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When you enter through the flaps of Dutch’s tent, you’re surprised to see he’s not alone.
You thought - well, assumed - that you were being summoned for a specific purpose. One you’ve become intimately familiar with these past few months since joining up with the gang, and haven’t been able to fulfil as much as you might like lately. When Ms. Grimshaw had appeared to fetch you, you’d been so relieved that that the wait was finally over, looking forward to savouring, if not a whole night, perhaps a few illicit moments with your sometimes-lover.
Which is why it’s so confusing that Micah is also here.
Dutch is working on the last dregs of a cigar, his gold and black rings catching the candlelight like sparks when he moves to breathe out spice-rich smoke. You find the scent comforting, almost like incense, different from the stale tobacco that lingers around the rest of camp.
“Come in, come in,” Dutch waves you forward jovially and, helpless to his demands as always, you step into the space, making your way to his side without really thinking about it.
“You asked for me, sir?” You say, letting the confusion you feel slip into your voice. Micah snorts at the honorific, and you ignore him. You haven’t had many interactions with the man - he hasn’t been around camp that much since your arrival - but you’ve seen enough to know he’s unpleasant at the best of times.
He’s also Dutch’s current right-hand man, you remind yourself. Whatever his demeanour, he’s valuable to your cause. At the very least he contributes more to the gang than you do.
“I did,” Dutch agrees. “She didn’t interrupt anything important, I hope?” He stubs his cigar out on a dark glass ashtray, one of the many luxuries that decorate his space from travels across the continent, across the globe. You do love to hear his stories. He hasn’t had time to tell you one in a while.
“No, nothing,” You’re quick to reassure. “Only some mending. I’ll get back to it later.”
“Very good.” Dutch gives you an indulgent smile that makes you feel loose-limbed and warm.
“Now,” Dutch says conversationally, “I was just telling Micah here that he did so well on his last job, he deserves some kind of reward.”
You nod, still a bit off-kilter and unsure why you’re here for this, but you know that sometimes Dutch just wants an audience.
“And, well, there was only one thing that seemed right.” Dutch rests a heavy gold-ringed hand on your shoulder, and you can’t help the way your skin heats through the layers of fabric at his touch.
With a suddenness bordering on violence you want this to be done. You want Micah to leave, want to sink to your knees and show Dutch just how much you’ve missed him. You shift impatiently, and as if he can hear your thoughts, Dutch squeezes the junction of shoulder and neck before releasing you. A subtle, gentle reprimand.
Micah is grinning at you, hungry, and you’re overcome with the sudden suspicion that you’re missing some crucial context.
“So what does he get?” You ask, hoping somebody will fill you in. Micah barks a cruel laugh that dies when Dutch fixes him with a sharp look. He turns you to face him, brushing a strand of dark hair from your cheek, and you nuzzle into his palm on instinct.
Micah whistles, low. “You sure do have her well trained.”
“Quiet, or this won’t happen at all,” Dutch says firmly, but his eyes stay fixed on you, dark and assessing.
You can’t quite hear either of them, the world muffled now under the low ringing in your ears, the familiar weight of Dutch’s big hand curving around your cheekbone. Just a little lower and he’d be holding your neck, able to squeeze, to make the whole world go beautifully, blissfully quiet.
“There’s my good girl,” Dutch praises, stroking the side of your face like he would a spooked animal, and you make a desperate sort of noise in the back of your throat. Micah doesn’t exist anymore, there’s only you, and Dutch, and the heat pooling low and syrupy between your thighs. You sway a little, weak-kneed, but Dutch holds you by the chin, thumb just barely brushing against your lower lip. You know better than to dart out your tongue, no matter how badly you want to taste, to feel calloused ridges press against spongey flesh.
You watch Dutch with wide eyes and a rabbiting heart, waiting for him to tell you what he wants, what you’ll gladly do, what you’ll beg him for.
“See, I was hoping you’d be willing to help me out,” Dutch suggests seriously, the slightest half-smile quirking his lips at your eager expression. “I’d like to make sure Micah knows how much we appreciate his hard work, but the camp’s still making back our losses. We’ve got to save every cent we can scrape up, you understand.”
You nod slowly, waiting for him to explain what he’s getting at.
