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Chapter Text

The evening was warm and hazy. The men had set off in the morning on a stage tipoff, and hadn’t yet returned to camp. The women had settled themselves around the campfire, passing around a bottle of whisky Karen had produced from under her skirt, and judging by the rosy cheeks and large smiles, everyone had started to feel rather merry. 

You were doing your best to keep up with them, but none of the girls you knew growing up could put away their liquor this quickly. You could feel your head starting to spin a little. But what did it matter? You’d done your work for the day. Your belly was full. You had clothes on your back and people to watch it. All in all, it was a damn sight better than where you were this time last month. Funny to think of all the times you’d seen the Van Der Linde gang bounty posters and eyed them warily. Strange how life turns out. 

“Hello? Anybody home?”

Your eyes snapped back to the group. Karen had her gazed fixed on you, and her grin was verging on predatory.

“Sorry,” you said. “Mind was wandering. What did you say?”

“I said—”

“Oh, come on now, leave the poor girl alone,” Abigail interrupted. “She’s been through enough. Lord knows she don’t need you poking about.”

“Poking about, huh?” Karen said. “The sure is an interesting choice of words.”

“Oh hush,” Abigail snapped, but the corners of her mouth twitched.

“He don’t mean no harm by it,” Mary-Beth said, taking your hand. “Or at least I don’t think he does.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Are you slow or something?” Karen rolled her eyes. “Dutch.”

“What about him?”

“That confirms it. She’s slow.”

“He always sniffs around the new girls,” Tilly said, taking a long swig of whisky. “Especially the ones who ain’t heard all his speeches yet. Gets excited at the prospect of fresh ears.”

“Fresh ears and fresh puss—”

“Karen!” Mary-Beth interjected, looking mortified.

“Oh, don’t act all high and mighty, Miss Gaskill. I know what you read in them books of yours. And I know for a fact he’s been sniffing around you. Reading you poems. Dancing with you. Running his hand up the inside of your leg—”

“He never!” Mary-Beth’s face was turning pink. “He ain’t never t-touched the inside of my—”

“We all saw it, so just quit your lying.” Karen turned her gaze back to you. “So? Have you been the object of Our Lord and Savior Van Der Linde’s affections?”

All eyes were on you all of a sudden, and the boisterous camaraderie had come to a halt as they awaited your answer. “No,” you said, truthfully. “Not at all.”

Karen rolled her eyes again. “No use lyin’. We’ve all had him.”

You blinked. “You’ve all—?”

“No, not like that! Karen, you’re giving the girl the wrong idea,” Mary-Beth scolded. 

“Alright, fine, Abby’s the only one who’s actually had him.”

“Karen, for the last time, I told you it weren’t nothing like that and I only let him put his hand up my skirt to make John jealous—”

“And he made you come so hard your knees fell out from under you and he had to stop you from falling, as I recall.”

Abigail’s eyes met yours and her cheeks started to redden. “Thanks for sharing that with the group, Karen.”

“Hey,” Karen smiled. “We’re all sisters here. There ain’t no secrets. Hell, if Dutch wanted to put his hand up my skirts, I’d be there in a heartbeat. Unfortunately he don’t sniff around me no more, that’s for sure.”

“He ain’t never acted like that around me and I’m grateful for it,” Tilly said.

“You were so young when you arrived,” Abigail said softly. “Wouldn’t be right.” She turned back to you. “But don’t let this lot scare you. He ain’t a monster. You say no, he’ll listen. He might sulk for a little bit but he’s not the type to force a girl.”

“He hasn’t—I mean, he doesn’t—” You didn’t know what to say. The idea of Dutch paying you any kind of attention was a terrifying and intoxicating thought. The man was an enigma, larger than life, like a folk tale. He’d ridden in on a white horse—tall, dark, merciless—and  plucked you from the edge of destitution. Even as the weeks went by and you settled into the camp, you still couldn’t shake the feeling of awe every time you laid eyes on him. His deep and commanding voice, his intelligent eyes, his strong hands. The way a sea of terrifying criminals bowed to his every command. How quickly he could change from bloodthirsty and violent to charming and clever. Each time he passed you in the camp, you felt your heart beat a little faster. Part anxiety—you weren’t sure you were up to the rigorous intellectual challenges he put to some of the others in the camp like Lenny or Hosea. Part exhilaration—you couldn’t believe you were seeing the man from all the posters in the flesh, not one metre away from you. Part something else—something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. A heat. A frisson. A curiosity. 

But the truth was Dutch had barely spoken to you, and even in those conversations he had remained curt and to the point. He always seemed deeply distracted, with thoughts humming away in the background, and every time you’d talked he had been passing from one point to another. You’d never been asked out on a ride with him and you’d certainly never been the object of any sort of attention. In fact, you couldn’t even recall a time sitting around the camp fire with him. The thought of him running his hand up your leg…

“Wait, you mean he’s never tried anything with you?” Karen’s voice pierced through your thoughts. “Not even compared you to a summer’s day?”

“If she don’t want to talk about it, she don’t have to,” Abigail said sharply. “You ain’t a preacher. She ain’t got to confess her sins.”

“No, he’s never said anything like that to me,” you admitted. “Never flirted or read me a poem or nothing. He hasn’t even… I mean… he hasn’t even looked at me like that.” You cleared your throat. Your voice was coming out a little strange and tight. 

“Huh.” Karen leaned back and took a swig of the whisky. “Well. I guess he ain’t interested.”

Your throat was feeling tighter and you could feel your heart thudding in your chest.

