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The night was eerily quiet. The fog cloyed at Albert Mason's mind, seeming to muffle his vision and his hearing and his thinking all at once. The murky smell of swamp did very little to calm his nerves.
"Saint Denis... Then northeast, for the photo... quick meal, then southwest for a hotel..."
He ran through the plan again, as a comfort more than anything else. A reassurance that he still had some kind of control over his fate from this moment. Distracted by the monologuing of his itinerary, he tripped and stumbled, catching himself with a gasp and looking around in a panic.
He had known, of course, the risk he was taking trying to get that shot of a Roseate Spoonbill in the sunset. He had calculated and packed and re-packed again. Days of planning, actually. But none of his forethought could have prepared him for the sheer thickness of the air. It was completely disorienting, even without his worries of the humidity damaging his camera. Even with how gorgeous the photo turned out... he wasn't all that sure it was worth it.
Soft splashes of feeding fish and the chirping of crickets drolled around him. Such comforting sounds, usually, but in this dark, forsaken swamp, nothing felt quite familiar. He had long since lost his way North and was now stumbling blindly, hoping only for a patch of ground solid enough to camp on.
Another stumble. No surprise there. Another patch of briar scraping into the worn fabric of his pant legs. A false start, once, at a bird call that sounded eerily wolf-like. It nearly sent him running the other direction before his common sense could kick in.
Good heavens, he couldn't even keep his animal habitats straight in this soupy, hot air. Crocodiles, snapping turtles, spiders, and snakes, he reminded himself, but not wolves. Not here. Just the... crocodiles and snakes to worry about. No canines. Focus.
More trudging. Maybe a minute. Maybe an hour. What little light from the moon he could make out through the trees and fog hadn't seemed to have moved at all. He groaned in exhaustion, tripped on one more branch, then-
Thud.
Solid ground. Good lord, solid ground!
Albert whooped, then scrambled to feel out the ground for his campsite. He got promptly to work when he decided there was just enough earth that his hand didn't stick halfway into.
By the dim light of his lantern, he built his tent, lay out a bedroll, and didn't even bother lighting a fire. His biggest concern was laying down and resting. Ideally, even catching enough sleep to get him to civilization in the morning. He peeled off his mud-covered pants, sighing a relief at the loss of the itchy fabric, and let his head hit his meager pillow.
He hadn't even had time to think about how tired he was, truthfully. The moment he laid down, he was out- just like his lantern. When he watched the flame go out, he spared one fleeting thought to wish he had brought more oil, in case he remained lost tomorrow. If I got lost with no lamp I'd be a goner for sure, he thought with a sardonic smile. Then he drifted off.
---
When he woke, it was still dark. Or rather, dark again. But certainly, he couldn't have slept through all that sunlight? He must have failed to sleep through the night, he decided.
He thought about laying back in his bedroll, waiting for the sunrise, but found himself up and in front of the campfire anyways. Restlessness, he supposed.
He mourned the life of a rabbit he'd hunted the day prior before cooking its haunches and treating himself to an under-seasoned breakfast. With a sigh, he covered the fire, packed up his camp, and set back out in search of a road- and from there, civilization.
Nearly an hour of wandering later, he had only one lovely, ethereal shot of a coyote in a sliver of moonlight. No more food, no more clean water. No closer to society. Even a faint trail would be something, now. He just needed out of the mud and the heat and the thick foggy air.
Exhaustion was really starting to creep in again. He couldn't even muster the energy to try re-lighting his lantern, continuing to slodge around in the dark until... well. Until he died, most likely.
He tried not to think about that.
He finally gave in, slumping against a thick tree for another rest. He pulled out his rifle- only brought for self-defense, of course- and laid it over his lap in case something should try to eat him alive before he died of thirst.
He was tired. So tired. There was a burning in his thighs from the effort of kicking his way through knee-high mud, and a burning in his arm from holding his lantern, and still, that suffocating fog threatening to force its way inside his skull.
A dull, thumping sound began to creep towards him, and he thought, fleetingly, Oh, great, here comes the rain. He huffed and pulled his hat further down on his head.
Only the thumping wasn't the sound of heavy rain crashing through overhead leaves. It was the sound of a Kentucky Saddler approaching on the path nearby.
Salvation.
Before Albert Mason had the mind to call out for help, the horse had already come to a slow halt in front of him. He tilted up his hat to see the benevolent rider.
"The hell're you doing here, Mister Mason," a voice growled (sounding decidedly not-benevolent), and it took another few moments of blinking away sweat and grime and refocusing his eyes for Albert to realize who the owner of the deep voice was.