“Then I thought to myself,” Dutch continues, “What do I own that’s precious? What of mine can I lend to show my appreciation?” He squeezes your chin meaningfully. For a second you think he’s asking for your help coming up with a solution, before your eyes widen in sudden understanding. Surely he can’t be suggesting- with Micah-
But that seems to be exactly what’s happening, as you hear the clink of a heavy belt buckle being loosened behind you.
You stare helplessly at Dutch, not wanting to let him down but unable to process what he clearly expects from you. Dutch holds a hand up towards where she assumes Micah still stands, and the noises stop.
“It’s entirely up to you, of course,” he says, holding your gaze steadily, searching for your reaction.
You can’t bear the thought of it, letting him down, having him turn you away and send you back to your own cold tent. Your skin sings with the need to make Dutch look at you with such indulgent adoration once again, to lift the weary shroud from his shoulders for just a moment.
This is one of the burdens he bears alone, you realize - ensuring the men in camp fall in line, feel as if their work is worthwhile. What he’s asking you to do is not debase yourself, but assist him in that task, be a tool that he can wield to shape their future.
He needs you, and you won’t disappoint him.
Dutch must see the resolution enter your eyes, because he gives you a smile so proud it makes you tremble.
“That’s my girl,” Dutch chuckles, and rewards you with a slow swipe of his thumb across your lips before turning you gently around to face Micah. He’s smirking, hands resting on his half-undone belt, and he surveys you slowly, eyes half lidded. Your blood heats with embarrassed indignation at the appraisal, feeling distinctly as if you’re a prize pony up for auction.
Micah unnerves you in a way that’s difficult to explain, despite not having any direct interactions with the man. It’s not that he’s bad looking, at least not like some other outlaws you’ve met. He’s not exactly handsome, either, but a certain amount of wildness isn’t unappealing. It’s just that sometimes, in the right light, he looks feral, half-animal. Not in his untamed hair and scarred face, but the way he holds himself, volatile intensity coiled in every muscle. Even now he looks at you coyote-hungry, and you find your eyes flickering nervously to the side, knowing better than to hold the gaze of a predator too long.
The pallet creaks as Dutch steps away, leaving you suddenly cold. For a moment you panic, thinking he might leave, but when you look for him he’s settling in his brocade reading chair. He raises his eyebrows at you, as if to say: “well?”
You take a steadying breath. You’re no blushing virgin, this shouldn’t be complicated. Unless Micah has any abnormal appetites - and god, you hope he doesn’t - you doubt this will take very long at all. Your fingers find the top buttons of your blouse, and you’re proud of the way they don’t shake as you deftly undo your first layer from collar to belly.
“Christ, woman, are you planning on taking all night?” Micah scoffs, and your face heats as you fumble with the finicky ties of your chemise, trying to go faster. You half expect him to storm over and start stripping you himself, but he just leans back against one of the tent poles, watching with shadowed eyes.
The air is cool on your skin as you reveal yourself piece by piece. Not uncomfortably so, warmed just enough by the portable wood-burning stove, but you still shiver when you finally stand bare, goosebumps rising on your arms. You keep them down at your sides, fighting the instinct to cover yourself from his gaze. Micah paces a slow circle around you.
“Pretty thing, isn’t she.” He comments, and although the words are nice enough it still sounds vaguely mocking.
His hands are on you before you have a chance to startle, pushing and maneuvering you towards the cot. Before your brain can catch up you’ve already gone pliant, obedient, used to a certain amount of manhandling in this context. To your mixed relief and shame, your body is also responding to the touch, the semi-familiar feel of gun-calloused hands rough on your bare skin.
Micah doesn’t waste any time, shoving you down face-first onto the camp’s only real mattress. From behind you there’s the sound of leather sliding through belt loops, the rustle of buttons and clasps being undone. Your heart pounds anxiously. You want things to get moving, sure, but you’re not nearly worked up enough yet. You tense, a little panicked, when you feel blunt pressure against your entrance.
“She’s not some half-dollar whore,” Dutch speaks up, sounding annoyed. “Warm her up a bit first.”
Micah snorts. “Thought this was meant to be a reward, not more work,” he grumbles, loud enough for only you to hear. But he does as he’s told and spits onto his fingers before reaching underneath you.