“Strange,” Mary-Beth murmured. “You’re a pretty one. And you’re his type, too. I would’ve thought—”

“It’s a good thing,” Abigail insisted. “We don’t need to make things any more complicated than they already are.”

The group fell silent for a while, the only sound the crackling of the fire.

“I think I might enjoy getting complicated with Dutch,” Mary-Beth said suddenly, and Karen burst out laughing. 

“Hear hear.”

Over the next few days you tried in vain to keep the conversation with the girls out of your mind. You’d tried to remind yourself you were lucky and it was easier this way, and anyway you certainly had no intention of bedding a criminal gang leader, but a strange feeling kept pushing itself insistently back into your chest. Something you hadn’t felt since you were just a girl and none of the boys in your town had presented you with a flower on Valentine’s Day. It was silly, but it put a lump in your throat and a heat in your cheeks.

Did Dutch think you were ugly? Is that why he’d never tried it on? Maybe he didn’t like girls your shape. But… then again, all the women in the camp were all different ages, shapes and sizes, and he’d shown interest in all of them. 

Did he think you were stupid? True, when he found you, you were in a pretty tight spot, and it could easily be misconstrued as bad planning. And you’d never involved yourself in any of the philosophical discussions in the camp. But you could read and you could write, which was more than you could say for half the others. You hadn’t made any mistakes and you learnt pretty quick. Even Susan had to admit you “weren’t a complete idiot”, which you’d later learnt was high praise.

Maybe he thought you were weak. You saw the way Abigail talked back to him. The way Karen could hold her own with a rifle. The way Tilly gently teased. Even Mary-Beth had an amusing sarcastic streak in her. Did he think you were tedious? Or even worse—a coward?

A week after the conversation, you were hunched over the water trough, scrubbing absent-mindedly, trying to get the stain from Pearson’s stew out of Bill’s shirt.

It wasn’t that you wanted Dutch to, of course. You weren’t that sort of girl. It had nothing to do with wanting Dutch, or thinking about him, or wishing he’d pay you special attention. It was just the principle of the thing. If he’d flirted with the other girls, he really ought to flirt with you. It was just common courtesy. 

Your thoughts slowly wandered to Abigail. How she said she’d let Dutch put his hand up her skirts. How Dutch had touched her there. Karen had said she’d come so hard that she’d collapsed in his arms. 

You felt a small shiver go through you. Gosh, you were lucky you weren’t her, really. Imagine that. Imagine Dutch holding you in his arms. That heady scent of his suddenly surrounding you, intoxicating you with every breath. Those dark, intense eyes focused entirely on you. His strong arms holding you up. His chest hair peeking through his shirt. His mouth, so close to your mouth. His large hands grasping as your skirts and raising them to your thighs. His long fingers covered in cold metal rings sneaking down towards your hot entrance…

You shook your head and cleared your throat. No, you certainly wouldn’t want that. He was dangerous, and dirty, and—Christ—nearly twice your age. And he was worldly, too. He’d bedded so many women. He was experienced. It was all quite unacceptable, really. You wanted a virgin, didn’t you? To marry you in purity. Not a man who knew what he was doing. Not a man who’d seen it all before. Not a man who’d enjoyed himself with women of all sorts. Not a man who could make a woman come so hard she collapsed…

You could feel your cheeks turning red. You were glad the camp was relatively empty. You scrubbed harder at the stain on the linen, trying to make it budge, but it wasn’t moving.

What would you have even done if he’d started showing you affection? It wasn’t even worth thinking about. It would have complicated things too much. You’d had far too much on your mind when you’d first arrived, and really you were grateful. It would have been overwhelming. The fact that Dutch had chosen not to burden you with all that nonsense was a relief, really. 

Because honestly, what would you have done? It was difficult to even imagine. Imagine that! Dutch watching you on those first days when you arrived. Dutch’s eyes running up and down your body as you’d stripped out of your torn and bloodied clothes. Dutch sneaking a look as you’d bathed yourself in the river. Dutch standing close enough in the dinner line to smell you, and you hearing him inhale behind you. Dutch coming over to you at the campfire late in the evening, stepping one leg up on a box crate next to you so his thigh was level with your head, inquiring how you were doing. Dutch showing a preference for you, in front of all the other girls. Dutch making excuses to get close to you. Dutch suggesting casually you might like to join him in his tent for some light reading. Dutch moving towards you with purpose, the candlelight flickering on his skin…

Your breath caught in your throat. No, that wouldn’t be right. You’d have to say no. Of course, if he’d shown any interest, you’d have turned him down. You’d have rested a hand on his firm chest and gently thanked him but insisted you had to leave. 

But what if he’d grabbed that hand and brought it to his mouth? What if he’d sucked a fingertip in, all hot and wet? What if he’d looked at you with eyes of desire? What if he’d pulled you close to him and his gold chains had tangled in the tassels of your blouse and you could feel how hard he was even through the layers of fabric? What if he’d kissed you then—what if he’d brought your mouth to his and your lips had fallen open so easily to allow his tongue and you couldn’t help but moan? What if he’d run his hand up the inside of your leg, like Mary-Beth said? What if his hands had reached your undergarments and he’d found them soaked through? What if he’d rubbed gentle circles against the wet fabric and your hips had bucked towards him, despite yourself?

You shifted slightly on your knees and suddenly realised with shame that your thoughts had made you damp. You took in a deep breath and chastised your body silently. You weren’t fantasizing. You were just—imagining. Imagining what might have happened. Taking stock of the situation. Recognising the difficulty you might have been in and thanking your lucky stars you had avoided it. You shifted slightly again and realised your slickness had made it to your thighs.

