#ARTHUR: coffee and pistols for two

[gxldensxldiers]

ROMANTIC GESTURES

bold what applies to your muse. italicize if there's potential / it depends. cross if never applies.

holding hands · buying flowers · cooking · cuddles · writing a poem / song · holding door open · tying shoe laces · sharing a milkshake with two straws · offering their jacket when it's cold · kissing in the rain · publicly confessing love · long walks at the beach · doing the titanic pose on a boat · taking cute pictures in a photo booth · sharing a taxi / uber · kissing the back of their hand · slow dancing · getting tickets of their favorite artist / sports team /other · introducing them to their parents · lighting candles · flower petals on bed · love letters ·star gazing · brushing / doing their hair · picnics · teaching them to play an instrument / sport while gently guiding their hands · compliments · late night drives · taking selfies together · drawing them · self-made gifts · massages · proposing with a family heirloom ring · lending them their favorite book to read · paying for dinner / coffee · mixtapes / playlists · surprise birthday parties · feeding them · handing them keys to their apartment · making space in drawer for their clothes when they stay over · sharing a blanket · couple costumes · tucking a hair strand behind their ear · running after them at the airport / keeping them from leaving · moving cities to be together · blowing a kiss · breakfast in bed · defending them in a fight (verbally / physically) · joint bubblebaths · dropping the L-bomb ("I love you") ·dedicating a song at the karaoke bar to them · wearing their clothes ·yawning before putting an arm around them while watching a movie · granting them the last bite (from meal)

[line-of-fire]

Arthur headcanons! Because I told y'all they were coming

He's originally from southern Idaho, about an hour outside of Boise. Grew up on a small farm w/ livestock (horses included) as the second oldest of seven.

Welsh on his mothers side! His grandmother was from Cardiff, likely met his maternal grandfather in the 40s when he was stationed in the UK during ww2.

Full name is Jason Arthur West. you can actually catch his sister Allison as Stetson in the 291 verse

Spent 6 years in the Army as a canine handler before he got a nasty throat injury during combat and was medically discharged due to vocal cord paralysis

While he's still able to speak, it's heavily restricted. Speaking for too long is physically painful, and he can't get any louder than a 'stage whisper' and tone wise nothing higher than a mid-tenor, if that makes much sense. Guy absolutely sounds like a smoker at this point because of the aforementioned vocal cord damage.

Borrowing from/building off of @detnu-a-h's headcanon abt Atom having a rivalry w/ Arthur for this last bit.

This man could not fucking care less. At the most he sees it as a good ol fashioned competition if anything else, bit of good natured ribbing between teammates. He may not be the most social guy outside of his 'usual circles', but this is entertaining to him almost if we're being completely honest.

[mister-eames]

That image of jgl in 500 days of summer in the dressing gown??? that's arthur, having just returned home from a long job, jet lagged and completely in need of coffee

Eames is desperate.

He knows Arthur won't appreciate him showing up at his actual place of residence. They have a thing, alright, and they do this thing in hotel rooms, motel rooms, safehouses and once, memorably, in a one-man tent, but it's an unspoken rule that they do not attempt to cross the threshold, the boundary, the personal demarcation of entering into ones actual home and into their personal space.

Needs must, however. Eames has six angry Russians with his name in their black book and he's only just managed to lose the tail. He needs to drop off the radar. If there is anywhere in the world more off the radar other than the mariana trench, it's here. Arthur's home.

Picking the lock, Eames does momentarily worry that he may burst into flame upon entering, or that arrows may shoot down the hallway out of the photo frames lining the walls, or perhaps a high security laser system may send him fleeing. No such things happen, to his relief.

He tiptoes into the kitchen, where he appears he isn't completely out of danger.

In one hand Arthur has a pistol raised and aimed squarely at Eames chest. In the other is a mug of what smells like coffee.

"What are you doing here?" Arthur asks evenly.

Eames stares. This man is not Arthur. It can't be.

Arthur lifts his coffee to his mouth, drinking a large mouthful at the same he takes the safety off with a definitive click.

"...You're wearing a dressing gown," Eames replies, dazedly.

It must be the culmination of exhaustion, somnacin and dehydration and being on the run these last two day. He blinks once, twice, but the mirage is still there.

Arthur is still in a dressing gown. He is still in slippers, hair a mess. He has stubble. He looks... cozy.

"Are you sick?" Eames asks.

"No -?" Arthur lowers the gun, looking at himself with a frown. "I just got off a job," he says, as if that explains anything, "and I said what are you doing here?"

"Need a place to lie low," Eames says, entranced by the way the gown is loosely held together with a grey, fraying belt, feeling the inexplicable urge to tug on it. To grip the soft lapels and tug those too. He swallows. "And a glass of water, please."

Arthur looks at him for a long moment. With a sigh, he clicks the safety back on and shoves the gun into his belt. He gestures to a kitchen stool. "Sit down before you fall down, idiot."

Eames sits down and gets his glass of water. The dressing gown, miraculously, doesn't disappear after he drinks it. Arthur cooks him up a plate of scrambled egg while Eames world-view is rapidly rearranging itself, and chews Eames out for compromising his home. Potentially, Eames reminds him. And then Eames draws him in for a kiss - mostly to stop his grumbling, but also because Eames may have missed his sweet, scowly face. Just a little. And he doesn't know how to ask for more salt without offending Arthur.

Arthur stops grumbling. Mostly. Then they do that thing in Arthur's kitchen. And on his sofa. And then in his bed.

Arthur keeps wearing the dressing gown. Like a fly caught in the web of a playful spider, he keeps Eames around too. Eames isn't sure which is more bewildering.

They do get good use out of the soft belt, in any case. It makes for a great blindfold.

----

One year later

----

Ariadne is desperate.

She knows Arthur won't appreciate her showing up at what she suspects to be his actual place of residence, but he had given her these coordinates under the condition that they were to be used in the, quote, 'most dire, most urgent, life-or-death emergencies'.

This was definitely that.

She isn't proud of the way that her fingers trembled while she picked the front door locks, the way Eames taught her. But needs must. Needs must.

She enters, worried that she's about to enter a veritable torture lair. Like maybe there will be shackles and chains and weapons everywhere and Arthur will be awoken from some kind of hibernation. Like a vampire bat. It is daylight, after all.

What she finds, as she passes through the hallway and enters the living space, indeed has her blood running cold.

There was a collection of well-worn Goosebumps books on the coffee table. There is direct sunlight and soft fabrics and pictures of what she presumes is Arthurs family - his friends. It could only be a home. That wasn't the most horrifying part.

No, what perturbs her the most was the unexpected, disgusting display on domesticity in front of her.

Eames and Arthur are sat at their dining table over plates of still-steaming bacon and eggs. Eames is reading a newspaper, in his pyjamas, three days worth of scruff along his lower face. They wordlessly pass salt and pepper and don't even seem to notice she's there until her sneakers squeak on the hardwood.

And Arthur, he --

"What are you doing here?" Arthur asks evenly, finally looking up.

He points his fork at her, which she finds vaguely threatening. She has seen what Arthur can do with a plastic spoon. A stainless steel utensil for Arthur is practically a bazooka.

"You're wearing a dressing gown," she says, dazed.

Eames lowers his newspaper then, smiling at Arthur and then at her. "Leave him alone, dove. He just got off a job." He nudges a mug towards Arthur who takes a sullen mouthful. "To what do we owe the honour?"

We?

Bewildered, She watches Eames watching Arthur, who is watching them both, struck by the out-of-placeness of it all. This placed looks lived in. They both look comfortable and scruffy. They are wearing each others mismatched socks. The TV in the living room is playing CNN, for christ sake. This is a goddamn residence. They live together.

"I didn't realise you two were -- uh --"

Arthur sets his mug down. "Is this an emergency or what? Eames, can you.. -"

He trails off but Eames seems to know what he means, rising from his chair to plate Ariadne a serving of bacon and eggs.

"It's an emergency," Ariadne confirms, taking a seat and digging in. God. The eggs need so much salt. "I need your help."

"Go on."

She takes a deep breath. "Yusuf asked me out."

"Oh dear," says Eames solemnly.

[daneneedssleep]

So quick note before you read, I had a lovely person message me about my Arthur Morgan idea so here’s part one!

HighHonor!Arthur Morgan x LowHonorM! Reader Pt.1||

This is really long because I wanted it to build up so enjoy.

When Dutch asked Arthur to pick up one of his buddies to join the gang he didn’t think anything of it. New additions sure, but he didn’t want no trouble. Matter of fact, he never did.

You were looking for an easy loot in strawberry when you heard a gruff voice call your name.

“Hey! You uhh- (Y/N)?” He asked.

“Depends. Why you wanna know?”

“Listen I don’t want no trouble, I just came for a (Y/N) (L/N). My friend Dutch wants to speak to him.”

You hummed.

“Well then, I guess you got yer guy. Me and Dutch are acquaintances. What exactly does he need me for?”

“Dutch wants you to join our community, he-“

“THERE HE IS! THAT'S THE GUY THAT LOOTED MY HORSES CARGO”

Goddamnit. Always at the worst time too.

“Oh fuck! Can we talk about this on our way there??” You ask while sprinting to your horse’s side, hopping onto the saddle.

Before he could answer, you let your horse bolt away while yelling back at him- “Lead the way!”

~Time skip~

“I think we lost em.”

“Good I don’t like shootin’ les I have to.”

“Hm. Whatever you say goody two shoes.”

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean??”

“You don’t like shootin’ folks but yer in a gang…. Yer one of them high honor fuckers aren’t you?” You ready yourself to snatch the pistol out of your holster but Arthur immediately puts his hands up in surrender.

“I already told ya once, I don’t want no trouble. Lemme just take ya to Dutch and you’ll see there ain’t no ill intent.”

“Fine but if you do so much as speak wrong I’ll fuckin’ shoot you with no hesitation”

“I won’t say nuthin’. Let’s go we ain’t far”

~Time Skip~

When Dutch introduced you to everyone, most of them seemed to be ok with you so you decided to stay. When you chose to have dinner, Arthur sat down next to you.

“What do you want?” You asked gruffly.

“I wanted to know if you’d go hunting with me tomorrow. The camp needs some extra food and not everyone is uhh- exactly fond of you yet. It would help them trust you.”

“Wow Dutch actually planned on keepin me? Yeah I guess I’ll go with ya then.”

~Time Skip~

You woke up at about 9:30, it definitely wasn’t the most comfortable sleep but it was better than sleeping away next to waterfalls to hide from bounty hunters. You got up and walked around camp to try and get used to your surroundings. You hear footsteps behind you and you turn to see Arthur with two cups of coffee in his hand.

He asks in a voice more gruffy than usual. “good mornin’ how’d ya sleep?” You took note that he probably just got up.

“Better than a lot of nights actually but I’m still getting used to this.”

“Well we’ll head off at about 10:15 so drink this and then get ready” Arthur said. He handed you your coffee and headed for his tent.

While getting ready to go hunting he couldn’t help but think about you. He felt as if he should impress you and he didn’t know why. Maybe later he’ll take you to the saloon to get a drink.

As Arthur was slipping his boots on he heard heavy footsteps walking up to his tent when he looked up it was you. He looked back down quickly to put his boot on all the way. He could feel his face flush. Looking up at you it was- he was excited. He liked the way you looked at him. The way you looked down at him.

“You ready or what?” You asked, knocking Arthur out of his thoughts.

“Huh?”

“Damn you look lost. ‘I said are you ready’ but you’ve been staring at yer fuckin boots for a good minute and a half.”

“Sorry. Yeah I’m ready. Let’s go.”

You both prepare what you need and hop on your horses. You bring a bow with around 15 arrows, a pistol, and a small hunting rifle. Arthur takes you to an area behind Horseshoe Overlooks campsite and gets off his horse.

“We should continue on foot. The horses make quite a bit of noise.”

“Alright, let’s go then.”

Arthur turns around to get his gear off his horse for only about 30 seconds and by the time he turns back around you’re already gone in plain sight. Fuck. “(Y/N) for fucks sake where are you” Arthur tries to loudly whisper.

“I’m right here dumbass”

For someone so tall and broad you were particularly good at hiding.

