glued to the man practically threatening her, unwilling to submit to his options. Right as she made even an inch of movement with her legs… it happened too fast, eyes blurring, her entire world seemingly flipped around. A broken whimper left her as her body was pinned roughly to the ground, wounds on her torso meeting the floor, bringing a fresh wave of pain. She felt his breath tickle down her back, a grunt as she wriggled and kicked her feet desperately. A large hand was on her waist, the other flattened to the middle of her chest.
“Let me… let me go! Let me go, you fucking bastard!” She yelled, the only thing she could really do was shout profanities wildly.
Arthur didn't let her go, of course, and he shifted until he was sitting down. He turned her body easily, her back flush to his broad chest, his legs spread out either side of her. Even as she struggled, Dutch calmly got down before her, sitting down right on her knees to pin her further.
Rough calloused hands keeping her in place, the fan of Arthur’s breath on her neck, the low growl in her ear, “Stay still, girl… ”
Dutch waited as she wriggled, her legs trying to twitch up to get his weight off of them. Her struggling was futile, given both men had a strength far greater than her own—and she started to realize this, her shoulders slumping in defeat while she huffed a hopeless sigh.
“We are being generous enough to help you,” Dutch leaned forward, his hands resting just either side of her thighs, so close to touching her, “Now, you can either let me dress your wounds without a struggle, or I’ll throw you out of this camp all tied up, bleeding out. You understand?”
She hesitated for a heavy few seconds, but the stern look in his eyes… not exactly mean or ill-intended, luckily—well, she didn’t have much of a choice. She nodded slowly, her body going as limp as she could allow it.
“Good,” He nodded back, “Good…”
His eyes were scanning over her, assessing her state, trying to tell where any open wounds could be. The torn fabric saturated in blood made it quite obvious. Even as her breath hitched when his fingers went to her vest, she didn’t move. Each button coming undone felt like a shot of adrenaline to her heart. Her blouse was next—the alert side of her brain, not muddled and foggy from every turn of event, mused that this felt oddly intimate, given how… careful he was being.
She should’ve thought it awful, but she could barely think when he tugged a knife off from his belt, a casual air as he pulled her shirt out from its tuck in her pants. The blade was pressed to the fabric, a quiet quick flick of movement and it was cut straight down the middle. She mourned the loss of the blouse, not that it was in any good condition, but for the security it offered her. The flush that went to her cheeks and the bite of cold against her now exposed torso had her feeling vulnerable, and she wished she could hide herself away.
The only thing keeping some lick of dignity was the tight camisole she wore for support, but the way Dutch paused, dark eyes flitted to her with a question in his eyes… she knew to get to any wounds, it would have to go.
The shift of something behind her, hand fidgeting on her wrists, rope coming undone to allow her mobility, reminded her that Arthur was still present. His hand settled on her side, palm meeting soft skin alight with goosebumps. The touch was minor yet it practically burned through her nerves, a feeling swirling in her stomach she hadn’t felt before. There was hardly any pressure as he dragged her back flush to his chest—she assumed it was to keep her in place as she was expected to undress… a threat to not try anything with her limited wind of freedom.
She hadn’t realized how shaky her hands had become, the soreness left by her binds made her wrists ache, yet she was relieved they were free. Her fingers gripping on the bottom of the camisole, slowly pulling it up and over her head, trying to not think of her exposure. The pang of humiliation was borderline painful when she felt her breasts bounce down, free from confines. The cold had her nipples hardening instantly, and it took every ounce in her to not cover herself with her hands. No, she didn’t want to show weakness, so she tried to school her face to a neutral expression.
Dutch showed no reaction, which made it easier for her to rid that tension taut in every muscle. Arthur was still, quiet… the only occasional twitch from his thick fingers on her side. Her chest bare to gruff older cowboys who she was previously trying to screw over was not on her list of predictions.
“You don’t have to be shy, sweetheart,” Dutch’s voice was laced with reassurance, something even in her little time of knowing him, she wouldn’t think would be directed towards her, “You’ll get used to… things like this when you’re living this kinda life.”