Right. That was enough. Dutch wasn’t interested, you were deeply grateful, and that was the end of the matter. You stood up, roughly grabbing the trough along with Bill’s stained shirt, and marched back to the river, determined to keep all inappropriate thoughts from your mind.

Later that evening, you found yourself alone at camp. The gang had headed into town for a drink and a dance, but you’d found you weren’t in the mood. In fact, you’d been in something of a temper all afternoon. 

You were sitting by the campfire, angrily stoking the flames, when the sudden sound of a horse galloping towards the camp startled you out of your irritation. You sprang to your feet and instinctively went to grab a gun at your hip when you caught a flash of white and realised with a start that it was the Count, which meant it was Dutch and—who was that with him? One of the gang? You narrowed your eyes in the darkness, trying to catch a glimpse, but you couldn’t figure out who it was. One of the men? But no, the figure was smaller than that. Dutch walked over and offered his hand, and figure took it, gracefully climbing down off the horse.

A woman. It was a woman.

You watched as the woman smoothed her skirts in front of her. She took a step towards Dutch and in the moonlight you could now see her long, dark, curled hair and her red lips. Even from this distance you could tell that she was beautiful. Dutch took the woman’s hand and—your heart started beating faster in your chest—brought it slowly up to his lips. 

Dutch had brought a woman back to camp and he was kissing her hand.

You sat there, frozen to the spot, aware that at any moment they were going to spot you but too shocked to move. Dutch and the woman laced fingers, and he led her slowly towards his tent, murmuring softly as he went. 

Had they spotted you? Could you still hide? The thought of interacting with this strange woman seemed unbearable, and the thought of being caught alone while Dutch had company was unfathomable.

They were making a beeline straight for Dutch’s tent, and with their current trajectory, they would see you any second now. With a muffled squeak you jumped down from the log and lay down flat behind it. You watched as Dutch led the woman behind him, a soft smile on his lips and an extra swagger in his step. The woman’s face was flushed and her breasts were heaving with every step. She giggled as Dutch stopped to twirl her, and after a few moments they disappeared into his tent, the linen settling closed behind her, both seemingly utterly unaware of your existence.

You slowly climbed to your knees, a feeling of intense indignation washing over you. So Dutch would rather bring a stranger to camp—someone who they didn’t know, whose background they couldn’t verify, whose connections they couldn’t be sure of—than flirt with you? He’d rather go out on a limb and risk all of their lives than deign to stoop to your level? Even when you were right there? He’d flirt with everyone else and not you? He’d put his hand up Abigail’s skirts but not yours? He’d bring some trollop—

No, that wasn’t fair. You barely knew the girl. It wasn’t right to hate her. Besides, you had no reason to. She was with Dutch, but that was fine. It wasn’t like you were jealous. Were you? 

God, maybe you were. The more you tried to push the thought away, the more it reared its ugly head. You clambered up to the log next to fire and stared miserably into the flames. 

Of course Dutch not showing an interest in you didn’t mean he wasn’t showing an interest in other women outside of the gang. Of course Dutch was going to want a woman’s company. He was a grown man. He had appetites.

The woman’s loud laugh rang out into the night air. You buried your head in your hands. You tried not to think about what was happening in there. You tried not to think about Dutch putting his experience into practice. Lowering his gravely voice deep down into honey. Removing the hat from his head and settling it down on the table next to his bed. Running a finger through his hair. Raising a hand to her chin and lifting it so her eyes locked on his…

Another laugh rang out, this time more shrill. It wasn’t pleasant, but you tried to be generous. She was probably nervous, as any woman would be in that situation. Possibly she was trying to seem more confident than she was. That’s certainly what you’d be doing. If you were in her shoes. Her shoes that were in his tent.

Another laugh rang out, short and sharp. Like a bark. Suddenly the woman stumbled out of the hole in Dutch’s tent, the front of her corset hanging open.

“Hey, now, fuck you! That’s not fair. It’s not my fault!”

Dutch suddenly emerged from the tent, his shirt—you gulped—half open, his chest exposed to the night sky.

“My dear, if you don’t leave this camp in the next ten seconds, I won’t be responsible for what happens to you.” Dutch’s voice was low and quiet but still utterly clear.

“How am I supposed to—”

“Leave. Now.” He took a step towards the woman. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood.”

“This is you in a good mood?”

“If I were in a bad mood, darlin’, you’d already be dead.” Dutch narrowed his eyes. “Get out of my sight.”

The woman spat on the ground, and then stumbled into the woods surrounding the camp. You watched her go for a moment, your mouth hanging open in shock, before turning to look back at Dutch, whose eyes were locked with yours.

“I—” you squeaked, but you didn’t have anything else prepared and nothing came out. You could barely assemble your thoughts. Dutch was stood in front of his tent, a crackling energy surrounding him, in nothing but his open shirt and his trousers, his bare chest exposed to the night air, a hand hovering at his hip. As you stared at each other, you noticed his lips were glistening and there was a bead of sweat at his temple. His dark hair, usually slicked back under his hat, was ruffled out of place. You noticed that his dark chest hair trailed off into a single line that snaked down into his trousers—

You steeled yourself. “Is—is everything alright, Mr van der Linde?”

Dutch turned to stare in the direction the woman had run off. “Brother’s a law man,” he muttered, his thoughts clearly churning in his mind. “She caught me—off guard.”

Looking at Dutch’s state, you couldn’t help a small smile. “She sure did.”

Dutch turned to look at you, his eyes searching your face intensely for a second. He shook his head and you could see his hands shaking with adrenaline. “Only a matter of time before she squeals. We’ll have to leave in the morning.”