“Damnit you scared me”

“Pay attention then jackass”

Wow you’re fucking mean.

“I didn’t even take my eye off you for a full minute and you disappeared!”

“Will you just get down! I already spotted two whitetail bucks but we need to hit them in a vital spot at the same time.”

“Fine.”

Arthur crouches in the tall grass next to you. He can hear your breathing but it’s so slow. He looks at your face and all he can see is concentration. Holy shit you’re handsome.

“Alright, you ready?” You face Arthur and you’re a little surprised to see him already staring at you. You watch him look away quickly as he replies with a quiet “yes”.

“Ok you call and I’ll count. As soon as you get a good shot, tell me and I’ll count us down. Got it?”

“Gotcha”

Arthur whistles and the bucks raise their heads.

“Alright I got a good shot you?”

“Yeah. Ready- 3…2… 1!”

~Time skip~

Heading back to camp with a buck stowed on each horse felt like a big achievement to Arthur. You didn’t seem to care as much as he did but you were happy to be able to have some food.

As you both set the bucks down to Pierson you heard Arthur clear his throat. You turned and before you could ask what he wanted he was already asking if you wanted to go to the saloon with him.

You quickly asked “Is it the Valentine saloon?”

“Yeah why”

“I have a bounty of $5 in Valentine” You said, cringing at your own words.

“Oh- well I’ll give you the money and we can go by the post office first”

“Well then let’s get going”

What the hell. Why is he doing this for you?

~another time skip~

And thats part one guys. I’ll either be posting part two soon so please please stay patient for that! Hope you enjoyed, and the real stuff comes tomorrow >:)

[fotograrte]

Spanish Painters of the 19th century: José Villegas Cordero.

Ladies in a Garden.

The Slipper Merchant.

Siesta.

ARC considers this painting by Jose Villegas Y Cordero to be one of the finest orientalist paintings we've ever seen and it readily rivals some of the most famous works by Jean Leon Gerome, Karl Frederick Lewis, Frederick Arthur Bridgman, Rudolph Ernst or Ludwig Deutch. "In this tour de force of sumptuous indolence, a warrior rests in a mafraj (lounge) in a corner of the Alhambra Palace, serenaded by a beautiful young mandolin player. He is surrounded by all the accoutrements he could desire, smoking a pipe, a coffee pot by his side, and an incense burner by his feet releasing scent into the languid air. Resting on the headboard behind him is his flintlock pistol, and in his hilt rests his kindjal dagger in its bejewelled case. Above, an explosion of pampas grass flowers create a sheltering canopy over the two figures.

A good plan.

More paintings from the same painter here.

Also on this series:

José Jiménez Aranda.

Ventura Álvarez Sala.

[governmentofficial]

@brassandblue continued from [x]

The assassin’s first mistake was going after Mycroft at close range.

Their second mistake was believing a hypodermic tranquilizer to the neck was enough to incapacitate something like Arthur James William Kirkland.

(It was not.)

Arthur could feel the hot chemical wave creeping through his veins as the tingling sensation spread out from his neck. It didn’t matter—a normal dosage for the average person would metabolize far too quickly in his system, and centuries of addiction to a variety of soporific substances had taught him how to fight that sweet, dreamy, poisonous feeling if it came in small amounts.

Arthur had been relaxing in Mycroft’s sitting room, enjoying a bit of nighttime peace and quiet and a good glass of wine. Such bliss had come to an abrupt end the moment he’d felt a prick in his neck however, and his instincts kicked on and he’d seized his assailant by the shoulders, then hurled them end over end onto a side table with a terrible crash.

The assassin, masked and in black, rolled to the side off the glass and shards of wood and broken lamp, jumped to her feet. Arthur jumped for her, but she was quick—a pistol with a silencer told him all he needed to know, but before she could fire on him, Arthur disarmed her, turned the pistol on her, and without hesitation double tapped two rounds between her eyes.

“Messy,” was his critique as her body fell, and he himself sunk into the nearest chair and placed the pistol carefully on the coffee table.

A hand strayed to his neck and he closed his eyes, knowing he would be in for a troubling few days as the familiar old urges began to cloud his mind.

Mycroft had been in bed. This wasn’t particularly normal for him - his typical preference was the stay up late and work - but he had been exhausted. Because of this, he hadn’t noticed anything unusual within the house.

Not quite asleep, he’d been half dozing in the dark when the peace of the night was suddenly disturbed by a loud crashing sound. Old habits died hard, especially old spy habits, and so Mycroft was up in a flash. He made it downstairs just in time to see Arthur fire the gun.

Mycroft wasn’t shocked. He had seen death before and undoubtedly would see it again. In fact, after the initial moment it took to register the fact that there was now a dead body on his floor, what distressed Mycroft the most was the fact that his rather nice table was now ruined. 

His thoughts then moved onto the situation at hand. Who was this person? An assassin, obviously, but sent by whom? And how had she got in? Mycroft could call somebody to clear up the mess, of course, but the whole process was going to be so very tedious. There would be questions and paperwork, and he certainly wasn’t going to get a good night’s sleep now.

First, though, there was something more important to deal with. Arthur was not new to this kind of thing, Mycroft knew that, but he looked a little off. That wouldn’t do at all.

“Are you quite alright?” Mycroft asked, knowing full well that the answer was not yes. He didn’t thank Arthur for his actions - he hoped that his gratefulness was obvious enough. While he did approach the other man’s seat, Mycroft did not make any move to touch him, unsure of whether or not it would be appreciated. 

[brassandblue]

☠

The assassin’s first mistake was going after Mycroft at close range.

Their second mistake was believing a hypodermic tranquilizer to the neck was enough to incapacitate something like Arthur James William Kirkland.

(It was not.)

Arthur could feel the hot chemical wave creeping through his veins as the tingling sensation spread out from his neck. It didn’t matter—a normal dosage for the average person would metabolize far too quickly in his system, and centuries of addiction to a variety of soporific substances had taught him how to fight that sweet, dreamy, poisonous feeling if it came in small amounts.

Arthur had been relaxing in Mycroft’s sitting room, enjoying a bit of nighttime peace and quiet and a good glass of wine. Such bliss had come to an abrupt end the moment he’d felt a prick in his neck however, and his instincts kicked on and he’d seized his assailant by the shoulders, then hurled them end over end onto a side table with a terrible crash.

The assassin, masked and in black, rolled to the side off the glass and shards of wood and broken lamp, jumped to her feet. Arthur jumped for her, but she was quick—a pistol with a silencer told him all he needed to know, but before she could fire on him, Arthur disarmed her, turned the pistol on her, and without hesitation double tapped two rounds between her eyes.

“Messy,” was his critique as her body fell, and he himself sunk into the nearest chair and placed the pistol carefully on the coffee table.

A hand strayed to his neck and he closed his eyes, knowing he would be in for a troubling few days as the familiar old urges began to cloud his mind.

[brassandblue]

Arthur had been enjoying the sound of steady, pouring rain, when someone had apparently sought to interrupt the pat-pit-patter-pat-pat of raindrops soaking his centuries-old estate in a fresh deluge.

He had neither the energy, nor the desire, to peel himself off his couch--the one in the informal sitting room, not the one meant for guests. He was comfortable and surrounded by the clutter of living: A large telly; a sound bar that was more of an altar to the gods of vinyl and music than a mere talking piece, surrounded by an ecclectic and immaculate collection of his favorite albums; side tables and end tables by windows all bearing leafy plants; high, built-in shelves cram-packed with well-loved books nestled next to odds and ends, trinkets from his travels and gifts from friends--carved, laquered boxes, snow globes, monuments in miniature, a veritable menagerie of carved, cast, sculpted animals--not to mention paintings on the walls, mostly ones by Jack of bucolic, rolling hills (though Arthur's favorite was of one of London's ports at sunset, painted just a few years before the Great War). Photos dating from the last 100 years were placed among them, usually of Arthur and his closest friends--there weren't many. A corded telephone sat mounted by one of the room's doors, close enough that one could use it on the couch with ease, just adjacent to an old wall-mounted grandfather clock that ticked away the hours.

In the center of it all was a large stone fireplace--he'd built it with his own hands centuries ago!--whose fire still crackled merrily. It and the numerous knitted blankets piled about the room were meant to stave off the chill of the rain. Above the mantle sat a large portrait of none other than Lord Horatio Nelson in a gilded frame.

The whole affair was a little mismatched--the walls were old white plaster and the worn out couch was a faded indienne-printed chintz, whereas the two cushy armchairs were upholstered with solid-colored, dark dyed linen. It was all brought together by a cozy, plush plain colored rug underfoot, draped on warmly worn harringbone wood flooring, and a pair of soft-glowing lamps on either side of the couch. The coffee table had cat toys and other miscellany strewn about it, but it was more often used to prop up feet than to house tea or coffee. As for the windows? They were tall, cloaked in heavy, pale curtains, half-drawn to not let too much light in, but just enough to let Arthur watch the rivulets of rain roll down the glass.

Who in God's name was out in such weather, anyway?!

The softness of the old, overstuffed couch, the gentle familiarity of a quiet sitting room, the lingering warmth of a good cup of tea settling within him, were all sensory-soothing. This was a place of sanctuary and comfort when his own senses were frayed, torn, hypersensitive; where sometimes even just existing sent shocks up his nerves that felt like electric fire.

The knocking appeared to have stopped, he realized. Arthur closed his eyes, and heaved a sigh of relief.

Good, he thought, I hope they catch cold. Serves them right, bothering me at a time like this.

He remained still, wholly uninterested in removing himself from his spot. He was in a dreadful state--dressed in a threadbare Sex Pistols t-shirt and equally shabby, comfortable jeans. Mismatched sock feet, an itchy, three-week beard with the makings of greatness, and a wild mane of bed hair, completed the look. Even worse, he was drenched in a sheen of sweat, pale, dangerously thin, wrinkles and dark circles had him looking just shy of being dead.

The thought of seeing anyone while in this state was absolutely ludicrous.

And yet, several minutes later, he heard a toilet flush; worked up a good scowl by the time America apparently felt was a good moment to actually show up.

"Jesus Christ. What part of me not answering the door gives you license to break into my bloody house?"

England gets a wellness check.

England's rose bushes are drowning. There is little America can do for them, only witnessing the rain pound on delicate petals. He knocks on England's door a third, fourth time. His patience wears thin by the third, runs out by the fourth, so he scouts around the house and pulls on windows until he finds one unlocked. He lets himself in, hoisting one leg over and ducking his head. He finds himself standing in England's bathroom. Good; he had to urinate anyway. America relieves himself. Once he's finished, he searches for England down the hallway at a lazy pace. Acknowledges the new artwork hanging and inhales deeply through his nose. No matter what house England was residing in, it always smelled the same, deliciously of aged books and hundred-year hardwood. America finds England, who looks unfortunate with his sweat-dewy skin and complexion pale as the dead. The sour twist of his mouth is familiar. "Did you not hear me? I was at the door." America takes off his soaked coat and hangs it on the nearest rack; always a rack near at England's house.

@brassandblue

[mischiefandspirits]

A Villian's Kid

Knows How to Fight

This is followed up by A Villian’s Kid: Knows How to Cheat

“I’m not saying I want to date him. I’m just saying he’s hot.”

“And I'm saying you’re crazy for thinking that. He’s a jerk.”

“You can’t judge people’s hotness by their jerkiness, Timbo,” Stephanie said as she dug through her purse for her car keys.

Before Tim could answer, a trio of women walked up to them. They were holding pocket pistols pointed at the two and hidden from onlookers behind their purses.

“Hey there, kids,” the one in the bad wig said.

Tim looked down at his coffee with a sigh. “Lucius is going to kill me for missing the board meeting.”

Stephanie nodded, sucking at her smoothie.

“Be good and no one will have to get hurt,” the one with the obvious extensions chirped.

The straw slipped out of Stephanie’s mouth with a pop. “Listen, I’ve got a lecture in, like, thirty minutes and as fun as it would be to have a reason to get out of it, I’m not really in the mood. How about I give you the two hundred I snuck out of Timmy’s wallet and you guys save this for some other time?”

“In the van.” The one with the cheap hairspray dye job nodded towards the van a few cars away.