"A- Arthur?" He shot to his feet to shake the cowboy's hand with a wide smile. He was sure, now, that everything would be alright with just a shake of the cowboy's hand. But Arthur didn't return the gesture, which immediately made Albert worry he'd misidentified the stranger.
"This is a dangerous place, Mason. 'specially at night." Arthur hopped off his horse and faced the newly ill-fated photographer. His face- coated quite roguishly in scars and stubble, Albert noted- made him all the more confused and uneasy. It looked mean. Capable of horrible words and horrible deeds, like he knew he was, but not in the same way.
It had never bothered him, knowing- or guessing, at least- at Arthur's many crimes. No matter what he was guilty of, he'd never been anything short of gentlemanly in Albert's company.
So why didn't he shake my hand?
"Well, yes, of course it is- I, er, had thought I'd packed appropriately, but-" Arthur tsked, twice, the way he would to his horse. It shut Albert right up and gave him time to fully survey the sorry state the photographer was in.
Arthur said nothing as he picked him apart beneath the brim of his hat. Albert's mind raced with the many criticisms he could be met with and was preparing self-flagellation in response. Maybe if he called himself a fool enough times, Arthur would take pity once again and take him back into Saint Denis.
"You know what kinds of predators hide out here, Mason?" Arthur took a step forward, and Albert took a step back.
Not exactly the friendly greeting he was accustomed to. Different circumstances, maybe? Albert tried hard to recall if his previous meetings with the outlaw had him feeling this intimidated by the larger man, but he couldn't decide.
"A- alligators," he stammered out, struggling to see even the outline of the man in front of him as he was backed further into the trees. "A-and- and snapping turtles."
Beneath the brim of his hat, Albert could swear he saw a wicked grin on Arthur's lips. One that looked ready to tear him apart.
"Snakes, too," he drawled, his hand drawing back to something in his holster. "And if you're real unlucky, Mason..."
Mason gulped. This was incredibly wrong.
"Just might meet a hungry coyote." Albert saw the glint of a knife in his hand and everything hit him at once.
He's going to kill me.
I'm the prey.
It's time to go.
Albert yelped and scrambled in his hurry to turn and run, dropping his pack to the ground in his rush.
Over the pounding of his heart in his ears, he heard Arthur begin to give chase. His spurred boots made a clinking death rattle getting closer, pounding on earth, and suddenly seeming so much more dangerous than the alligators.
In the foggy night, Albert crashed hard into a tree, slamming his shoulder into a knot in the wood but forcing himself to keep moving. The bruise that would form in the morning couldn't possibly matter tonight when he was being chased like an animal.
He couldn't even think about why this was happening. Why Arthur, who had been so kind, would do this to him, and so brutally. The fierce rush of air to and from his lungs kept him focused on the only direction that mattered: away.
The clink, clink, clink of custom spurs grew louder, and Albert sobbed into the thick air. The plea was met with utter silence from the trees and fauna and insects he'd given so much love to.
In his time of need, they'd abandoned him.
The sound of a swish, the sound of a slam, and searing pain through his nose hit him all in rapid succession.
The lasso, he thought with dread, groaning as blood started to pour from his freshly injured nose. He scrambled along the hard ground, feet still bound, trying desperately to escape. Something had to work if he just struggled hard enough.
"No- A- Arthur, no-" He rolled on his back and put his hands up in protest as he begged for life. "Please, Arthur, don't- don't hurt me-" His voice broke and he felt hot tears pouring down his cheeks. "A- anything you want, please, just-"
Something cold met his throat- thin, and when he gulped, he felt the twinge of a fresh cut. Not enough to even bleed, but enough to force out a resigned moan of dread.
"Quiet, now," Arthur hummed, that hushed and gruff and breathtaking voice making his heart race. He longed so badly to hear it the way he had before, speaking kind words- maybe even flirtatious words, if he wasn't imagining it- and making him weak in the knees the way he always did.
But this was the voice of a different man.
"Y- yessir," he squeaked out, his eyes shut tight in anticipation of whatever was to come next. He couldn't guess what exactly Arthur would do, but he could guess it'd be painful.
Arthur didn't say another word until he'd flipped Albert back over to his stomach. The knife left his neck for only a moment before pressing back with a vengeance. The awkward motion put Albert in quite an uncomfortable position, his hips up in the air with his face pressed into the dirt. It hurt several parts of him, but worst was the anxiety. The why.
Why would Arthur do this?
He almost felt as though he was being studied.