“Of course. Whatever you say.”

He shoulders relaxed slightly, seemingly comforted by your acquiescence. “Best we wait for the others to return and then pack down at first light.”

“Sounds rational.”

Dutch nodded and let out a long, slow breath. “Damn.” He balled his hands into fists, and then slowly released them, finger by finger. He looked around at the empty camp, eyes flashing with frustration, before settling his eyes back on you. “You got any liquor?”

“Of—of course.”

“Well then.” Your heart skipped a beat as you realised he was making his way towards you. You hastily tried to smooth your dress and realised with horror that it was still covered in mud from when you’d hidden from him before. 

Dutch swung his legs over the log and settled down next to you. A wave of his scents hit you— sweat mingled with leather, dirt and cigarette smoke. You took another shaky breath, trying not to be too obvious: cloves, fresh grass, sandalwood, oil and the faintest hint of soap. But there was something else, too—a deep musk that was unlike any other man you’d been near. It was a heady combination.

“Are you planning on surrendering that bottle, or am I to wrestle it from your grasp?”

“Oh! Sorry. Here.” You passed the bottle of whisky to Dutch and you watch as he swigged from the bottle, his lips settling on the rim where just moments ago your lips had been.

“Much obliged.” A small dribble of liquid was ran down his chin, and before he could reach it with his hand, splashed onto his exposed chest. It was at that moment that he seemed to take stock of the situation. “Ah, my apologies, miss, for the state of my undress. How improper of me.” Dutch set the whisky down and started to do up his buttons. 

“No, I—” like it. You caught yourself before those words left your mouth, and felt your cheeks turning red.

“Don’t fret, my dear,” Dutch said, grabbing a large coat that was slung over the back of the log and placing it around his shoulders. “I am aware of your particular inclinations.”

“Thank—” You paused. Particular inclinations? “Sorry. My particular inclinations?”

“Karen informed me on your arrival to our camp. I assure you it don’t bother me none. We’re all sinners here, in one way or another.”

“S-sinners?”

“And I certainly cannot begrudge you the desire for a woman’s body, having that particular inclination myself.” He turned to you, smiling ruefully. “An inclination, I’ll admit, I was hoping would be looked after somewhat this evening but—well, you saw.”

Suddenly it all clicked in your mind. You spluttered. “Dutch, I’m not—I don’t have inclinations.”

Dutch raised an eyebrow. “Oh? My mistake.”

“That’s just—I don’t know why Karen would say that but it isn’t true. She must have been up to some silly game, or teasing me, or something. I’m not—like that.”

“I see.”

“I’ve known girls who were like that and that’s just fine! But that’s just not—me.”

“Ah.” Dutch settled back a little, adjusting his hips slightly as he moved and spreading his legs slightly wider. “Well, then, what are your inclinations, miss?”

You felt your cheeks getting hotter, if that was even possible. “I like—I like fellers.”

Dutch paused. The corner of his mouth twitched and he cocked his head slightly to the slide. His eyes travelled down your body slowly, before coming back to your eyes. “Is that so.”

“Yes.”

“And what sort of fellers do you like, if I may ask?”

“I dunno.” Your heart was thudding in your throat. The reality of having Dutch’s focus settled entirely on you was a little overwhelming. “The usual kind.”

“I see.” Dutch took a long swig of whisky, his eyes never leaving your face. “The usual kind of fellers.” He rolled the words around in his mouth slowly. “So, thick-as-pigshit fellers?”

“No.”

“God-awful ugly fellers?”

“No.”

Dutch laughed at your indignation. He was clearly starting to enjoy himself. “No, you’re a fine lady, ain’t ya? You want a fine man. One of them fancy men with a shinin’ pink suit. All dollars and no sense.”

“No. That’s not what I want.”

“No? Well, I’m sorry, but that about covers it, miss. If you don’t want him dumb, ugly or rich, there ain’t much else besides.”

“There’s plenty else besides.”

“Mmmm. That so.”

“Yes, that is so.” You never knew Dutch could be quite so infuriating.

“Like what?”

“Like—like—powerful.” You felt a flush of pleasure run through you at having seized on a word instead of continuing to stutter away. “Charming.” You sat up a little, allowing your eyes to waver slightly from Dutch’s eyes down his body. “Strong.” You met his gaze again. “Confident.”

You watched as thoughts suddenly started to click behind Dutch’s eyes. He brought his hand up to his chin, rubbing it gently, his eyes suddenly sweeping freely over your form. “Well, well, well.” His voice had settled into a lower, gravelly range. He took another long swig of whisky. “Ain’t that something.”

The air around you suddenly felt thick and heavy, and you suddenly became very aware of how close Dutch was sitting to you. Close enough almost to touch.

Dutch’s eyes continued sweeping your body, lingering on your neck and wrists, before finally coming to rest on the mud caked on the front of your bodice.

“My dear,” he said, voice impossibly low and playful, “You are positively filthy.”

“I—”

“Mmmmm?”

“I—fell. In the mud.”

“Did you.” Dutch’s eyes were sweeping the mud splatters on your chest. “That’s quite a fall.”

“It was.”

“Did this happen before or after you hid from me behind this log?”

You didn’t think it was possible for your face to get any hotter, but it did. You could feel the flush now burning its way down your neck and onto your chest. It was almost enough to make you feel like hiding again. “I’m sorry. I just—I wasn’t in the mood for company.”

“Hers or mine?”