Stephanie turned to Tim to see him morosely shuffling towards the van. She shrugged and followed. As she watched Wig open the sliding door, she asked, “So you’re guy’s hair situations, did you want them to look purposefully bad for the kidnapping? Because if not then someone definitely ripped you off. I know a guy that could hook you up.”

Dye Job shot her a glare from behind her huge sunglasses and Extensions dug her gun into Stephanie’s back.

“Just saying,” Stephanie muttered and slipped the straw back into her mouth. She turned to share an amused look with Tim, only to see him climbing into the van. She frowned and lowered her drink. “Wait, are we actually going with them?”

Tim raised an eyebrow at her.

She shoved her drink into his free hand so she could throw her arms into the air. “Timmy, didn’t anyone ever tell you not to get into strangers’ cars?”

“Listen kid -” Extensions started alongside another nudge from her gun and Stephanie rolled her eyes.

“Lady, I’m not afraid of your mouse guns. Do you know who my dad is?”

“Bruce Wayne,” Wig said confidently.

“Ew, no. I just dated this guy,” she gestured to Tim, “then refused to leave after the break up so Brucie pays for my college bills. He’s, like, my ex-dad-in-law at best. Sugar uncle without the creepy implications? I don’t know. He’s not my dad though. No, my dad’s a supervillain who, for the record, has threatened me with acid to the face. He’s a dick, I know. Point is, you guys don’t scare me.”

Dye Job actually looked hesitant, but Wig looked unconvinced.

“Everyone’s got a relative who works for Riddler or Penguin or whatever. Nice try,” Extensions snorted and dug the gun even further.

Stephanie stepped forward and turned in one motion so she could glare at the woman. “Try Cluemaster. You know, Arthur Brown. Stephanie Brown. Ring a bell?”

“Sure, kid. Now get in.”

“Yeah, no. Last chance. Take the two hundred and leave.” When none of the trio backed down, she shrugged. “I tried.”

She clocked Extensions right in the temple, knocking her out in one blow. She grabbed Dye Job’s wrist and twisted it just as the woman pulled the trigger, making her shoot Wig in the shin. She slammed her elbow into Dye Job’s face, stunning her and possibly breaking her nose. Then she grabbed Wig’s head from where the woman had dropped into a crouch after the gunshot and slammed it into first her knee then the side of the van to knock her out. Finally, she pulled Dye Job into a chokehold and held on until the woman slumped in her arms.

With all three down for the count, she turned to Tim to see him sitting on the floor of the van with his legs hanging out.

Her drink was sitting next to him and he was rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You know, we’re supposed to just go along with the kidnapping.”

She blew a raspberry as she grabbed her drink. “I’ll leave that to you rich boys. My dad is publicly known to be a supervillain. I can beat up my kidnappers.”

Tim sighed and pulled out his phone to place a call. “Hey Jim. I’m calling to report an attempted kidnapping… No, mine this time. And Steph’s… No, we’re fine. The kidnappers are all knocked out and they never touched us… In the parking lot of the Robin’s Roast on Seventh near Hamilton. Do you think we can make this quick? I’ve got a meeting in,” he checked the time, “twenty-three minutes… Yeah, figured I’d at least try. We’ll wait here then.”

Stephanie took a loud sip of her smoothie as he ended the call and dialed someone else. “The officer he’s sending is one that’ll write me a note to my professor explaining why I missed the lecture, right?”

He nodded. “Hey, Tam, I… Oh, you’re still at lunch with your dad, great… No, I mean, yeah, but I just wanted to see if you could push the meeting back, say, an hour? I’ll be there, I swear… Kidnapping attempt… No, they tried to grab me and Steph, but Steph knocked them out right away so we’re just waiting for the police to pick them up and take our statements… No, I’m wearing my work suit… I know that. Steph says she gets privileges because she’s a supervillain's kid… You get to be the one to tell B that… What? No… Alright, fine. I’ll see you both at the meeting.”

“They pushing back your meeting then?”

“Uh-huh.” Tim put his phone away and downed his coffee. “Lucius says I have to hire you as my bodyguard though.”

Stephanie spat out her smoothie, Tim flinching away before any could land on his suit. “What? Why?”

“Apparently, you make a strong case. He’s sick of kidnapping attempts and actual kidnappings getting in the way of business. It doesn’t matter much with B because he’s Brucie, but apparently I need to be held to a higher standard because I’m responsible or some BS.”

“Sucks to suck, but you brought it on yourself,” she hummed. “Not that I’m agreeing, but what’s the pay like?”

Tim shrugged. “I’ll have to see what the going rate for bodyguards is.”

“Then double it.”

He shot her a look.

“Hey, don’t think I didn’t realize taking the job means I have to go to those boring galas Jason’s always complaining about. If I have to be bored out of my mind I want to be compensated for it.” She smirked. “Also, something tells me Lucius isn’t going to be happy if you get to work and my answer’s no.”

He gave her a full-on Batglare and she flipped him off. Sighing, he said, “Fine.”

“Also, I’ll need a couple fitted suits and nice shades. If I’m going to be a bodyguard I’m going to look sick doing it.”

“Alright,” Tim agreed, tapping at his phone.

“Can I get a gun?”

He looked up with a frown. “Why do you want a gun? Do you even know how to shoot?”

She shrugged. “Jason and Dick have guns. They could teach me. I need a weapon if I’m going to be your bodyguard. Plus, it’d tick off Brucie.”

He shook his head and turned back to his phone. “Can’t you just have a baton or something? You know how to use a baton.”

“Too close to my nightlife. What about a laser gun?”

“How are you going to get a laser gun?” he groaned.

She took a long sip. “I know people.”

“How about a taser?”

“What if I get a laser gun with a stun mode?”

“Laser gun that can only stun?”

“Deal.” She held out her fist.

He raised an eyebrow. “You know I’m going to check with Kara that the gun actually can only stun right?”

She stuck her tongue out at him and nodded so he fist-bumped her. She tried to take a drink, and frowned when she realized her cup was empty. She held out her hand and Tim placed his empty cup in it. After a quick trip to the trash can outside the coffee shop, she leaned against the van next to Tim. “So admit it: If you ignore Merrick’s personality, he’s totally hot?”

“… Alright, fine, he’s kind of hot. His personality is a complete deal-breaker though.”

“Oh, no, yeah, totally.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Needed a name for the coffee shop Tim and Steph went to so I figured I'd reference robin's roast, an excellent story by the wonderful envysparkler on AO3 that also prominently features Steph. (Hint hint)

[ignorantarmiesclashbynight]

Whumptober 2021 Day 11: just keep swimming | drowning

It ain't his fault the stupid kid can’t swim.

In fact, the thought that he might not be able to doesn’t even cross his mind. 

Thing is, Arthur grew up on a wagon, and if you wanted to survive you followed the river: water for drinkin', for cookin', for washin'. And in between, for playin'. His mama used to joke that he swam before he walked, as natural to him as a fish, so he just assumed it was something everyone could do. 

Ain't his fault it’s one more thing the kid’s bad at. Little Johnny golden boy who constantly needs Arthur to clear up his latest disaster. Dutch and Hosea think it’s funny, until the kid gets caught doing a little light shoplifting in the general store and ends up getting chased through the town they've spent two weeks casing to rob. So they task Arthur with keeping the boy out of the way for the afternoon, which means he gets to miss out on the job, too. And he can’t even hang around camp because the little demon managed to put three whole live frogs into the coffee pot and he thinks Grimshaw might actually murder his scrawny ass this time. 

So it’s just Arthur and the petulant twelve year old, sitting aimlessly by the river, far away from anyone and everyone, where the only harm he can do is scaring off the ducks.

They've been there all of two minutes and the kid’s already pestering him for something to eat. As if his satchel is some bottomless receptacle of snacks for a teenager who can somehow put away as much as a draft horse.

He tries to teach the boy something useful. Points out burdock root and sage and milkweed; collects bulrushes for the horses, mushrooms for the stew. Even tries making a fishing line out of some string he finds in his pocket, but the kid is only interested in throwing rocks into the river like he’s trying to hurt it. 

"How long we gotta stay here?" John gripes.

Arthur sighs, thinking just the same thing. "Long as it takes."

The boy scowls in the general direction of the town—where Dutch and Hosea are busy concocting a scheme to empty every safe in every backroom within a single day.

"We should be with 'em, helpin'," John says, sour as a crabapple. 

"Yeah? Because you're so helpful, gettin' yourself into trouble all the damn time?" He shakes his head. "Got a lot to learn before you can ‘help’…"

Arthur flicks a bit of pondweed off his boot. He's aiming for the kid but it goes wide and lands on the pebbles at his feet.

John scowls at him, even so. "When you gonna teach me to shoot? And not with a pistol. I mean with a rifle."

Arthur lets out a throaty laugh. "Oh sure, I can see that plan going just dandy. And besides, you're too small. Knock-back'd throw your shoulder right out of its socket."

"Would not."

"Would too."

"I shot a gun before, you know."

"I know." Arthur rolls his eyes. Flicks another stripe of pondweed at him.

"Shot a man before, too."

"Yeah, yeah, I heard the story a hundred times. Go tell the fish."

He still isn't sure if it's true or not; that John killed a man before he was ten years old. It makes him a little sick to think of, and the boy's so full up with desperate bravado he figures even if it ain't a lie, it likely happened a lot different to the way he tells it. 

A pause. The kid's scowl deepens. "Bet I'm a better shot than you."

Arthur gives him a tolerant smirk. "I’ll tell you what. How 'bout I get you one of them little toy bows and arrows? Then you can show us all your infamous deadly aim. Maybe catch a few squirrels and make yourself useful for a change..."

Kid’s scoots away, up to his feet, kicking stones into the shallows. "Shut up."

"I will, when you stop being a brat."

"Why don’t you stop being such an ass-faced know-it-all?"

A laugh bursts out of him. "Ass-faced? I know I ain't much to look at, but have you seen yourself lately? Filthy as a dog with the mange. I’m surprised Grimshaw ain’t dunked you in the dish bucket yet…"

“She can try,” the kid growls darkly, which makes Arthur laugh even harder, which makes the kid even more furious.

“What you gonna do, bite her?” Arthur snorts. “Though I wouldn’t put it past you. When the hell you gonna join the human world, huh? Or should we set you free to roam the wilds instead?”

He scoops out a particularly slimy bit of pondweed from under a rock and this time his aim is true, sticking to the side of the kid’s face with a satisfying slap.

“Fuck you, Morgan!” John snarls, ripping off the weed and tossing it back at him. It misses, by several feet, so he snatches up a stone instead, aiming for Arthur's head.

He dodges it easily, scrambling to his feet as the boy grabs another. He���s enjoying himself for the first time all day and drops into a defensive stance, ready to teach the little shit a lesson.

“Maybe I’ll do Grimshaw a favour ‘n’ give you a bath right now...” he grins, darting forward and grabbing the boy by the scruff of his collar.

The kid struggles wildly but Arthur’s other arm wraps all the way around him, pinning his arms to his sides. He’s just a bony, skinny thing, still catching up on years of scavenging for scraps, but Dutch says the rough-housing’s good for him. Says it’s what brothers do.

John’s screaming every curse he knows, kicking back at his shins, wriggling like an eel, but Arthur hangs on, taking a few staggering steps towards the river. He was only planning on dumping the boy into the shallows—make him ride home with wet breeches—but he’s forgotten just how dirty the kid fights when’s cornered and suddenly there’s a sharp pressure on his forearm as John sinks his teeth into him.

Arthur gapes at the sight for a second, before the pain of it hits—and the outrage.

Alright, if that’s how you want it…

And with a wide, swinging arc, he tosses the kid right into the river.

Ain’t his fault it’s deeper than it looks.

He thought it’d only be about waist height but the boy plunges into the water with a comical sploosh and the current sweeps him into the middle of the river, where it runs fastest. There’s a brief flail of limbs, a garbled yell, and John goes under. And he doesn’t come back up again. 

Shit. 

Arthur wades out after him, scanning the water, seething in a breath at the shock at how cold it is, the strength of the current just a few feet in. It looked so placid from the bank.