You jolt at the sudden contact on the hood of your clit, not expecting him to get straight to business - though maybe you should have. Micah rubs tight, deliberate circles like someone who’s very much trying to speed things along. Though it’s far too much speed and pressure for a first touch, and the overstimulation of it is just on this side of painful, you can feel yourself begin to grow slick against Micah’s flexing wrist. He grunts, as if surprised it worked as fast as it did.
Your face heats. You chance a glance at Dutch, who seems entirely at ease surveying the two of you. More akin to the director of a show than a lecherous voyeur, he lounges with one hand propping up his chin, idly smoothing the edge of his moustache the way he only does when entirely focused on a subject.
Wanting to put on a better performance for him, you bow your back more, pushing your ass up and your chest down. You stretch your arms out ahead of you, crossing your wrists as if they were tied, which Dutch likes to do sometimes. His mouth quirks up beneath his moustache, eyes glittering, and your whole body heats, that one look doing more for you than all Micah’s ministrations.
It’s a good thing, too, since Micah chooses that distracted moment to begin working his cock into you.
Your loose hands turn to tense claws, panting as Micah pushes into you without remorse. Tears spring to your eyes at the sting of being steadily stretched after days of nothing but your own fingers. It feels like it goes on forever. Each time you think that must be it, he must be fully inside you, he works in another inch. You can hear him above you, his heavy breathing, the occasional muttered curse, the tickle of his long hair brushing against your back.
It feels wrong to have another man on top of you. Especially with the whispers you’ve heard around camp about Micah, the rumours about his violence, his unpredictability, his brutality. Your pulse quickens, your breath comes faster, you fight off the panic of knowing you’re entirely at the mercy of a man with a history even other outlaws hesitate to discuss out in the open.
Except that it’s okay, because each time you open your eyes Dutch is there, watching, looking out for you, and you want to do this well for him, to be the perfect reward for his loyal lapdog, to prove he made the right choice in trusting you with this.
Fear and desire, pain and pleasure mix into a heady cocktail. You clench down on Micah, earning a surprised groan, and then - in an impulsive move you’ll likely regret as soon as you have to walk again - sheathe him the rest of the way with a few determined rolls of your hips. It hurts, but the hurt is good, it matches the empty ache you’ve lived with this past week and mingles with it, dissolves through your core and into your stomach, your lungs, your skin.
“Fuck,” Micah grabs you by the hair and pulls painfully, like he does when reining in his stallion. You whimper. “Where on earth did you find this girl, Dutch? Oughta go pick up one of my own there.” He chuckles meanly and gives a harsh rock of his hips, forcing a punched-out gasp from your throat.
“I promise you, she’s one of a kind,” Dutch comments, voice hard. “Take care with my belongings, Micah. I expect her back in perfect condition.”
Micah huffs, releasing his hold slightly but keeping his hand buried in your hair, using it to hold you in place. He pulls nearly all the way out before pushing into you again, slow, as if to prove a point - but with a mean snap at the end that has you gasping and clawing at the sheets.
You’re both embarrassed and grateful for the wetness that drips down the back of your thighs. You hate that Micah might think you’re enjoying what he’s doing, how cruelly he’s treating you, but you are enjoying it, because it’ll mean being good for Dutch if you’re good for him, and it’s all getting mixed up and blurry in your mind.
When Micah begins a steady rhythm in earnest, fucking you hard with a hand still fisted in your hair and little consideration for your pleasure, you’re halfway gone into a haze of sensation and purpose. You sink into it, the familiar blissful quiet of this space where you don’t have to be anything other than used.
The problem is that Micah doesn’t know how to shut up.
“Yeah, Dutch’s got it real good with you,” he pants, fingers of the hand not in your hair gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. “Practically dripping for a few sweet words. Or maybe you’re just the kind of slut who gets off on this, huh? You wanna be fucked like a bitch in heat?” He brings his hand down hard on the back of your thigh, the harsh slap echoing in the tent along with your answering moan. “You wanna be bred like one?”
Dutch makes a low warning noise from across the tent, but your hair has long since fallen into your face, obscuring your view of his expression. Whatever it is, Micah changes tack.