“Hers.” The word was out of your mouth before you realised. You cursed yourself. You looked away, hugging your dress, trying to hide the dirt. You knew it was impossible for someone to read your thoughts, but something about the way Dutch was looking at you was making you feel like an open book. 

“And how are you enjoying my company, my dear?”

You swallowed. “Just fine, Mr van der Linde.”

“Just fine? That it?” Dutch leaned over to catch your eye. “Miss, I’m hurt.” He raised his hand to place over his heart. “You save a beautiful woman’s life and she don’t even enjoy your company.”

“I enjoy your company, Mr van der Linde,” you said, softly. 

“You do?” 

Your eyes flicked down to Dutch’s mouth as his tongue snaked out to wet his lips. Your mouth felt dry.

“How much?”

“S—sorry?”

“How much do you enjoy it?”

Your heart was thudding in your chest. You felt for sure if you met his eyes, something somewhere would explode. “I—“ You tried to breathe. “To be honest, Mr van der Linde—”

“Call me Dutch.”

Dutch. God. “To be honest, Dutch, I haven’t had the pleasure of your company all that often.”

“Oh?”

You hoped your expression was impassive. You dug your fingernails into your palms.

“You know what? I believe you’re right. It’s a pleasure that we haven’t allowed ourselves to indulge in nearly as much as we should have.” Dutch shifted, and you felt the soft, warm pressure of his leg against yours. “I’m sure grateful I get to have your pleasure now.”

“You mean my company?” You turned to look at Dutch. His pupils were impossibly dark. The coat he had slung around his shoulders had fallen back into the mud, and you could see a peek of his chest once more through his striped linen shirt. His slick dark curls had settled back down onto his head in the night air. He reminded you of a panther—sleek and dark and dangerous. 

“Miss. I must admit. I am hastily becoming intoxicated with your presence.”

Every part of you was thrumming with heat and fear and desire. You felt yourself struggling to form the words you needed. All you could think about was Dutch.

“My next move will be to run my hand slowly up your leg to your inner thigh.”

With those words, the insistent heat that had been warming your nether regions slowly unfurled, and you could feel your undergarments slowly beginning to soak through.

“And then I will lick a line right from your collarbone to the nape of your neck.”

Your body was starting to pound with a dull ache. 

“So if that doesn’t align with you interests, I suggest you pick yourself up, walk yourself over to your tent and we call this a night.”

You bit your lip. You said nothing. You stayed put.

“Good. I like it better this way.”

Chapter Text

“Dutch! You here?!” Arthur Morgan’s thunderous voice broke out into the night air. “I got some O’Driscoll boys on my tail and my damn gun is jammed!”

“Shit. Get behind something, now.” Dutch moved so fast it was almost a blur. Within seconds he had disappeared into his tent and was out front of it again, gripping a pistol and firing into the dark of the bushes. You scrambled back down into the mud again behind the log, trying desperately to make out any shapes in the dark night, but you couldn’t see a thing. How could Dutch see anything in such conditions?

“Not one O’Driscoll has survived a visit to the van der Linde camp, boys!” Dutch hollered, walking resolutely into the darkness. “My face is the last thing you’ll see before you open your eyes in hell.”

Your heart was pounding and your ears were ringing but you couldn’t help a small smile at that. The man certainly had a way with words.

“It has been a long week, gentleman.” The sound of a bullet whizzing through the air followed by a loud scream and a thud. “And an even longer year.” Gunshot. Another cry. “And tonight—” Dutch ducked down as a bullet went past his head. “I intended to treat myself.” Another shot, and a terrified horse bolting into the distance. You blinked and tried desperately to peer into the darkness but you still couldn’t make anything out. 

The man was incredible.

“You see, I deserve some relief from the incessant—” gunshot, scream, “—disgusting—” gunshot, scream, “—demoralising tyranny of this land.” Three more gunshots. Three more cries of pain. “Who amongst you will grant me a moment’s peace from the rot of this once glorious country?”

In the darkness you saw Arthur stumble towards the campfire, clutching at his stomach, his gun at his side.

“Behind me, son,” Dutch murmured, and Arthur fell to his knees just behind Dutch’s legs. “You have interrupted my search for comfort between a woman’s thighs, gentlemen!” Gunshot, scream. 

Your face burned hot.

“You have interrupted a man in his most purest of forms, in his moment of primal need.” Gunshot, scream, duck. “You have found me in a moment of animalistic desire, and you have decided to threaten that beast with violence.” Gunshot, scream. “In a sense,” Dutch paused, considering. A hail of bullets whizzed through the air, and he stepped easily out of their way. “In a sense, there must be a part of you that longs for death.” He snapped back to his shooting position. “You deny me my relief in an attempt to beg for your own.” Gunshot, scream. “Well, it’s your lucky day. I have come to grant you that relief.” Dutch emptied the chamber of his gun, firing round after round into the darkness, his gun sparking and smoking in the night air, bullet after bullet, scream after scream piercing through the darkness, a horrendous cacophony of death. 

Then silence. 

The campfire crackling.

A horse galloping in the distance.

The strong smell of gunpowder and smoke.

A gentle groaning of pain.

Dutch breathing heavily.

“Any more of you?” Dutch hollered, his voice cracking. “Any last O’Driscolls seeking relief from me and my gun?”

Silence. 

More silence.

You waited with bated breath. Should you do something? Try to find another gun? Try to get into a better position? Run over to Arthur? Shout out support? 

You lay in the mud, frozen to the spot.

What seemed like an eternity passed, as Dutch stood, listening. Finally, satisfied, he holstered his gun.

“Dutch, I’m sor—”

“Never lead them back to camp, Arthur.” Dutch’s voice was low and cold.