He’s pretty sure the kid is just playing a trick—‘bout to pop back up behind him and leap onto his back, shove a handful of pondweed down his shirt or something. But he’s silently counting in his head and a long ten seconds go by, then twenty, thirty, and he isn’t sure just how long a person can hold their breath for. Even for a prank. 

And then, from way downstream there comes an almighty splashing. A darting glimpse of dark hair above the surface before it’s gone again. 

Shit, shit, shit.

Arthur launches himself into the water, legs kicking hard behind him, arms scything through the surface as he closes the distance, stroke by stroke, trying to keep his eyes on the spot where he last saw the kid. But there’s no sign of him, just the surging rapids and the squall of the water, deafening in his ears.

The panic grips at him but he doesn't have time for it, drawing in the deepest breath he can and jack-knifing into a dive. 

The current is vicious beneath the water, defying the laws of gravity, buffeting him every which way. He can't see a damn thing through the churned up mud. Can barely control his own body. And it’s all he can do to right himself and kick back up to the surface before he runs out of air.

He flounders for a moment. It’s all happening too fast. He didn’t mean for this. Didn’t want this. He'd only meant to give the kid a fright. Teach him a lesson. But not this...

His next breath judders on the way in but he holds it tight and ducks back under.

This time he doesn’t try to fight the force of the flow, letting it take him where it wants, peering through the murky water with a focus so intense it makes his head feel fit to burst. The need to breathe burns in his chest but he can't give up; knows he's running out of time.

And there, maybe ten feet away, a spiralling figure, limbs waving like a rag doll. 

Arthur’s stomach clenches, expelling all the air in his lungs—some in-built reflex to yell for the kid—but all that comes out is bubbles.

He reaches him in a few kicks. Grabs him round the middle and heaves upward, cursing the slowness of moving underwater, every second deadly.

He breaks the surface with a gasping breath but the river’s deep here and now he’s fighting the churning current with a limp body to hold onto. He doesn’t have time to check on the kid—it’s all he can do to keep his legs moving, reaching sideways, one heavy stroke at a time, his other arm clinging around the kid’s skinny chest. And he’s never been so grateful to feel ground under his feet as his boots finally scuff the riverbed.

He drags the boy out by his armpits and lays him out on the bank, collapsing beside him, shivering with adrenaline. For a long, terrible second, the kid lies still and pale, and Arthur can hear the blood pounding in his own ears like the relentless rush of the river, but then water spurts out of John’s mouth and nose and he’s choking more than breathing but he’s alive.

Relief and anger and a hysterical edge of laughter flood Arthur’s chest as he turns the boy on his side, thumping him on the back until he pukes up half the river.

It's a long while before the kid is able to haul in a clean breath and when he does it still comes out coughing. Maybe a bit of sobbing, too, though he tries to hide it, curling in on himself, hair plastered to his face.

Arthur keeps on patting his back, slower and slower as the kid’s convulsions calm to a trembling, until he’s just holding a hand there, not quite wanting to let go yet.

“Scared the shit out of me, kid,” he murmurs, letting out the nervous laugh that’s been bubbling up inside of him.

John rolls over, pulling himself up to sitting on shaky arms, and turns to fix Arthur with a dark-eyed stare, more furious than he’s ever seen him.

The boy shoves him, the flat of his hand slamming into his chest. He does it again, rising up onto his knees to get more force behind it. Arthur tips backwards, catching himself on his hands, leaving himself open to the attack he can see coming, but he doesn’t bother to stop it. Lets it come, the way it needs to.

And then John’s on top of him with a ragged war cry, grabbing fistfuls of Arthur’s shirt and slapping him around the shoulders, the head, the face. And Arthur lets him, until the kid’s hands curl into fists and he lands a staggering blow against his ear, sending the world spinning.

He reckons he deserved it, but there’s a limit.

He snatches the boy’s wrists out of the air and holds them still. “Alright, enough. I’m sorry.”

The rest of John’s body keeps fighting, writhing in his grip, his face screwed up with blind rage. “You son of a bitch…”

“Yeah, I know. I’m an ass-faced bastard.”

Arthur hangs on, lets the kid wear himself out. And he does, a few moments later, sagging boneless and heavy with the weight of his water-logged clothes.

Arthur lets him go—but slowly, just in case he’s got a second wind in him. “I fished you out, didn’t I?” he offers.

John slumps back down onto the bank with a sullen humph. Won’t even look at him. And for a second, Arthur sees both the boy he is and the man he’ll become—how vulnerable and how fierce.

He sits beside him with a long sigh.

“I didn’t know you couldn’t…” he starts, gesturing jerkily at the river. “I mean, I can teach you if you–”

“Shove it up your ass, Arthur.”

“Alright then.”

He shuts his mouth. Maybe he’s been a little hard on the kid, lately. Maybe John's just looking for his place, trying to be one of the men, trying to prove himself. Arthur was a different kind of twelve-year-old—more scared than ferocious—but maybe there are different kinds of showing fear, too. Maybe acting like a rabid raccoon is one of ‘em.

They sit in silence for a couple minutes, synchronising their shivering, watching the tumble of the river go by. He resists the urge to put an arm around the boy. Too soon for that yet, he thinks. But his arm flexes with the thought of it and he frowns in surprise as a bloom of fresh red seeps through his shirtsleeve. It stings and he can’t remember why. And then he does, pulling back the fabric to reveal a neat little curve of toothmarks, deep enough to draw blood.

He stares at it for a second. Hears a little snort of amusement from beside him.

“You bit me,” he says dazedly. “You really are feral.”

When he looks sideways, the kid’s grinning. Arthur gives him a little shunt with his shoulder and John shunts him back in a peaceable kind of way. The way brothers do.

“Least Grimshaw won’t make me take a bath now,” the boy says with a shrug.

Arthur grunts and pokes at his bruised forearm. “Yeah, well. You’re welcome.”

And just when he thinks perhaps they’ve reached a tentative truce, a cold clump of pondweed comes slithering down the back of his collar…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I mean, how could I pass this one up? Because it is 100% canon that Arthur lobbed John into a river at least once.

Also on AO3! Requests more than welcome (prompt list is here)

[gxldensxldiers]

I regret to inform you all I've suddenly realized Arthur's type:

People that he knows are both perfectly capable of kicking his ass/killing him and possess the willingness to actually follow up on their threats.

[line-of-fire]

Closed started for @detnu-a-h

Seeing the black dog bound towards his fellow BlackCell operator, Arthur let out a sharp whistle calling Merlin back to him, immediately taking place at his heel and sitting down, tail wagging.

"Good boy-" he hoarsely murmured, rubbing the dogs head before looking to Atom, head cocked. "Look like you've seen a ghost-" he quips, just audible enough to be properly heard. "Don't tell me golden boy's scared.. not of this guy." he grinned.

[12timetraveler]

May You Always Be The Wild One (Parts 1 and 2)

Reader is kidnapped on a job gone wrong, and Hosea is prepared to burn all of Lemoyne to the ground if he has to in order to get her back.

Hosea/f!reader

CW: kidnapping, torture, attempted sexual assault, descriptions of violence

(I try not to be too graphic but please be advised that part one is quite dark.)

Hey all so this is a two part story I've done. Part 1 is all about the kidnapping and the rescue. Part 2 is all fluff and smut months after the event in part 1

Part 1 is posted here and part 2 is the chapter that immediately follows.

And in the morning when the sun comes up

And it brings you to your knees

May you always be the wild one

May you always be free

~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been a solid plan. Well of course it was, it was Hosea's plan. But the master con man had been conned. Or maybe you all had underestimated just how perverted the target was.

You and Hosea had spent the morning making yourself look rumpled and dirty. Hosea had been smearing some dirt on your cheek. You suggested, only half kidding, that you and he just step out of camp for a quick romp. That usually got you looking plenty disheveled. Your beloved had laughed and lamented that you were too short on time, but promised he’d take you out for a night after this job was over.

Once you looked perfectly exhausted, skirt dirty, hair ruffled, like you’d been tossed from your horse and walking all night, Arthur had taken you out to the road, about a mile down from the target’s house.

“Alright. You start walking, and I’ll join the others near the house. Hosea says the target always spends his mornings on the front porch. Once you get him away from the house, we’ll be in and out. Mrs. Adler is waiting for you in Rhodes to take you back to camp so you’ll be long gone from town before he even gets back home to see he’s been robbed. Even if he does realize you were in on it, he won’t find you.”

“Understood,” you said as you slid off the back of his horse.

“Yeah, well even still, you got your gun?” He asked. You nodded and patted your thigh. Hidden under your skirts was a small pistol. Nothing special but it would protect you.

“You think I’m dumb enough to work a job without something to protect me?” You asked.

“No, s’pose not,” Arthur chuckled. “That and I doubt Hosea would have let you do this if he didn’t have some back up.”

Hosea trusted you completely, but he was far too wise to ever think that just because you were quick on your feet and good in a fight, that you’d be fine without some sort of weapon. As he was helping you get dressed this morning, Hosea had carefully strapped the little pistol to your thigh, planting a few sweet kisses around it before moving on to helping you lace your corset.

“Alright well, see you back in camp,” Arthur said, giving you a lazy salute.

“You boys stay safe,” you called.

“You’re the one who’s taking a ride with the man to town. You stay safe,” Arthur replied as he trotted off. You stood there for a minute, letting Arthur ride ahead of you before you started your walk down the road.

The Lemoyne sun was harsh, only just rising but already beating down on you. Within minutes you were sweating. You cursed Arthur for dropping you off so far away from the house, but your exhaustion would make your story more plausible, easier to act out.

By the time the house came into view, you were miserable. Thank god you had your hat to protect your face from the sun.

Just like Arthur had said, the man was sitting on his porch, sipping some coffee and watching the world start it’s day when you hobbled up.

“Good Mornin’ miss,” He called from his porch, looking you up and down as you rested against his fence.

“Howdy, Mister,” You sighed.

“Are you alright?” He asked, sitting up slightly as he took in your ragged state.

“I’ve been better, I’ll admit,” you said. “My horse spooked on the road during the night. I’m not sure if it was a snake or what. But he spooked and tossed me in the dirt and ran off. I’ve been walking for hours now.” You sighed.

“Can I give you a ride somewhere?” The man asked, standing up and downing his coffee.

“If it’s not too much trouble. My sister is waitin’ for me in Rhodes.” you said gratefully. The man nodded.

“Sure. I can get you there. Give me just a moment to hook up the wagon,” He said, stepping inside to put his mug away before heading out to the barn out back.

You glanced off into the trees near the house. You caught a glimpse of Arthur’s hat. You gave a small nod, letting him know it was all going to plan. A few minutes later the man came around the house, leading a black Tennesse Walker pulling a simple wagon.

“Alright, Miss, let's get you to town.” He said, helping you into the wagon before climbing into the driver's seat. With a flick of the reins, you were off. You slumped in the seat, happy to be off your feet.

“Name’s Dawson. Ephriam Dawson,” He said, reaching out to shake your hand.

“Tabitha Sanderson,” You said, using one of your aliases. You shook his hand

“Good Lord is it hot,” You sighed, fanning yourself. Dawson chuckled beside you.

“You ain’t from Lemoyne, are you?” He asked. You shook your head.

“No. I’m from West Elizabeth. Strawberry to be exact. It’s cool and wet and rainy there.”

“What’re you doing all the way down here?” He asked.

“My sister and I came to visit our sick aunt in Saint Denis,” You lied, thinking quick on your feet. “My sister went to Rhodes yesterday morning. I wanted to spend one last day with Aunt Susan before heading back, so I said I’d meet her in Rhodes last night.”

“Well, I’ll get you to your sister safe and sound, don’t you worry Miss,” He said.

The rest of the ride was pleasant, punctuated with idle chit-chat now and then. On occasion Dawson would point out a landmark or something he found interesting. You’d nod along and listen with fake interest. Dawson sat a little too close, in your opinion, but it was a small wagon, so maybe there just wasn’t room.

Finally the water tower of Rhodes’ train station peeked up over the hillside. You sighed in relief.

“I was starting to think I’d never get here. I would have been walking for hours yet without your help. Thank you,” You said, giving Dawson a grateful smile.