“You’d take any man in camp if Dutch asked you to, I bet. You’d be a good little hole for all his followers.” Your core pulses at this, and Micah laughs, picking up his pace in response. “Oh, that got you hot, huh. You think about taking the others like this? Or maybe if we tied you up like that O’Driscoll fucker-“ He slams into you hard, pushing you forward harshly, and you cry out as your sensitive skin drags against the sheets. He releases your hair, instead grabbing your hips with both hands and beginning to pull you back onto him with each harsh thrust.
“Fuck - like that fucker, tied to his tree, all the men in camp taking turns with your mouth,” Micah’s panted words paint a vivid picture and you can’t help but imagine it. Bound beside the scout campfire, kneeling, your back against rough bark, arms and legs immobilized by rope that scrapes against your skin when you shift.
You imagine, shamefully, Arthur with his forearm pressed to the trunk, brow furrowed in pleasure as you take him deep into your throat, relaxing your muscles so he can rut into you however he likes, chasing his own pleasure. Arthur’s face morphs, darkens several shades, and it’s Charles with a hand in your hair, pushing into your mouth slowly, attentive dark eyes taking in every detail. He transforms into Bill, flushed and sweaty, nearly choking you when he comes by grinding into your face, making sure you swallow every drop. Then John, Javier, Sean - all the others. Only one constant: Dutch, watching from outside his tent, pleased with your contribution to the gang.
You’re startled back to reality when you’re suddenly left empty, then violently flipped onto your back, breath knocked out of you for a brief moment. You stare up at the man you’d forgotten, his face ruddy and leering behind a curtain of lank blonde hair.
“Got real excited about that one, didn’t you,” Micah gloats, entering you again with one swift stroke. You distantly realizes how soaked you are, how close to the edge you’ve gotten.
“Look at me,” Micah snarls, setting a pace so violent the cot shakes beneath them. “I’m the one fucking you now, bitch. Forget that again and I’ll make sure you remember.”
It’s all you can do to hang on. He’s hitting you at a different angle now, one that knocks against the spot that makes your vision go white. You make helpless, choked noises, hips canting upwards to meet his movements, eyes twisting shut as you chase that feeling-
A sharp, stinging pain against your cheek, and your eyes fly open in shock. Micah slapped you, hard - not as hard as he could have, you know that, but you also know Dutch might intervene, Micah’s been pushing it and this might be too much, he did say not to damage you - but the fact is that the second the shock fades you moan, long and low, back bowing up off the bed, chasing that fleeting knife edge of pleasure-pain.
For the first time, Micah looks caught off guard, and it would be almost funny if you weren’t so far gone. His movement stutters, and then he’s driving deeper into you, practically pushing your breath out with each relentless thrust, and you’re climbing higher and higher even as Micah’s breathing goes ragged and arrhythmic, his hand clenching hard in the blanket next to your head, and you wish he would just put it on your throat instead, that would get you there, you’re so close-
“Micah!” Dutch snaps, and Micah pulls out with what seems like herculean effort, leaving you suddenly empty and clenching down on nothing. He barely has time to take himself in hand before spilling onto your stomach with an almost agonized groan.
You pant, still on the live-wire edge of chasing your own release. You whine piteously, achingly unfulfilled, as Micah collapses onto the cot beside you.
“Come here,” Dutch’s tone is annoyed again, and you whimper at it, but obediently shove yourself up on jelly legs and stumble over to the chair he lounges in. He catches you easily and arranges you on his lap, straddled over his spread thighs, keeping you open.
You’re still only half-aware, your mind fucked-out and cloudy, but you’re sure you must have done something wrong or Dutch wouldn’t sound like that.
“Shh,” Dutch shushes you, his deep voice softening. “I’m not angry with you, my dear. Let’s get you cleaned up, now.”
He wipes a dampened handkerchief across your stomach with a momentarily pinched expression, but now that you know it’s not directed at you or anything you did, you relax into him. You lean forward in his embrace, forehead resting against his shoulder. Dutch huffs a laugh, throwing the now-soiled rag into the corner of the tent.