“I know, Dutch, it’s just—”

“What if the women were here? The boy? For Christ’s sake, Arthur. You know the rules.”

“Of course I know the damn rules—”

“Then what are they, son? What are they?”

Arthur paused, then sighed. “We die to protect our own.”

“That’s right. We die to protect our own.”

“I’m real sorry, Dutch. Honest. Especially—” He suddenly caught sight of you and faltered. A small smile spread slowly across his face. “Well. For interruptin’ and the like.”

Dutch scowled. “You’re lucky I don’t beat you here and now.”

Arthur snorted. “Like to see you try.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothin’, Dutch! Just expressin’ my gratitude.” Arthur smirked.

“You always were an ungrateful sonofabitch and if you don’t—“

“I know, I know. I’ll get the loot and burn ‘em.”

“And you—”

“Bring it to you. I know, Dutch. I know.”

Arthur pulled himself up, his shirt soaked with blood, and started off toward the darkness of the woods.

“Arthur, for Christ’s sake. Patch yourself up first, will you? If you die tonight, it is going to be at my hands.”

Arthur paused. “Yes, boss.” He turned on his heel and started limping towards his tent.

Dutch turned to you. “Well then—”

But with a sudden shriek, the carriage carrying the other gang members rolled back into camp, the gang whooping and hollering drunkenly, the horses barely pulling up before the campfire in time.

Dutch sighed. “Another time.”

But there wasn’t another time. The next morning the gang packed down the camp and spent the better part of a week travelling slowly across the Heartlands. There was so much to do—setting up the bedrolls each night, helping Pearson collect herbs for the stew, scouting ahead for possible snipers. Most of the time Dutch was nowhere to be seen, except for a few rallying speeches addressed to the whole group. 

And once they arrived at their new spot, there was the usual work of setting everything up: putting up the tents, tethering the horses, collecting the water, purchasing the hay from the local farmboys, collecting roots for the girls’ monthly pains and the mens’ bullet wounds. Truth be told, gang life could be awfully unglamorous. There was a lot of hard labour to do and Miss Grimshaw ran a tight ship. 

And any moment where your eyes caught Dutch’s, he was swept away by something or other: by Hosea, ushering him into a corner to draw out migratory plans; by Arthur, suggesting he go fishing; by Lenny, insisting that he read a passage from his latest text; by Bill, with a dubious tipoff about an unguarded stage in the adjacent town. 

After a few weeks, you began to wonder if you had imagined it all. Had you read into it what you wanted to? You were certain Dutch arrived back at camp with a woman. You were certain she left. You were certain he sat with you a moment before the camp was attacked by O’Driscolls and he leapt up to fight them off.

But before that? The conversation you had? Did he really say those things? Did he really look you up and down with those dark eyes? He had called out into the night about his animalistic desire—but did he mean you?

You were getting less sure by the day. Sometimes Dutch locked eyes with you across the camp, but the moment you looked away, he was gone. 

Perhaps Karen was right, after all. Perhaps he just wasn’t interested.

“Excuse my intrusion, miss.” 

Your whole body jolted. You laughed nervously, and looked up from your spot under the makeshift canopy of a carriage into Dutch’s burning black eyes. 

“Sir. You startled me.”

“Sir? Well, that is nice to hear.” Dutch chuckled. “I do like that. Sir van der Linde.”

You hastily closed the book Mary-Berth had loaned you, which was far filthier than her eyes would give away, and popped it under your skirts. “It’s no intrusion! Is there something you need?”

Dutch leaned against the side of the carriage, cocking his head to the side. “As a matter of fact, my dear, there is.”

“Of course.” You stood, brushing the stray pieces of grass off your lap.

“I intend to survey the flora of the wider area and make a note of the best spots for gatherin’. I’m told you have the best eyes for distinguishing remedy from poison.”

“Of course. I can do that. No problem. I’ll go now.”

You turned and started walking towards your horse.

“Miss?”

You stopped. “Yes, Mr van der Linde?”

“I meant for you to accompany me, darlin’.”

Your mouth suddenly went dry and your cheeks started to burn. Goddamn, the way your body reacted to this man.

“Of course, sir. Whatever you please.” You cast your eyes around the camp, but all you could see was John dozing in the sunshine, and Tilly and Karen playing dominoes on the other side. “Will anyone else be coming along?”

Dutch shook his head slowly. “Just you.”

Your heart started beating hard in your chest. The summer sun was hot and you could feel yourself sweating in your blouse already. “O-of course.” You licked your lips. “Let me get my horse.”

“The Count is plenty strong enough for the both of us.”

You felt a shiver go down your spine even in the heat. You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. Was he flirting again? Or did he really need your eyes to pick out the herbs? It’s true, you were getting low, and there were a fair few false friends in the area. But Javier was better at spotting them, and Tilly knew the best combinations. And it was always safer to ride with more than two in case one got injured.

Dutch whistled, his eyes still locked on yours, and the Count cantered over softly, bumping and nuzzling Dutch’s face on arrival. “Good boy,” Dutch murmured. He then extended his arm out to you. Almost entranced, you walked towards him. Without a word, he moved his hands to your hips, and effortlessly lifted you onto his horse, like you were nothing more than a small child. He followed you up, swinging his leg over with practised flourished. He adjusted his hat, slinging his shotgun into the horse’s holster.