“You’re welcome,” Dawson said, tipping his hat. “Now, where is your sister waiting for you?” He asked.

“She should be at the general store. If not there, then maybe the Parlor House. If you just drop me off by the statue I can walk from there.” You said.

“Nonsense. I’ll make sure you and your sister are reunited.” Dawson said as the cart rode into town. Instead of parking near the butcher like you thought he would, he turned the cart up the hill, past the church.

“Sir, where are we going?” You asked, trying to keep your outlaw paranoia at bay. But something did not feel right.

“I’m just parking up here,” He assured you, pulling off just past the gallows. “It’s easier to get out of town if I park up here and walk,”

“Well, thank you very much for the ride Mr. Dawson,” you said, beginning to climb down from the wagon. He grabbed your wrist, stopping you.

“Just a moment, darlin’,” He said. “We still need to discuss my payment.”

“Oh, of course, how silly of me,” you said, reaching into your bag. You’d brought a little silver watch and a few bills to pay the man with, should he ask. You’d earn that back and more, if Hosea were right about the score. “I don’t have nearly enough to thank you for your help. But… here.” you said, pulling out the bills and the watch and handing it to Mr. Dawson before climbing down off the wagon.

“Thank you again, I really must be going,” You said as Dawson climbed down from the wagon. “My sister must be worried sick for me.” he came around the side of the wagon, and the glint in his eye made your heart drop.

“Hang on,” He said, “This isn’t the payment I was looking for,” He said, holding up the pocket watch and small stack of bills.

“I… I don’t have anything…” Before you could say another word, the man grabbed you and pressed you against the wagon, his lips slamming against yours. You struggled against him, trying to push him away. Finally his lips released yours, and he allowed you to push him a couple steps back.

“Sir!” you exclaimed, “I don’t know who you think I am, but I ain’t that kind of girl!” You said, scrubbing his saliva off your mouth. “I appreciate the assistance, but I really must be going,” You were stopped by his hand slamming into the wagon, blocking your exit.

“I don’t care what kind of girl you think you are,” He whispered dangerously. “The way I see it, I helped you with something you needed. Now you help me with something I need.” His other hand came down to his trousers, undoing the buttons. “You say you ain’t a whore, fine. I won’t use your cunt. But you’re gonna get on your knees for me and put that mouth to good use.”

You met his gaze a moment, weighing your options. Your pistol, though hidden conveniently on your person, wasn’t easy enough to reach so that you could do it before he did something to you. However, if you could get your skirt out of the way...

You gave him a defeated nod, pretending to concede. Very slowly, you did as he instructed, sliding down onto your knees. You adjusted your skirt underneath you under the pretense of getting comfortable, then looked up at Mr. Dawson looming over you.

He gave you a wicked smile, and patted your head. He moved to pull out his cock, but before he could, you’d reached under your skirt and retrieved the pistol from your garter, cocking it and aiming for his manhood.

“Sorry mister, I think you have me misunderstood,” you said, standing once more, gun rising with you until it was pointed at his chest. “I won’t be doing anything with your disgusting prick. So you can either take the money and the watch and let me go, or lose something you can’t grow back.”

You and Mr. Dawson stood still a moment, staring each other down, waiting for the other to cave first. He never dropped his disgusting smile, and he still had a glimmer in his eye that you didn’t like one bit.

“On your way, mister,” You said, waving your gun slightly.

In the blink of an eye, he swung his arm up, grabbing the gun and forcing you to point it away from him. His other hand came up to your neck, slamming you back against the wagon and pushing the air from your windpipe. He slammed your wrist against the wagon a few times, until the gun fell to the ground.

You squirmed against him, trying to get your knee up into his crotch, find something of his you could bite, anything to get him off of you. But his grip on you was tight, and the hand on your neck was squeezing until spots danced across your vision.

“Little Jezebel,” Dawson cooed in your ear, “You’ve led the wrong man on. I’ll get what I want, just you wait.”

“Sadie!” You screamed, desperately hoping your voice would travel far enough. “Sa--” Dawson slammed your head against the wagon once more, and it all went black.

[charlessmithhasmyheart]

Title: Hunting Hijinks

Genre: Romance

Type: Charles x Reader

Triggers: None

A/N: Hey hey hey! This is a gift for the lovely @fangirl-ramblings. When I got the message that I was your secret santa, I was super excited! You are defs one of the people who I would consider to be my biggest supporter throughout this blog endeavor. Seriously! I would like to apologize for how long this took, but I wanted to make sure I was happy with everything before posting.

I know you had requested something about several people, so I chose Charles! Hope this is to your liking.

Here ya go! :)

____________________________

The sun was slowly sinking, the fire in front of you easily becoming your only source of light. The camp and it’s residents had been in the process of setting down for the night. Everyone but you. You were sitting on a log lost in thought, head resting in your hands as you stared into the flames; the object of your contemplation being none other than the mysterious Charles Smith.

Of course, this was of no surprise to you. It had been happening quite frequently. Charles was on your mind a lot. Especially since you had officially become a member of the Van Der Linde Gang.

A small smile began to tug at your lips as you recalled your first encounter with the illustrious group of outlaws.

You had been a bounty hunter then. Well, you hadn’t really been a true bounty hunter. You were just taking odd jobs from the wanted posters around Valentine and Saint Denis. It wasn’t the best work, but it paid well when you succeeded. And you did.

Believe it or not, you had actually met them during one of your jobs. You had been tracking a particularly elusive criminal for a few days. He had held up the general store and robbed a few of the townsfolk. Killed some too. The sheriff was adamant that he was brought back; alive or dead, it didn’t matter.

You were on the trail, the tracks very fresh when suddenly gunfire broke out ahead of you. Intrigued, you spurred your mount on only to come face to face with a shoot out. The target in question was crouched behind an over turned wagon, his own horse dead, as bullets from his attackers, three of them, soared through the air.

Determined to be the one to bring him to justice, you pulled your own gun from its holster and spurred your mount on again. Unfortunately the criminal, in what you can only assume to be a moment of stupidity, peaked from around the wagon, pistol loaded, only to receive a bullet to the face. With him now dead, the attacker’s switched their attention to you, guns still drawn. A curse slipped from your lips as you brought your horse to an abrupt stop.

“You take one step closer miss, and I cannot promise you’ll get away unharmed.” Warned their leader, who you later on learned to be Dutch.

When you made no move to speak he continued.

“Now I suggest you lower your weapon and we can talk this out. I see no reason for any more blood-shed.” He spoke, lowering his own weapon and signaling for the others in his group to do the same.

It took a moment, but you complied and re-holstered your weapon. Then came the conversation that would change your life. You had explained how you were a bounty hunter, making money to survive on your own after your family had died. Dutch responded in kind; giving you the run down of his gang, and, when he was finished, offered you a place to stay. After all, a woman of your abilities would be beneficial to their cause. Seeing as you had no better options, you accepted.

When you had arrived at their campsite at Horseshoe Overlook, you were introduced to many people who, despite being outlaws, were some of the most kind and hardworking people you had ever met. You fit right in, quickly developed relationships with many of the gang members, and the rest was history.

But despite all that, there was one member that you still hadn’t been able to understand.

When you had first been introduced to Charles, he barely mumbled a greeting or looked in your direction before heading of to complete some chore. You had brushed it off in the beginning, assuming you would find time to get to know him later. Now, it was later, and you knew next to nothing other than you had developed feelings for him.

It was all so odd. How could you develop feelings for someone who wouldn’t speak to you, let alone even look at you in the eyes? Sure, you had admired his silent nature, his penchant for taking on the difficult or unappealing jobs and his kindness with the other gang members from afar. Not to mention, he himself wasn’t unappealing to look at. But it still frustrated you to no end because you knew that he wouldn’t feel the same way. Charles had made it perfectly clear, without speaking, how he felt about you.

Stifling a groan, you rubbed a hand over your face, your frustration beginning to build to unhealthy levels.

“Something the matter [Y/N]? You’ve been sitting there an awfully long time.”

You jumped at the sound of someone’s voice and turned to see Hosea strolling towards you, a curious look on his face.

“I’m fine, Hosea.” You replied as he eased into a chair on the other side of the fire. “Just tired is all.”

“I may be old,” he started. “But not so that I can’t recognize when someone’s troubled. What’s bothering you my dear?”

You shifted your gaze from the fire to Hosea. He was leaning back in the chair, arms folded in his lap, with his eyes fixed on you. There was nothing but concern and a honest want to help you in them. He had always been like that. When you were struggling to learn the ways of the outlaw life, Hosea had been with you every step of the way. Making sure you knew the best hunting spots, helping you tend to your chores, and keeping your spirits up whenever you got discouraged. But, expressing your thoughts of Charles out loud? That was different. You didn’t know if you could.

“I don’t really know, if I’m bein’ honest.” You responded finally. “I’m just trying to sort out my feelings.”

And you were. Trying and failing, but you were trying. No matter how hard you tried you couldn’t convince yourself to forget.

“Your feelings for Charles?” He stated matter-of-factly.

You snapped your head up, heat beginning to rise in your face as you tried to stammer out a response.

“How did you know— I mean. I never said—”

Hosea chuckled and splayed his hands out in a calming gesture.

“Like I said. I may be old, but I still know a thing or two. And the way you look at the man when you think no one is paying attention? I’d say you were smitten.” He teased, winking at you.

You stared, dumbfounded and unsure of what to say. If Hosea knew, surely others in the camp knew. And if they knew, did that mean Charles knew as well? And if Charles knew then... No. You weren’t even going to consider the thought.

“You know what? I think I’m gonna turn in for the night.” You stated, pushing yourself off the log and heading towards your tent, refusing to look at Hosea anymore lest you get sucked into a full blown confession.

“You know,” He called after you. “It’ll just get worse the longer you keep it to yourself.”

You gave a half-hearted flick of you hand, the only indication that you had heard his words as you continued to walk through the camp.

——————————

The next morning proved to be no better. The minute you had opened your eyes, your thoughts immediately went to Charles. And Hosea’s advice. When you had finally settled into bed last night, you had pondered what he had said. Maybe it would be in your best interest to talk to him, but the fear of his first words to you being full of hate was too much, and you had drifted off late into the night.

Groaning, you pushed yourself to your feet, ready to distract yourself with the days work. You grabbed your hat from where it had fallen on the floor during sleep and stepped out of your tent. The morning sun shone through the campsite and the warmth felt good on your face. A cup of coffee sounded like a good way to start your day so you headed towards the communal pot; Abigail and Pearson already there with cups in hand.

“Morning [Y/N].” Pearson called out. “Any specific plans for your day yet?”

“Other then my daily chores? No.” You responded, pouring the dark liquid into your tin mug. “Why?”

“Well,” he began. “We’re getting low on food supplies and I can’t remember the last time anyone went hunting. Think you’re up for the task?”

“Sure,” you replied between sips. “I’ll head out right now.”

Pearson grunted his thanks and returned to his own mug. It felt good to finally have some sense of normalcy thrust upon you, so you were more than happy to comply. Nodding your head at Abigail, you finished your coffee; the warmth of the liquid reaching and energizing every part of your body before heading towards the horses.

Hunting hadn’t always been a skill that you particularly excelled at, but when you had expressed your unease with the chore during your first weeks with the gang, Hosea had wasted no time with setting up lessons with Arthur. Originally he would have asked Charles to do it, but every time he had mysteriously disappeared, leaving you wondering what accursed thing you had done to receive the cold shoulder. And hunting with Arthur wasn’t so bad. Of course, he was a little moody at times and his patience wasn’t always there, but you learned. You considered yourself to be quite the hunter nowadays.

Having now reached your horse, you ran your fingers through her mane and cooed soft encouragements before swinging yourself into the saddle. Grabbing the reins, you clicked your tongue and eased her towards he camp entrance.

“[Y/N], hold up!”

You brought your horse to a halt, startled, and turned in the saddle. You were surprised and a bit worried as Hosea sped up towards you, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Are you going out?” He inquired, an odd look that you couldn’t quite place etched on his face.

“Yes,” you replied hesitantly. “Pearson asked me to. Why?”