If that was true, she was a lot more grateful for soloing her… unique activities and adventures. But, reason in her had her mulling over that she probably wouldn’t do so well treating her own wounds—given how bone-tired and weak she was right now, she wouldn’t have even the energy of cleaning the grime and blood off of herself. The man was doing her good, no matter how embarrassing it was for her.
“I… I am not shy,” She argued, unconvincingly, and the raise of Dutch’s eyebrow and the small smile on his face made her feel dumb for even saying such a blatant lie.
There was a gash right below her left breast, not deep enough to worry too much over, and while it had already started to scab over, it still stung greatly. She watched with bleary eyes as Dutch opened a bottle of alcohol, drenching a worn rag in the liquid. Anticipation already coiled tight in her and she bit her lip as he brought it closer to her.
“Alright now, this’ll hurt only for a moment,”
His warning wasn’t enough for the pain that consumed her, the rag pressed against her wound ever so gently, yet it felt like it was on fire. She bit down harder on her bottom lip, feeling a twinge of sweet iron. A choked groan left her and she tightly squeezed her eyes shut.
But in the midst of him trying to clean the wound, his thumb accidentally brushed over her breast, only a ghost of touch on her nipple. Even as small of an action, it made her shudder, and she was grateful she had the excuse of agony to cover up her reaction. It was dead silent, and she hoped neither of them read too into the way her chest rose and fell with stuttered breaths… or how her legs twitched with each brush of skin against her own. She prayed they thought her just uncomfortable.
She fell shamelessly to her thoughts, mind fuddled as it was like a loud yet barrenly muted crowd in her brain. She wanted to just think about what the hell had happened only hours ago, how she ended up in this situation. She wanted to think about what was important, not how she felt flustered from this type of… attention she never received before. Still a virgin even in her early twenties, she had never really felt any sort of attractive towards another, not enough to give her body overly entirely. Obviously, it was obscenely overwhelming for not just one man, but two (who were unfairly handsome and intimidating—one of them old enough to be her father … she wouldn’t dwell on that) viewing her in such an intimate way.
Closing her eyes as she willed those thoughts to just shut up made time pass faster than she thought—and when she blinked, she noticed that Dutch was finishing the last of the makeshift bandages, plastered with a homemade love, snug and protecting the red and irritated wound.
Her chest was smeared in dried blood, most likely due to when she had thrown herself to the floor beneath that bed, unaware of the fact she was already soaking through with crimson. Dutch already had a solution to the problem, standing up with a sigh. He went to some corner of the tent behind her and Arthur, and returned with a bucket—the sloshing of water as he placed it on the ground, a fresh rag in his hand.
He knelt back down, and unbeknownst to her, he noticed how she didn’t even think to move her legs, given the short amount of time he wasn’t keeping them down with his weight. The hum he let out was appreciative of how docile and good she was finally being, in a state of a wild animal tamed.
The rag got dunked into the water, and he wrung it out lightly before taking it to her skin. She couldn’t help the way her gaze fixated on how his large hand looked so close to her breasts, couldn’t help imagining how it would feel for him to touch her with different intentions. Her train of thought shouldn't have been like that at all… how could she think of him like that? He was a dangerous outlaw who kidnapped her (or helped her, something she could not see yet), and not even at just that—she hardly knew him.
She certainly couldn’t help the intake of breath as he began to wipe the blood off, the coarse rag feeling like a tease as he focused on her collarbones first, going further down to the core of her chest. She bit her lip, her face feeling hot at something that should have been caring and innocent.
“Are you alright?” Arthur broke her from her thoughts, and it felt like ice trickling down her spine. No, she was not alright. It was not alright that she was getting turned on by this, but she wouldn’t tell him that.
And Dutch looked at her straight on, the rag pressed still to her chest as he waited, but so unfortunate for her—he could see that warmth and blown look in her eyes. All she could do was nod. His touch had a sense of purpose this time when he dragged the wet cloth over her skin, squeezing slightly to let droplets drip down through the valley of her breasts. Her legs squeezed together, and surely they both noticed, given how Dutch let out a low hum and Arthur tightened his hold on her waist.