“Best you hold on. We don’t want to lose you over a cliff.”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see you and slowly slid your arms around his waist. The fabric of his waistcoat was smooth and shiny, and you clasped your hands over the buttons at the front. You allowed yourself to lean against his strong back. You were certain he could feel your heart pounding in your chest, but you didn’t care. Being this close to him was intoxicating. He was sweaty from the hot day—spicy and musky and so, so good. You inhaled him voraciously with each breath, feeling almost drunk, luxuriating in the closeness. 

He clicked and the Count took off at a brisk pace, and suddenly you were thrust against him, your thighs wide against him. It felt positively sinful to have your legs spread to accomodate him like this, your breasts rubbing against his back with every gallop. You could feel him arching back and forth to keep the steady rhythm, and with burning shame you felt yourself starting to get turned on.

God, you couldn’t even go on a simple horse ride with the man.

You couldn’t even bring yourself to feel real shame because it was all too delicious. You could see his large hands gripping at the reins. You could feel his murmured instructions vibrating through to your chest. You could feel yourself rubbing up against him as you rode. The day was bright and hot, and you could feel yourself sweating gently against him, and Gods it was all so good.

“I am following your lead, my dear,” Dutch called over his shoulder.

Oh, right. The herbs. Christ. You’d forgotten. “I—I’ll let you know when I see something worthwhile!” You called back.

Dutch pulled on the reins, easing the Count into a slow walk. “That ain’t what I mean, darlin’.” He directed Count off the muddy road and onto a large field covered in dandelions. The Count trotted slowly over to a large tree in the centre of the field, and Dutch stopped him just beside it. He swung his leg over and climbed down off the horse, hitching him to a gnarled and broken branch. 

He turned to face you. “I mean I thought I’d let you take the lead on this one.”

You sat astride the Count, heart hammering in your chest, mind racing. “Sorry?”

Dutch walked to the side of the horse and held out his hand. You took it, feeling a bolt of electricity go through you at the warmth and softness of his skin against yours. He slowly helped you down, but this time he brought you down right in front of him, so your body pressed against his the whole way and you landed on the soft grass barely inches away.

“I have had my pistol at the ready awaitin’ your whistle, darlin’. But so far I’ve heard nothing.”

This close, he towered over you. Your chest was still pressed against his.

“Did I project my own desires into your eyes that night?”

Your heart was thudding so hard, the soft fabric of your blouse was quivering softly. “Sir—”

“Christ.” This close, you could feel a slowly growing pressure in Dutch’s trousers against your hip. “I do love it when you call me sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dutch licked his lips, staring into your eyes. “I want you, darlin’,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “I want you right here, right now. On this field. Up against this tree. Nothin’ between us and God but our very own sin.”

Your hards were still gripping his hard biceps and you felt one of your legs start to shake beneath you. “But sir, I’ve never—”

“Shhhhh, darling. Nothin’ else matters so long as you want me.” Dutch pushed you gently and slowly walked you backwards until your back hit the tree. He pressed himself against you, slowly parting your thighs with his leg. “Tell me you want me, sweetheart.”

Your heart was in your throat. You barely knew what you were saying yes to. All you knew was that you wanted. All you knew was that you’d forgotten every single other word in the English language other than—“I want you.”

You closed your eyes and leaned forward, expecting to feel his lips against yours, but were surprised to feel only air. You opened your eyes to see he had moved his head slightly back, out of your reach. 

“So eager, my sweet,” he murmured, smirking at you. “So eager for me.”

You flushed. His trousered thigh pressed harder into your nether regions, and you couldn’t help as a shudder went through you. It felt good. So good. 

“I am going to have my way with you.” His voice was low and thick. “I am going to have you just as I want you.” He leaned forward and kissed your neck softly. You moaned. “And you are going to eat up every moment of it. Greedily.” He continued kissing your neck, and you could feel yourself getting wetter and wetter by the second. “But I won’t have you pretendin’ this is romance.” Suddenly he grazed his teeth against your neck and you started. “This is not romance. This is carnal pleasure.” He licked the spot he had just bitten, soft wet relief. “This is you and I givin’ in to our nature.” His hands were suddenly at your hips, rocking you back and forth, encouraging you to grind on his leg. “This is you and I unravellin’ together.” He started rocking his own hips, grinding them into you, the bulge in his pants now rock hard. “This is you and I admittin’ somethin’ to ourselves that everyone else is too plain scared to say.”

You could barely take in the words. All you could do was buck into his every thrust, moaning gently. 

“I am going to have you in this very field, my dear.” His voice was like molasses in your ear. “I am going to push you down on your back. I am going to rip off those pesky garments. I am going to spread those soft, creamy thighs. And I am going to have you.” 

“Y-yes, s-sir.” You couldn’t believe how shaky your voice was coming out. You could barely see straight. All you could feel was desire.

“You are a good girl,” Dutch’s hand moved from your waist and was slowly lifting up your skirts. “But I am going to hold you down in the dirt and make you tremble for me. Here, where anyone could happen upon us at any moment.”

You gasped and then moaned loudly. You should have felt ashamed at the thought that some poor innocent rider could see you, but the idea excited you more than you cared to admit.

“Now. Let’s see how that good girl feels about me,” Dutch murmured, his hands now slipping inside your undergarments. "Let’s see how that pussy feels in the presence of Dutch van der Linde.” He slowly ran a finger through your folds, collecting the slickness. There was a voice in your head insisting that he shouldn’t be allowed to touch you this way, but it was so far off, and his hand was so hot and so close. “Oh, sweetheart.” If you weren’t so delirious with desire, you might have been embarrassed at just how wet you’d become. “So wet for me.” He ran his finger back through your folds, coating it, and then brought it up to slowly circle around the little bundle of nerves at the top. “Look at the way your body aches for me.” He began to make a slow loop—dipping his fingers into your opening to collect the wetness, and bringing it slowly back out to circle around your clit. “Look at the effect I have on you.”