After a few more painful moments of silence, Arthur finally sucked in a breath to speak. Albert prayed- actually prayed to hear a set of words permitting him go free, but instead…
"This is your fault, Mason." Calloused hands started fussing with Albert's waistband and his eyes went wide with terror.
"N- no, no-" He tried weakly to reach back and push Arthur's hands away, but the blade pushed harder against his skin in response. He sobbed as his pants came down, exposing him to the hot air.
This couldn't be- this just couldn't be. There was no way. This couldn't possibly be the same man who fought off wolves, herded horses, waded in the swamp for alligators… All for his silly photos.
"Relax, darlin', I'll make it easy for ya," Arthur drawled, ignoring the shaking and heaving and crying from the man underneath of him. He spit on two fingers and toyed at his entrance for a moment before pushing straight in.
Albert wailed, the pain of his rough skin inside of him being so much more than he could've expected. The pieces of his body shoved into the warm earth were no longer the most uncomfortable parts of him by a long shot. His throat felt raw from the begging and the yelling and that murk, the heavy and relentless summer air of the bayou.
"A- Arthur, I- stop, please..." He felt his body start to react, nerve endings alight with horrible sensation. Adrenaline and panic mixed in his bloodstream as he clawed at the ground, trying desperately to escape. Each swing of his arms made the knife on his throat leave another small incision, making him sob again, but he needed to move. By any means.
Arthur moved his barely-slicked fingers in and out, in and out, sharpening the searing pain of skin on dry skin. He had oil, in fact, to ease the pain of the intrusion, but the whimpers of his prey were too beautiful to numb. He licked his lips in anticipation as Albert pleaded for him to stop.
Albert hated this. He begged for Arthur to show mercy, offered all the money he had, and cried until his eyes burned, but nothing could dissuade the outlaw. "You- you can't- Arthur, stop!" he wailed. Nothing seemed to be enough. All his pleading only seemed to intensify the outlaw's desire, so he did all he could and acquiesced: he shut his mouth and reduced himself to whimpers.
Arthur chuckled a dark little laugh and added another finger. A kind act, in twisted terms- putting extra effort in to lessen the photographer's pain down the line. It was sweet, almost.
"Don't act like you didn't want this, darlin'." He leaned over Albert, whispering in his ear and pinning him between himself and the knife. "I seen how you look at me."
Albert whimpered, his cock half hard despite the tears staining his cheeks. He let out a groan of disgust with himself.
Arthur certainly wasn't wrong. He'd spent many a sleepless night thinking about the kind cowboy who so often saved his life. Sweeping him off his feet, being his hero, and sometimes, yes, taking him. But not like this.
He didn't want this. He couldn't want this.
"I know what you think about, sweetheart. You had to make me come take it from you, didn't you?" His fingers curled harshly, forcing a jolt of pure sensation through Albert's body. In its wake came a shiver, trying desperately to clear the foreign feeling from his nerves, but Arthur just didn't stop.
He whined out arguments and pleas for it all to be over, for him to let him go, but his body belied his true feelings. The adrenaline of fear and the pleasure of the sensation together were driving him out of his head.
He had been so tired.
He couldn't have fought it.
How could he even try?
Arthur removed his fingers, then Albert heard shuffling from behind him. He weighed his disdain against the pull in his groin- or did his best between scrambled thoughts. He was sick to his stomach, still filled with dread from the current reality, but his whole body sparked in anticipation when something much larger than 3 fingers seated itself against his entrance.
"Be good, baby." he warned. "And lemme hear that pretty mouth of yours." Arthur kept silent except for a hushed exhale as he pushed in, savoring the sound of Albert's wail of pain.
"S- sto- stop…!" Albert begged. "Please... I- I don't-"
Arthur rolled his hips, not allowing even a moment more for Albert to prepare. A moan ripped its way from Albert's lungs and he gasped, slapping a hand over his mouth.
Arthur laughed, moving like a flash to take his hand and pin it behind his back. He smiled at the way Albert's face pressed sloppily into the grass, staining the ground with drool and tears and blood from his busted nose.
"Don't what, Mason? Speak up," he teased, jerking his hips forwards a bit more.
Another moan, unstifled this time. "N- No- I- I don't want-" A calloused hand took hold of his hard cock and all he could do was buck into the touch.
"'Don't want?' See, now I just don't believe 'ya." Arthur pulled back in time with a downwards tug, then another thrust in. Albert could barely conceal his sounds of bliss anymore. "Look at you, you pathetic man. Taking me like it's what you were meant for."
“N- nh- noo,” Albert gasped uselessly. He reached back, halfheartedly pushing Arthur away as his mind emptied out. “A- Ar-...” Another bolt of electric pleasure forced quiet through his mind and he let out a shaky, desperate whine through his teeth.