There was no escaping the embarrassment, especially when she tried to turn her head away, only to be met with Arthur’s shoulder, and he let out an amused exhale of hot breath down her exposed neck. That only made her shudder, hips jolting up a bit and she closed her eyes, mortified. She desperately tried to think of anything to turn herself off, something that would feel like a cold bath, so she could wake up from this intoxicating fog of lust.
It was the second time Dutch’s thumb brushed over her nipple, and she opened her eyes, seeing that his gaze was intent on her—keenly taking in every little reaction, how her eyebrows furrowed slightly, her cheeks warming with a pink glow. His eyes were filled with something like humor, and it validated her paranoia that he was utterly aware of what she was feeling.
Dutch van der Linde was a patient man, but Arthur Morgan was still young in his ways. And clearly he had caught on quickly to what was happening. He moved behind her, ever so slightly, and one hand that was on her waist started to get curious. Digits brought a trail of fire as they fanned over her side, going to her stomach.
She shifted and let out a breathy sigh when his hand began to trace lower, skittering down past her bandages, index finger drawing a line below her bellybutton. The tip of his finger hit the band of her pants, and she waited impatiently, eagerly… for it to inch beneath the fabric.
The tent opened abruptly, Hosea walking through, his eyes glued to the old metal cup he held in his hands, a steam wafting off from the top. Arthur’s touch retreated instantly and she mourned the loss, even as it allowed some of that brain fog to dissipate. The spell that consumed all three of them broke.
“I’ve got her something warm to drink, some herbs that’ll help her heal quicker…” The older man trailed off, standing before all three of them.
“… Oh.” Hosea paused, peering down his nose at the scene, warm eyes passing over her breasts before he looked away. The shock seemed to dissipate quickly for him, the older man adapting a calm facade. He cleared his throat and looked to Dutch, “How bad are the wounds?”
“Nothin’ serious, no lasting damage,” Dutch responded absentmindedly, his hands pulling the rag away from her chest like nothing was out of the ordinary.
She moved a bit, butterflies still fluttering wild in her stomach as she kept her gaze to the side. Dutch stood, leaving her line of sight and she heard shuffling. Hosea knelt down towards her—she noticed the twinge of discomfort that crossed his face from the movement—and he offered the cup to her.
Her hands rose and she almost blushed at how her fingers shook with that fading ink of anticipation. Taking the cup from him, she met his eyes. He was certainly more of a gentleman than either of those two boys, and she was grateful that he only acted out of care. It was refreshing. Not that she didn’t like the way they had just touched it, but at least she could think now.
“Thank you,” she muttered, and she didn’t hesitate to sip at the homemade tea. It was soothing down her throat, and it made her realize how dehydrated she was.
He smiled, a genuine small smile and rose back to his feet. Dutch came back in front of her, a button up shirt of his in his hands. He offered it to her without a word, an expectant look in his eyes. God, she felt like a stupid schoolgirl with how she thought way too into wearing a man’s shirt—she had to force herself to not think of how there was a lingering smell of masculinity and sandalwood as she slipped it on.
It seemed everyone was in movement now. Arthur stood up from behind her, shooting one last look at her before leaving, Hosea following behind him. She thought it odd that suddenly she didn’t need to be tied up anymore, but could she really argue with the fact she was just putty in their arms? Clearly, she was not putting up a fight any longer. She should be grateful she was not bound anyhow.
“Rest for a few hours, and then we will discuss what exactly happened and… what we’ll do going forward,” Dutch was occupied with putting all the supplies back into the bag, but he looked away from his task to gaze at her, “Now, I want you to know, I’ll take in someone who needs to be taken in.”
That’s all he said before he stood, leaving her alone in the tent. She let out a heavy breath, her chest feeling a bit lighter knowing she wasn’t in immediate danger. It all went a lot different than she expected it to. Even offering her a place in his gang? She couldn’t decide such a thing right now, not when she didn’t know what just happened between those outlaws and her, fingers teasing and touching light with intention.
The sound of morning birds singing the echoes of the fading night was the last thing she heard as she allowed herself to rest.