Dutch’s fingers were large and rough, and with each stroke you could feel his heavy rings against your hot wet entrance. It felt so strange to have someone else’s hands down there, so wrong and ungodly, but heavens he knew what he was doing.

“Do you want to know what it feels like when I’m inside you?”

Your breath caught in your throat and you nodded. Dutch slowly slipped a finger in, his gold ring cold at first but warming quickly. “I want to be inside you like this.” He started pumping his finger in and out of you, ensuring that his palm remained pressed against your slick clit, encouraging you to grind against him with every pump. “Can you feel how much I want you, my dear?” He pressed his hard cock against your hip. “That is the effect that you have on Dutch van der Linde.” He continued, using one hand to rock your hips, the other to slowly pump in and out of you. The sounds your pussy was making were positively humiliating—like footsteps in the mud after a night of hard rain—but you couldn’t stop.

“I want you to sit that pretty little dainty pussy atop my hard cock and come all over it.” 

“Please,” you choked out. 

Dutch’s hands stilled. “Please?”

“Yes.” Your legs were shaking. His finger felt so good inside you but you wanted more. You wanted everything he had promised and more. “Please, Dutch.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Dutch pulled you roughly from the tree and pushed you down into the grass. He stood over you, slowly undoing his belt buckle and unbuttoning his trousers, his cock finally springing free. It was long and thick and veined and straining up impressively towards the blue sky above.

“Oh,” you said quietly. It seemed enormous. You suddenly felt mighty intimidated. Could you really fit that inside of you? You sat up slightly, leaning on your elbows. It was so much more than a finger. 

“I know it’s big, sweetheart,” Dutch said, slowly kneeling down before you. “But I promise I’ll only hurt you a little.” He leaned forward, locking your lips with his, and you moaned deep into the kiss, allowing your mouth to fall open easily to welcome his tongue. You were dimly aware you were moaning almost incessantly but somehow it felt out of your control. 

He tasted like a man. There was no other way to explain it. It was nothing like the stolen kisses you’d had behind the cowshed with young farmhand. Peter was soft and careful and clean, and Dutch was anything but. It was dirty and sour and hot and insistent and somehow it was promising just as much as Dutch’s whispered words. 

His hands began tugging at your undergarments, wrenching them down around your knees, and suddenly you felt a hot, soft, blunt pressure at your entrance. 

Dutch groaned, breaking away from the kiss. He slowly ran the tip of his cock up and down through your folds, getting it slicker and slicker with every slow drag. “Spread those thighs for me,” he grunted, and you slowly spread your legs wider, placing them on either side of his hips. “Yes, darling. Spread those pretty legs for me. Good girl.” And with that he slowly started to enter you, his cock impossibly large, sinking into you and filling you inch by inch.

“Dutch—” you gasped, suddenly panicked. It wasn’t going to fit. He was going to tear you in two. You’d never walk again. You weren’t ready.

“Trust me,” he whispered into your neck, slowly pulling himself out a little. He pushed himself back in, quicker this time, and you couldn’t believe how stretched you felt. You could feel the dull beginnings of pain. Surely you couldn’t take it all? You rocked your hips slightly, trying to adjust to feeling of fullness. 

“Damn.” Dutch stilled a moment, breathing hard. 

“Everything okay?” Had you done something wrong? Did you hurt him?

“Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “You feel good, darlin’. Real good.” He kissed you hard, his tongue delving into your mouth, and started slowly pumping his cock in and out of you. The dull pain started to slowly blossom, and then just as quicky began to subside as you felt arousal flooding your system. This pleasure wasn’t like any you’d felt before—it was bigger, fuller, more all-encompassing. Your mouth fell open and your eyes fell shut, involuntarily, and you felt your skin getting hotter.

Dutch growled, his thrusts beginning to quicken. You shuddered and began pushing back against him with every thrust, feeling yourself become slicker and slicker with each movement. The grass was rough against your back as he pressed you hard into the ground. Dutch adjusted his hips and rolled them, and suddenly with each thrust he was grinding up against your clit. You could feel the familiar coil of arousal in your lower belly.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” Dutch growled, his voice rough and tight. “Come for me now.”

You didn’t think you were that close but suddenly you felt yourself coming hard, gasping in surprise and pulsing on his large cock, covering it in fresh slickness. You shuddered, moaning as the waves crashed hard over you, and pushed yourself hard back against him, relieved but somehow still greedy to be filled. 

“Yes, darlin’, yes,” Dutch groaned, slamming into you so hard it was almost beginning to hurt. “So good.” He gripped your hips, bringing you roughly down onto him, and you could feel bruises starting to form. “Such a good girl, coming all over my cock like that. Such a dirty girl. Such a good—fuck—darlin’—stop—I’m—” And Dutch wrenched himself away, pulling himself out of you, only just clambering to his knees before thick long strands of semen began to spurt out from his cock all over your blouse. Dutch moaned, kneeling over you, slowly milking his long cock, a thick gob of cum landing on your bottom lip. His mouth was open, his eyes closed, the shining midday sun behind his head, illuminating him like a biblical figure. 

“Christ, woman,” Dutch muttered, gripping the base of his cock, opening his eyes slowly to survey you. “You got me feeling like a young man again.”

You laughed, and impulsively dipped your tongue out of your mouth to taste the cum on your lip. It was salty and sweet and slightly bitter. 

Dutch shook his head, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Oh, darlin’. I am going to have so much fun with you.”

.