The sheer sensation pushed away anything that wasn't the feeling of his devoted cowboy ruining him. Violating him.
Shivers and bolts of white hot energy made his toes curl as he begged nonsensically. ‘Please.’ ‘No.’ ‘Arthur.’ ‘More.’ He had no idea, from moment to moment, whether he was begging to escape or to be solidly and thoroughly destroyed. North and south, up and down, good and evil- he didn't know what was what anymore. All he knew was that he was desperate.
“So good for me, baby,” Arthur whispered, noting the decay of Albert's protest. It was satisfying, sure, but he'd been too easy to break. He needed a reminder of the danger he was in, so Arthur wrapped a strong hand around his neck and squeezed.
Albert gasped again, pulling at his hand and arm like he wasn’t pushing back against every thrust at this point. He bit into his own lip and fought with all his strength for air.
With Albert silenced, the swamp returned briefly to utter quiet. No crickets, no owls, not one fish breaching past the muddy water's surface. The sound of skin on skin barely permeated the thick air, quietly defiling the stillness left in the wake of Albert's breath.
“Just think what I could do to you,” Arthur teased, keeping his grip tight until Albert started going a bit limp. When he did, he let up, and he breathed in Albert's desperate gulp for air with a smile. “Think anyone would find you? This far away from anybody? Could just leave you right here for the gators to find.”
Albert coughed and clawed at the ground, relieved to be alive but finding not so much as a clump of roots to anchor himself with.
With the fresh burst of oxygen to his brain, his panic redoubled and sent his blood rushing harder through his veins than it had before. He was hyperventilating, he noticed weakly, registering very little beyond the relentless stimulation to his prostate. If he could think, he might have worried about the very possible ending of his life.
“It'd be a shame- all those- hmmh- pictures, that you never got to take-” Albert cried out again and whispered prayers for release. “But then again…”
Albert couldn't even muster surprise when Arthur pulled out, flipped him over, and forced his way back in. He just let his eyes roll back in defeat and hoped he wasn't putting on too much of a show for the outlaw.
“I think you might just look prettier dead, darlin’.” Now, on his back, there was no choking hand and no knife to keep him in line. Albert knew that Arthur knew that it wasn't necessary anymore.
He was broken. Not even a shell, at this point. Just an object made to take cock and put out pretty sounds. He winced in pain and overstimulation, eyes fluttering half-lidded and glazed. The threat- or compliment, perhaps, from Arthur's view- hardly even rang in his ears.
He'd been in so many near-death scenarios, by this point, that preparing himself for the end was a familiar task. He felt grateful now, at least, for the thick air and haze of lust clouding his fear.
Maybe fucked dumb wasn't such a bad way to go.
“G-gonna-” Arthur's hips stuttered, then shoved as he spilled himself. So hard, Albert thought he might burst, but god- it felt so good. If he survived this encounter, he wasn't sure how he'd live without ever getting to have it again.
Arthur nearly collapsed, but caught himself with one arm beside Albert's head. He panted- once, twice- before reaching back, very casually, for his knife.
Albert couldn't take his eyes off the night sky despite what he assumed was the inevitable. He panted, too, smiling at the thought of those being his last experiences. A view of the stars and sex with Arthur Morgan.
Not such a bad lot, he guessed.
With another huff, Arthur shoved the knife between two ribs and began to stand. He pulled his pants up, straightened his hat, and nodded once before walking back to his horse. It was the last thing Albert saw before the world went black.
—
Albert awoke with a gasp to gentle rain on his face, sweat soaking his underclothes, a deep wet spot in an uncomfortable place, and a feeling of dread and excitement low in his stomach. He panted, looking around frantically for that Kentucky Saddler and feeling on his torso for a wound.
It was a dream.
That was all.
A horrible, terrifying, nightmare of a dream.
A disgusting and alluring and vivid nightmare that was sure to haunt him for weeks, he knew right away.
Of course, Albert had his fair share of dirty dreams like the next fellow. He was no stranger to waking up in a bit of a state. But if the way he felt now was anything to go by, this had been… one of his best.
What an upsetting thought.
He ran through the images in his head still left from the nightmare, fighting hard to ignore the rush it sent through him to imagine the way he'd been touched.
He found he nearly lost himself in drooling over the replay, wanting to lean back in his bedroll and finish himself off appropriately, but he couldn't let himself. He didn't know how to look at himself if he allowed it.
He took some quick breaths and steeled himself to stand, suddenly regretting his lack of a fire the night before.
He could really use a coffee.