“Why don’t you take Charles with you, huh? He’s quite the hunter himself.” Without waiting for a reply he called out to Charles who was sharpening a knife. “Hey Charles! You up for some hunting? [Y/N], here could use some assistance.”

It was in that moment that your heart beat began to quicken; from anger and from nervousness at the thought of thee Charles Smith hunting with you. Alone. In the woods. With no one around for miles. Oh, would Hosea be getting an ear-full once you returned. Well, maybe you’d say if. The possibility of you running away forever from sheer embarrassment was entirely plausible.

“There now,” Hosea continued, clapping Charles on the shoulder with his hand. “I’m sure the two of you can scrounge up some food for the lot of us. And don’t come back until you do.”

You shot Hosea a burning look as he sauntered away, whistling a tune the whole while. Charles barely glanced at you as he pulled himself onto his own mount, Taima, and encouraged her towards the edge of camp. You followed suite without a word.

————————

You gripped the bow tightly in your hands, trying to rack your brain for anything to say as Charles walked beside you. The silence between the two of you was uncomfortable. At least, that’s how you felt about it, and, frankly, you couldn’t deal with the fact that the man you had pined for months over was finally capable of staying close to you. Deciding you’ve had enough, you lowered your weapon and turned to face him.

“Why do you hate me?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why do you hate me?” You repeated, crossing your arms.

Charles’ eyes widened as he took in your words, and a strange look crossed his face. You started to feel guilty as you waited for a response. You had come across as a bit rude. It wasn’t what you were going for, but the words just came out without any thought. But, now that you were in this predicament, you decided you were going to keep going.

“I don’t hate you,” Charles finally spoke.

“Well, then have I done something to upset you? I’ve been with the gang for months now and you’ve said all of six words to me.”

Another long moment of silence ensued. Finally deciding you’ve had enough, you tightened the grip on your bow and turned to leave, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. Before you could reach your horse, however, you felt a hand grasp your arm and you found yourself twisted around and a pair of lips locking with yours’. You tensed for barely a second as your mind tried to register what was happening. You were kissing Charles. Or, rather, he was kissing you. And it felt like you had always imagined it to be. When he broke away, you stared, dumbfounded.

“I don’t hate you, [Y/N],” He said, reaching out to take your hand his large calloused one. “I never have. In fact, it’s the opposite.”

“Charles,” You uttered, barely a whisper.

“Ever since the first day you stepped into camp, I knew there was something special about you. I was just too afraid to say anything.” Charles confessed. “I didn’t know how to say anything, because I didn’t know how you would feel.”

His dark eyes locked with yours and you could see the sincerity and fear swirling around in them. A small smile tugged at your lips. There was only one way you felt you could express your true feelings. You reached a hand up to cup his cheek and pulled him into another kiss.

Time seemed to stop. Your heart beat just as quick as you pressed your lips against his in a gentle fashion. His strong fingers brushed tentatively against the back of your neck while your own hand tangled amongst his dark locks. You placed your other hand against his chest and grasped at the loose fabric of his shirt, feeling a hunger your had never felt welling up inside you. Charles, sensing this, slipped a hand down to the small of your back and pulled you flush to him.

The kiss lasted for what felt like years before you finally pulled away, both of you breathing hard and a shine in his eyes that you no doubt mirrored.

“Do you know how I feel now?” You teased.

“Yes, I think so.” Charles chuckled, entwining his fingers with your own. You smiled warmly at him.

“Maybe we should get back to hunting then?” You inquired. “There’s a certain someone I need to have a chat with when we get back. And then, maybe we can have a chat of our own, hmm?”

Charles suppressed another laugh, placed a kiss on your cheek before resuming the hold on his own bow, and traipsed deeper into the woods. The memory of that kiss would reside in your mind as you finished the hunt and it would carry on until later in the evening when you and Charles had another moment alone.

[exquisitley-obsessed]

I’m (right) here

This is technically a part two: you can read part one HERE

Author: @exquisitley-obsessed

Summary: Arthur lost sight of y/n on a hunting trip and it turns out the Pinkertons have hold of her and are doing everything they can to beat information about Dutch out of her. Arthur’s only goal is to get her back but he’s beginning to realise that if he does, nothing will be the same.

Word Count: 5568

Pairings: Arthur Morgan x Reader

Warnings: Torture, murder, bruises, scars, cuts!!

A/N: Currently playing RDR2 so please no spoilers <3 Literally took five minutes for me to fall in love with this damn fool and so felt like I needed to write something angsty for him. 

REQUESTS OPEN <3

MASTERLIST

That had to be a broken rib.

Y/n gasped as she tried to roll away from the steel capped boot that had just gutted her; the chubby, squat old man at the other end of the boot was the more aggressive of her two captures - Steven was his name, or something like that. 

It was his plump, well-rounded face that she had woken up to sometime ago, sneering down at her with this sickening gleeful look. It was understandable, by his terms he had struck gold by capturing y/n l/n, proud member of the Van Der Linde gang.

“You still don’t want to talk?” He husked out, hands on his portly hips. Y/n simply spat in response, a mixture of saliva and blood. Days had passed. Weeks maybe, it was difficult to tell when stuffed in a cage in a windowless room.

They came and they went, her captures. Steven and Tony were their names, or at least, that’s what they called each other. So far all they had revealed was that they were Pinkertons, and desperate for information on Dutch Van Der Linde. The beatings were consistent, another day without information, another beating – more painful than the last.

But y/n already knew that nothing could break her vow of silence. She had been dragged into this cage loyal to Dutch and she sure as hell would find a way out of it still being loyal – they’d have to kill her otherwise. It appeared that would be the direction of things anyway.

They were getting tiresome, annoyed, frustrated. Constantly checking their watches and disappearing for long lengths of time, leaving her aching and alone on the concrete floor watching the free flies mock her as they crawled the walls before flying away. It was easiest when she was asleep, it didn’t hurt so much then, like small shelter in a hurricane.

They’re coming. She had rhythmically repeated the mantra to herself a thousand times by now, a prayer. Dutch and Arthur, those she who she was currently dying to protect – they would come. They had to.

 ***

“We’ll find her Arthur.” Dutch said for what felt like the thousandth time. Arthur was sitting glumly inside his camp, ignoring his company as his eyes bore into his map, spotted with pins and small notes.

“I know.” He huffed back without much thought, his mind somewhere else. It felt like so much time had already been wasted, and Arthur has resorted to spending every waking moment tracking y/n, at least it kept his mind occupied.

Pinkertons weren’t necessarily nasty men, he’d sure as hell met worse, but they were by no means men to be trusted. Honour among thieves didn’t apply to them.

Sighing heavily his eyes drifted from the map above his bed to his collection of photos pinned nearby; him, Hosea and Dutch, his mother, an old newspaper clipping and the most recent edition was the printed photo of y/n that he had taken on a hunting trip.

He put it up there after getting it printed, a few days after her disappearance. Somewhere in his mind he validated the action through it only being a reminder of his task. 

He liked the photo. She looked the same as ever, same braid, same work pants, John’s old shirt – her eyes were crinkled slightly as she smiled at the camera her jaw slack as if she were about to start laughing. Actually, she wasn’t looking at the camera, she was looking behind it – at Arthur.

It was strange to see the way someone looked at you, those moments which you normally don’t get to see at all, and yet he had it captured in time and hanging above his bed. Something about this whole situation had awoken something he thought he had buried a long time ago, but that’s always the way with old feelings, they don’t really go away you just start convincing yourself that they’re not there anymore as you suddenly become busy with someone else. But now he had no distraction, and with all this time, this torturous time without her – he was remembering.

“God’s sake,” He muttered under his breath, collapsing in his chair and flicking through his journal for the hundredth time. It was escapism really, reading old passages and admiring old drawings from a few weeks ago; pretending as if he were back then with nothing to fear.

He hadn’t realised how much he drew her. It seemed obvious now, flicking through the creased papers where loose sketches of y/n seemed to dot every other page. He had never questioned it before, just always thought that he could remember her figure a lot easier than others – the shape she took when she was hunched on her horse, how she always sat in the same crumpled poor-excuse of a chair every morning when he brought her a coffee. When the gang had had a small party, out of everyone it was her he remembered when sitting around the fireplace, lips parted slightly as she half-sang.

Everything was different now, even he couldn’t deny it. But God, he hated it.

What would this mean? When they got her back, if they got her back, what would happen then? Another cycle of burying his feelings, he could see himself already back at Mary’s beck-and-call, desperate for a distraction. Maybe there was a part of himself that didn’t want to see her again, that just wanted to see her safe and then disappear – could he seriously continue to live an elaborate lie he had formulated years ago, when he was only a boy? Who was that fair to?

He cussed again low under his breath. The past few days all he’s wanted to do is escape his mind, calm his rushing thoughts, tame them into something he could tolerate. Hazily, he noticed somewhat raised panicked voices out in the main camp. He could do this; he had done it before, burying feelings. The voices sounded excited. Maybe he was simply destined to live a life of half-loves. Footsteps were now moving toward his tent.

“Arthur!” But he had already picked up his gun and was headed through the folds of his camp. He had survived his feelings for y/n once before, of course he could again.

***

“Your own family left, y/n…” She cringed at how sympathetic Tony’s voice was, as if he were on her side. “They’re gone…there’s been no sign of them for weeks now. They’re not coming.”

This was apparently their plan for the time being. Whispering false truths to her about Dutch, how he was spotted on the other side of West Elizabeth, three days ride from, well wherever the hell she was.

“No,” Y/n gasped, her ribs grinding against the ground, bone and concrete. The lashes on her back felt like they were writhing as the leather whip in Steven’s hand dripped her slick blood.

“Stop!” Steven exploded, y/n was hazily aware of the whip being catapulted across the room, “Stop protecting them y/n! We’re here to help you, for God sake they-”

“Help me?” She hissed. He didn’t hear.

“don’t care about you! Look-” Steven grunted, hauling a chair from the desk to the front of her cell and throwing himself in it, “Life has been nothing but unkind to you y/n, we can see that,” Y/n squeezed her eyes shut as another dull, aching throb radiated from her back, “We’re at a point now where we can forgive you for all of your past crimes…you could walk away from this a free woman…marry a good man, whatever the hell you want…we just need something in return.”

She couldn’t meet his eye. Couldn’t begin to accept what he was telling her about her family but, the reality was, where were they? Weeks he said, weeks waiting in agony for the moment they’d come for her only to be left day in, day out, entirely and utterly alone. 

Y/n felt herself being lulled in to a numb state, all she could pitifully think of was that she wanted to go home: she wanted fresh clean clothes, Pearson’s warm soup, a story from Hosea, a hug from Dutch – when was the last time someone had touched her in an affectionate way?

“Please…” She wheezed through her shattered lungs as her eyes rolled, “Just leave me alone.”

This apparently wasn’t the right answer. Steven, in one fluid motion, swung the chair out from underneath him, hurling it at the cell. Colliding against the steel bars, the wood promptly splintered like fragile bones.

“You stupid bitch!” He exploded, “You can’t see help when it’s fucking standing in front of you! You refuse it like a fucking idiot!” He was gasping for breath as he bellowed, his podgy skin flushing scarlet, “No wonder you’ve ended up like this...all alone…” He was spitting at her, stalking across the front of her bars like a predator homing in on its prey. Y/n felt dull tears dribble down her cheeks as she began to drown in how utterly helpless she was. Crumpled on the floor, unable to move, unable to breathe. “This...” He stopped stalking, his pulsating eyes glaring down at her over his rounded cheeks, “This…” He repeated, lowering himself to her level, “is why deep down…you’ll always be an orphan.”

Y/n watched him curiously, he hadn’t acted like this before. He had always had control. She then focused on Tony behind him whose eyes were avidly watching a pocket watch as his flicked it back and forth between his fingers nimbly.

“We best get going.” Tony finally spoke into the silence, swinging his coat on before checking the bullets in his pistol.

“Not yet,” Y/n’s heart dropped as Steven turned back to her, “They aint getting you back.” He spat at her, his voice low, almost as if he was laughing at her. Y/n watched in silent trepidation as he pushed his key into her cell door and slung it open, “At least…” Y/n moved her eyes back to Tony, pleading for him to do something, “They aint getting you back alive.”