“Tired?“ He asks with fond amusement, and you nod against him. Your skin is still buzzing, your core throbbing in time with your pulse, but you’ve done what he asked, you’ve pleased him, and that’s a deeper kind of satisfaction. One that’ll warm you from the inside for days, enough to tide you through till you can stoke that fire again.
Dutch’s hands find your thighs, kneading the soft skin there for a moment before one slips lower, cups you where you’re still soaked, and even just that exploratory touch has you bucking up into his hand with a helpless moan. “Too tired for a reward?”
You shake your head into his neck, fingers clawing at the seam of his vest as you try to keep still. Despite your best efforts, you can’t seem to stop the rolling motion of your hips as you grind yourself against his palm.
“What’s that?” Dutch withdraws his hand, and you practically cry at the loss. You thought he wasn’t mad, he’d said he wasn’t, but this is feeling more and more like a punishment by the second.
Seeing your struggle, Dutch takes pity. “You know what I want to hear, dear girl,” he reminds you gently, stroking your cheek with fingers damp from where he touched you. You can smell yourself on him, salt and sharp musk, and you want those fingers in your mouth, against your tongue.
But that’s not what he asked. You pull your unruly mind back from its wanderings, trying to think, trying to form words around the fog that’s overtaken you.
“Please,” you manage, all you can think of to say, maybe the only word you still know, and hopes it’ll be enough.
“There we go.” Dutch’s voice is so warm, so proud of you, and when he touches you again you nearly weep. He doesn’t waste any time, pushing two fingers into you without warning and beginning to work them in and out, so much slower than you need. His thick rings, still cool from the air but beginning to warm with the heat of your body, catch deliciously on your entrance with each push inwards.
You pant into Dutch’s shirt, dampening the fine fabric with your harsh breath. You chase your earlier high with sharp circles of your hips, but he doesn’t speed up, shushing you once again. He threads his off hand through your hair, pulling your head back to bare your neck as he continues fucking you on his fingers.
“Patience,” he chides.
He crooks his fingers inside you, and you makes an almost wounded noise, the breath punched from your lungs on a sudden rush of white-hot sensation, something deep in your belly coiling and reaching long lightning tendrils out to your limbs. With your head now forced back, unable to hide your face, every sound you make rings out obscenely into the open air as Dutch repeats the motion - again and again and again. Your pleasure stretches out taut as a guitar string, quivering, perfectly tuned by the deft fingers of your player.
Your face is wet, but you can’t remember when you started crying.
“Please,” you gasp, and it comes out ragged and sobbing, “Please, please, sir, Dutch, please, god-“
“Come for me then, my sweet girl,” his voice is rougher than usual, and if you were at all coherent you’d take pride in the fact he’s not unaffected by seeing you in this state. As it is, he barely finishes speaking before you’re keening so loud the whole camp must hear it as the coil in your belly tightens to breaking and finally bursts. A cascade that drenches Dutch’s hand and wrist spills from you like a flood as you rock his fingers deeper inside you, desperate for more even as you ride it out with shaking thighs, the noises you’re making more animal than human. He fucks you through it, drawing it out, wringing out every last drop you have to give.
It feels like it takes ages of aftershocks for you to begin regaining awareness, and when you do, you find yourself slumped in Dutch’s arms as he cards gentle fingers through your tangled and sweaty hair.
You want to look behind you, see if Micah is still there, but you can’t seem to find the will to move. Luckily when you shift a little, readjusting your sore body in his lap, Dutch reads your mind how he always does.
“Micah is gone,” he reassures, stroking damp hair from your brow. “You did very well, my girl. Very well.” He pauses, the smallest of twitches at the corner of his mouth. “I will say, you surprised me a few times in there. All the men? Really?”
“Not- it wasn’t-“ You rush to explain yourself, face hot, stumbling over your words as your mind still paddles its way back to shore. “It was- what he said. Only for you, Dutch.” You pray he believes you, couldn’t stand it if he didn’t.
To your relief, he laughs.
“Well,” he says, still chuckling, and there’s a gleam in his dark eyes, some plan taking shape, “I do believe you’ve given me something to think on.”
You nod, not quite following, but you’re too tired to try and guess at what he might mean. Instead you allow yourself to sink into his hold, close your eyes, and drift.
Whatever Dutch’s schemes, whatever he asks of you, you’ll do.
Gladly.