Lying there, face down, unable to move, y/n found herself desperately coming to terms with her own mortality as she heard the click of the gun; summoning all her strength she tried to raise her head to look at him but his steel capped boot struck her clean across the cheek. Choking out a feeble cry she then tried to use the momentum of the kick to roll away from him, but it was futile. With her body broken beneath her there was nothing she could do, and all too soon she felt the cold, lifeless tip of the gun’s barrel pushed against the back of her head. This was it. Her pathetic, ruthless, pain-filled life – this was the climax, the pièce de résistance. The final click sounded followed by a short explosion before finally, darkness.

****

“I told you to only blow the god-damn doors off!” Arthur hollered at Sean who merely gave him a meek look and a shrug of the shoulder. Irish idiot, Arthur thought. The explosion was only supposed to take out the chains and bolts encasing the front doors, but the underestimation of the TNT had caused a shudder through house’s frame, resulting in the roof crumbling in on itself.

“Okay boys!” Dutch commanded, getting off from his horse and assessing the damage, “They know we’re here now which is fine…there’s more of us than ‘em I can promise you that.” He turned back to the gang, patrolling across the front of them like an army captain, “One objective: get in there and find y/n…you see any Pinkertons…gun ‘em down. They messed with us…with our family.” Slowly and in unison, the Van der Linde gang pulled on their masks. “Aint nobody messes with the our family and survives…nobody.” They moved in.

Arthur turned left with Charles, moving swiftly through the large, white manor house they had tracked the Pinkertons to – and God what a job that was. Weeks had passed of tracking and losing sight of the Pinkertons, putting everyone’s necks on the line trying to find the whereabouts of y/n. At first, they had been so sure she was in this old, abandoned farmhouse. They planned meticulously their attack for a week before attempting, only to discover it was some O’Discrolls cooped up in there – y/n nowhere in sight. 

Realising how much time had been wasted, they quickly went back to work, until Micah’s loudmouth made things blow up in the local town. Time and effort were then directed to moving camp somewhere safe, no one allowed to go after y/n during that time – it was also during this time that Dutch and Arthur had a rather explosive argument. 

But they were finally here, finally had tracked her to this bulky manor house out west, and if she weren’t here… well, Arthur couldn’t think about that.

“In here,” Charles’ voice rumbled as they moved past some double doors. Sharing a quick glance with Charles, Arthur jolted forward, the doors snapping back out of his way as he moved into the room. Looking around, he noticed how it looked like it was crumpled in on itself, planks of wood, an old piano, a large cabinet that had been picked clean years ago. All signs of life felt distant and foreign, as if someone hadn’t lived there for years – still, Arthur couldn’t lose hope. He turned back to Charles shook his head and they moved on.

****

Y/n blinked for what felt like forever, her heart racing as a high-pitched whine completely dominated her hearing. She hadn’t expected to still be conscious so it took her a minute to gather her bearings. Slowly, fuzzy outlines hardened into shapes and then, objects. Something had exploded, something was happening. Y/n moved and her whole body burned but it didn’t matter anymore – something was happening.

Fumbling for a second, she dragged herself up, her legs threatening to give way underneath her as she clung onto a fallen beam for support. Looking around she saw Steven rolling around near her, his face contorted into that of agony as one of his legs sat stuck under a pile of rubble and brick, a low gurgling, gasping noise whining from his throat. Sweeping low, y/n swiftly plucked up his gun and felt adrenaline start to pump through her – she had the power now.

“I can help,” Her ears still ringing as she coyly smiled at the chubby, little man at her feet. “Make the pain stop…I mean…”

Y/n, without thinking, raised the gun to his head and shot. Blood splattered across the room. Letting out a long deep sigh, y/n felt herself snapping back into her body, her arms and legs now feeling a little more like her own. Looking over she saw Tony collapsed; maybe passed out, maybe dead. It didn’t matter.

Panic rose quickly inside her, she needed to get out. She didn’t know what was happening or what had sparked the explosion, but this could be her only chance to escape - she needed to get out now. Swinging herself clumsily around the corner she opened the door and peered out, her eyes greedily racing across all the new sights and imagery. She tried to move as light as she could across the creaking floor tiles, her legs limping and stumbling over one another beneath her. Maybe there were other people in the house, maybe she was just being overcautious. She didn’t much care. She just needed to get out.

Successfully reaching a flight of stairs, she began to pick her way down, half hanging over the barista, the world spinning around her. Then, she heard a noise, heavy thumps and distant voices – she wasn’t alone. Panic rose like bile and suddenly, she was racing down the stairs, another flight followed by the next – out, out, out. The next flight, almost there, keep the gun in hand. God it’s so heavy. The world spinning around her, the adrenaline not slowing down until she scrambled down that last flight of stairs until there in front of her were the doors, opening out in a grassy barren knoll ahead.

She didn’t care about the pain anymore, or the fact that all this movement had cracked open all her cuts and lashings – she ran. She ran faster than it felt like she had ever run before, racing forth into the greenery and the open night sky. The stars gleaming down on her as she sprinted through the tall grass, feeling the wind move through her, an explosion of smells - the world alive around her. Then, a figure arose from her right. Instinctively, she stumbled down into a crouch, hiding herself in the shrubbery.

“Any sign of her?” Someone called out, fear latched onto her heart, she already knew she was the ‘her’. She tried to make out the voice, but it felt like the whole world was swimming in her head.

“No…I think John found some dead bodies in the attic. He said they were real fresh though.” Another voice, a different accent. Why wouldn’t her head unscramble itself? She felt her stomach lurch at the name – she knew a John.

“But I thought…” She heard her own voice softly choke out as she rose to her knees, swaying back and forth as the Earth moved underneath her.

“So…she aint here?”

“Doesn’t look like it…there are signs she might’ve been…they’re going to burn down the house down though.”

Looking up over the spikey tops of the greenery, y/n tried to make out the dark silhouettes barely visible against the inky night sky.

“What the hell are we going to do?”

“They won’t give up…not when it comes to her…”

“Not when it comes to anyone, Javier. We’re family. No one gets left behind.” Y/n felt a sob explode out of her – it was them. Hosea and Javier, talking about her, looking for her – saving her. In the same second another explosion erupted, this time, it was to begin the fire. Bright and beautiful, greedily eating up the dry wood of the abandoned home and exploding light into the universe. The bright and beautiful universe in which her family were here, her family that had come for her.

“Hosea!” She tried to shout but it came out as a wheeze, her voice stuck somewhere in her broken throat as she dragged herself to her feet, stumbling forward towards the figures. “Javier!” She tried again, but no noise. Nothing. Something desperate arose in her, what if they couldn’t see her? What if they left her without realising they had found her, she was here, and she was safe now. She went to shout again, her feet stumbling beneath her.

Her hair was completely loose, her clothes torn, her body broken. The heat of the fire warming her skin and yet, her skin wasn’t warm, it was burning. Fresh blood dribbling down her body as her wounds split. She wanted to scream again but something stopped her.

“Y/n…” All he said was her name. Looking up all she could see was Arthur. He was walking between Hosea and Javier, away from the house, looking at her. He could see her.

“Arthur-” She tried to say his name, but a sob shattered her lungs. She silently begged him to come to her, to touch her as she began to crumble. And, almost as if he heard her, he jolted forwards, his face enigmatic as he reached out for her but just as he was about to reach out for her – she jumped back, as if he had shocked her.

She had this God-awful look in her eyes then, all glossy and confused, like she didn’t quite recognise him. Like she was questioning him, staring at him as if she couldn’t quite make her mind up about something.

“How long’s it been.” God her voice was quiet, barely audible over the sound of the fire, the shouts of Hosea and Javier as they called for the others.

“Since what?” Arthur heard his own voice softly rumble, all he wanted was to soothe her, touch her, keep her safe.

“Since I went missing Arthur?” She looked numb; her were eyes wide, her mouth half open, a salty mixture of tears, dirt and blood dribbling down her cheeks. Arthur had not realised a single question could make him feel so guilty.

“Um…maybe a few weeks…”

“Maybe?” She let out a shaky breath. He felt like a small stone settle at the bottom of his gut – guilt.

“Four weeks yesterday…that’s when you went missing.”

And there it was. Y/n’s mind felt like it was crumpling in on itself, beginning to choke on the feeling of betrayal. Four weeks. Four weeks they had left her there, maybe searching, maybe not. She had lay in that poor excuse for a jailcell for a month, she had been dragged past her breaking point, she had faced pain like she could never had imagined waiting every second, every minute for her family to do what a family does, to protect her and yet, where were they?

“Y/n, girl, there you-” Dutch’s gruff voice swam into her mind as she twisted away from Arthur. The blazing red of the fire and the inky blue of the night sky, all of it blurring into a complete and utter mess.

“Four weeks….” She was surprised at how meek her own voice sounded, she hated it venomously. How was it that she had become so weak? How had she gotten here, to this moment? “Where were you?” She turned back to where Arthur stood, his head bowed like a scolded runt and Dutch, his hand half outstretched towards her, his euphoric face crumbling. “How could you let…”

“Y/n we were looking for you…I promise we were looking…” Dutch began, already stumbling into his defensive tone. Y/n wanted to believe him, but then she blinked and suddenly she was back in her cell, the ominous faces of men she was savagely scared of hovering above her, sneering at her as they told her how her family had disappeared, left her behind, just like her parents did. She blinked once more, and they were gone.

“You were supposed to protect me-” Suddenly, she exploded, “We’re family! What kind of a family does that to one another…you left me there…you left me there with those men…”

“I know baby-” Dutch began again.

“No!” She was gasping now, unable to breathe – the smoke and the sobbing choking her, “You don’t know…if only you did…if only you knew what they did to me Dutch….” Her cheeks throbbed as she tried to resist a guttural sob, “I thought I was your daughter.”

“You are-”

“No…I aint.” Her legs were shaking now, the fire and sky crashing together once again, “You don’t do that to your daughter, you left me…you left me behind.” Suddenly the grass felt so soft, “You left me...” The grass was so gentle compared to the concrete of her cell, the soil softened, responded to her touch, moved with her – earth and flesh, “You left me just like they did…”

Resting back, she dug her fingers deep into the earth and looked up. The sky was hot, the soil cold. Her world being torn open around her, exploding and rearranging into something new.

Nothing would be the same.

*****

“Oh…you scared me.” Arthur murmured, his eyes flickering up to the ghostly figure at the mouth of his tent.

“Sorry I-” Y/n stood awkwardly between the folds of cloth, dressed in only her night things with her hair loose down her back. She looked young, a little like how she did when they had first met. Arthur also noticed then how delicate she looked; it had been like that for a few weeks now.

Dutch had basically carried her back to camp, leaving her with Ms Grimshaw so her wounds could be tended to. Arthur had checked in on her regularly during the first few days, he liked it most when she was asleep, it gave him time to watch over her without feeling as though he was intruding.

“No, it’s okay,” A sloping grin melted into his cheeks, “Stay...please…I got, uh, oatcakes and beer.”

“Wow…my lucky treat,” Arthur watched with concealed warmth as a smile pattered across her cheeks. It had felt like forever since he had seen her smile. “Sorry for intruding, guess I just wanted to be close to someone for a ‘lil bit. Can’t sleep, y’know,” Moving into his camp, she curled herself up on Arthur’s fur rug, resting her back against his side table; it was her position, whenever she had snuck into his tent she had always somehow folded herself into that specific corner and he had never dared question it for she would always aggressively insist she was comfortable.

“Yeah, I understand. I’d be lying if I said I don’t feel like that most of the time.”

“To be honest, it wasn’t made very clear when I signed up to this gang…” Y/n grinned at him, “Maybe then I would’ve rethought my application.” Arthur chuckled.

“True…they don’t exactly give you a run down before you start living a life of crime.” Moments like these were more regular the past few days. Moments where he found himself relaxing into the familiar rhythmic conversations with y/n that he had always had, it was comforting, a reminder that the pain was temporary. “How you holding up?”

“Fine,” She smiled at him, a real smile, “Ms Grimshaw works a miracle.”

“That she does,” He shuffled slightly to rest his back against the wagon next to his bed.

“Nothing really bad happened to me physically…I mean, nothing I can’t recover from.”

“And you will, with time, you always do.” She smiled at him again, but this time her eyes lowered after meeting his – was she nervous?

“I guess the only problem is…Dutch aint shifting outta protective mode any time soon.”

“He’ll get over it…” Arthur chuckled, “I think he’s just mad at himself y’know. You know how much you mean to him.”

“Yeah, yeah,” She nodded sleepily. “I know Morgan.” God, it killed him when she called him that. Suddenly, y/n’s face twisted up in a grimace and she jolted up, her hands stretching toward her back.

“Y’okay?” He asked nervously after a moment.

“Fine…fine…” She winced, rubbing at her shoulders, “Just not quite 100% yet, y’know.” He eyed her for a moment as she pushed her hair out of her face, trying to massage the spot in her shoulder that was causing her pain.

“Here,” He surprised himself by saying, “Let me do your hair.” She eyed him; an eyebrow half raised her lips slightly parted. It seems neither of them had expected him to raise that offer. “Oh c’mon, remember how I used to braid your hair before shooting lessons with Dutch?”

“Feels like a lifetime ago…” She murmured; a faint smile painted on her lips as her eyes clouded with a distant memory

“I ain’t forgotten how to,” He smiled at her and she smiled back, shyly. A pause. “Please y/n. I know I can’t do much to help you right now…I’m no good doctor, I’m a god damn idiot when it comes to words and, y’know, comforting people. So, please…let me do this.” He watched as her lips parted slightly into a distant smile, her eyes lighting up.

“Okay Morgan…if you really want to braid my hair I guess I’ll have to allow it. Just do a good job of it okay.”

“Who you trying to look good for?”

“Oh, you know me Morgan…everybody and nobody.” Arthur chuckled to himself. She plodded herself down on the floor next to his cot and, shifting over, he planted his legs like trunks either side of her, creating a small cove in which she could tuck herself.

He went to move her hair to the back when he noticed his hands shaking ever so slightly, his heart rate jumping too. Arthur tried to calm himself then and there but couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by the feeling of her, the warmth along the inside of his claves as she curled into him, resting her head lightly against his right knee. Desperately trying not to hurt her, he scooped up her hair and used his fingers to softly comb behind her ears and down her neck, ensuring he had caught every soft wisp.

Silently, he cursed his fingers for being so calloused, spitefully thinking of how his fingers might be grazing her soft skin. Sweeping all her hair to the back, he watched as it loosely tumbled down before softly combing his fingers through it. He promptly forgot about how much he hated his hands, forgot his hatred of how he had always been so large and gruff, unsubtle and mean. Instead his mind became full of thoughts of her.

How different her hair colour looked in the orange candlelight compared to daylight. How long her hair tumbled down her back when loose and how he hadn’t noticed considering she always had it tied back. How he could see the skin of her neck peeking at him as her hair began to sway when he braided it. How that skin sloped down into the loose collar of her night shirt. The way her shoulders and back moved with her steady breath and, if he listened carefully, how he could hear it. Steady, strong, safe. It seemed all too quickly the braid twisted to a finish in his fingers.

“You got a tie?”

“Course,” She sleepily murmured. God that killed him. The way her eyes drooped, the way she moved without being conscious of what she was doing to him. She placed the tie in his outstretched palm and seemed to not realise that her delicate hands had brushed so softly against his rough ones.

“I’m scared,” She piped up as his fingers returned to her hair, her voice ever so slightly dreamy.

“That they’ll come take you again?” Now done, Arthur relaxed back into his cot a little but refused to move his legs, desperate to not disturb her.

“No…well yes but…” She melted deeper into the cove of his legs without thinking, “I’m scared that what they did to me, what happened in those weeks…I’m scared it’s going to be with me for the rest of my life, affect me for the rest of my life, I mean.”

“But-”

“Sorry, I know it sounds silly-”

“No…it doesn’t,” Arthur leaned forward, catching her eye, “There aint anything silly about what you went through, but…I know for a fact that it won’t affect you forever.” A beat.

“How?”

“Because you’re so much more than what happened to you in those four weeks. You’ve lived through hell; we all know it, and yet at the end the day – you’re more than any of the people who have hurt you.” He watched her looking at him, trying to figure out the enigmatic feeling written on her face, but the conversation moved swiftly on.

“Are you ever going to tell me what happened in those weeks?” She whispered, not blinking, “Where you all were?”

“We were looking for you y/n, and that’s the God honest truth,”

“But-”

“But nothing y/n. For a while uh…things got complicated. We lost track for a bit and you paid for it, I’m sorry.” He looked down, wondering how far he could take this, “Y’know, I thought that you were dead, just for a moment…I was destroyed.” Her face remained enigmatic, “Now I’m scared to turn away from you for one second, I’m afraid I’ll lose you again.” It felt like he was crossing into unmarked territory.

“You’ll never lose me,” She breathed, “Not really.” A knot tied itself into existence in his gut.

Their eye contact never broke. It felt like it never would. Looking at her then, he felt like there were a million things he wanted to say to her, like there was so much of himself he had yet to reveal to her. The parts of himself which, in all honesty, cared for her more than he ever realised. Sitting there, with her tucked against his right knee, he couldn’t help himself.

Almost as if he were in a trance, he began to trace his fingers along the hair behind her left ear before scooping up her braid and shifting it to the side, how comforting it was to know that she was right there, under his fingertips. His left hand moved to her shoulder were he gently shifted the white cotton of her dress so that it slipped down, exposing her black and beaten shoulder. Slowly, and without breaking eye contact, he brought his lips down and pressed them against her colourful skin. She shivered into his touch as his beard grazed her bare flesh, but she never looked away. He kissed her again, moving up closer to her neck, his eyes fluttering shut. He was so close that she could feel his breath fluttering across her exposed neck. She relaxed into him, almost daring him to go further until she noticed something – he was crying.

Soft beads rolled down his cheeks as he kissed her again, and again, and again. Softly, y/n started to hear his whispers warm into the silence.

“I’m sorry…”

“I can protect you…”

“They won’t ever hurt you again…”

“I’m here now…”

“I’m sorry…”

“I’m here…”

 Maybe y/n was right, maybe nothing would be the same. But change didn’t seem so scary anymore.

requests open <3

Tags:

@uniqueclodzinevoid​

@rollyjogerjones​

[sometimesitrytowritethings]

Mountain Man: Part 2

Part 1 | PART 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: Swearing, Mention of death, Mourning

Summary: You never thought you’d love again. Then Arthur Morgan came into town. Fate continuously has you meeting each other in odd ways, and a troubled past is something you are both familiar with. Perhaps that’s what will make this time different.

Notes: A MASSIVE THANK YOU to @morgans-whore for helping me out with this!!! If you haven’t read their work, please do so immediately.

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Worth’s General store was a large building at the end of the Main Street. Although obviously aging, Jacob Worth did his best to maintain the store as much as possible, and keep it as well stocked as he could for the citizens of Valentine. The store was small and dark, despite the bright day outside, but stocked to the brim with goods both local and exotic. 

You stepped over the familiar threshold, and were immediately greeted by the friendly voice of Jacob, “Good morning!” You greeted him with a nod and a smile, moving to the left so that the excited child behind you could dart inside. 

Ben immediately dashed to the small candy display near the register, bouncing up and down in excitement. His curls bounced with him while he looked at the selection with a grin that reminded you so much of his father. Small, dirty hands grabbed for a bar of chocolate and a bag of hard candies, holding them up to his face for closer examination.

 “Are you looking for anything in particular today? We just got in some more of that coffee from Guarma that I know you’re fond of,” Jacob continued, standing behind the counter and keeping his eyes on your son. He indicated to a shelf behind him, with a sign bosting “Fresh Guarman Coffee! $1 per pound!”.

You smiled at him. “Thank you, Jacob, but we’re only here for picnic supplies today. I’ll come back later in the week to pick up more coffee and dry goods, if you could please hold some for me?” Jacob was a nice man, if a bit lonely of late. He had been very close to your husband, and made sure to take good care of you and Ben in recent years.

He nodded, grabbing one of the heavy bags off the shelf and putting it to the side behind the counter. “Of course, happy to,” he wrote your name on a slip of paper and put it on top of the bag. When he stood up, he brushed his fingers off on his apron, and then rose his hands to comb through his unkempt beard. “You going over to see Andrew today?”

With a bittersweet smile, you nodded in affirmation. “Yes, it’s been a while since we’ve gone over there. And since the weather is nice today, we thought we would have a picnic,” you explained, walking over to your son and ruffling his curly hair.  “Isn’t that right, Ben?”

“Yep!” he exclaimed, still mostly focused on the candy in his hands. “And Mama said I could pick out a candy for today, right Mama?” He looked up at you, eyes wide with excitement, reminding you all the more of Andrew. 

You couldn’t hold back the loving smile that lit up your face when he looked at you. The five years since Ben had been born had been tough, no doubt, but seeing the boy grow up was worth more than the world. He was becoming more and more like his pa as he got older, earning you a small, bittersweet ache in your heart every time you noticed the similarity. 

Raising Ben together with Andrew on the little ranch outside of town had been your plan. The two of you had looked so forward to teaching him to care for animals, to giving him more siblings to play with, to raising him into the brilliant young man that he was indeed becoming. Unfortunately, fate had had other ideas. Only one of those wishes was coming to fruition, and you were forced to watch him grow up alone. 

You had grown up in a small town on the eastern edge of New Austin, helping your parents in the saloon and restaurant they had owned, and sadly knew next to nothing about ranching. Andrew, on the other hand, was born on a small ranch just outside of town, and had practically been taking care of animals since he could walk. Sadly, Andrew had passed only a few months after Ben was born, and never got a chance to teach him anything or give him any siblings. 

Ben’s determined decision brought you out of your bittersweet reverie. “I think I want chocolate today,” he said, before placing the small bag of hard candies back on the counter. “I like when it gets all melty when it’s hot. Then I can just lick it off the package and I don’t even gotta chew.” His rambling made both you and Jacob chuckle.

You went back to browsing the shelves, picking up a few apples and peaches, and asking Jacob for loaf of bread, dried beef, and some cheese. As a special treat for you and your son later, you picked up some assorted biscuits as well. The last things on your list were a small bottle of wine for yourself and a bottle of milk for Ben… who was now hiding something behind his back.

He had a shameful smile on his face, and was rocking back and forth from his heels to his tippy-toes. Behind him was an obviously empty space on the shelf where peppermint candies usually sat. He could have only been more obvious if he were whistling. The boy really was a horrible thief.

“Ben, sweetheart, put that down please,” you lightly scolded, getting ready to bring out your stern mother voice if need be. “You’ve got a chocolate bar for later, you don’t need more candy.”

Then again, there is no reasoning with a child. “But Papa’s favorite is peppermints. I wanna get some candy for him,” he says, eyes going wide and shining with definitely-fake tears. He brought the red and white striped package out from behind his back and showed it to you, eyes as wide and innocent as a puppy.

“Honey…” you rubbed the bridge of your nose as you spoke, and closed your eyes, torn between holding your ground and giving into the puppy-dog eyes.

“Please mama?” There it was, the lip tremble. This kid had you wrapped around his tiny little finger. “Please? They’re his favorite. I’ll leave the chocolate if I gotta.” And the cincher. He had to have known what he was doing, offering to put back his own treat to get peppermints for someone who couldn’t even enjoy them? He was a literal angel.

An angel you could simply not say no to.

“Oh, alright, you. Those puppy dog eyes are merciless, you know?” you concede, not hearing the door open behind you and the heavy footsteps coming your way.

The boy jumped in excitement, his curly hair bouncing with him, and ran up to the register to show his purchase to Jacob. You follow suit, pulling a few bills out from under the blanket in the basket and handing it to your friend across the counter.

“Peppermints AND chocolate?” came a husky voice from behind you. “You really must be worth more than I could afford.” You recognised the sound almost immediately, and turned to face the man from the night before. He was again standing casually, observing the scene before him with his fingers looped in his belt, and smiling softly at your son.

Seeing him again so soon made you smile. Last night may have been short, and may have amounted to nothing in the end, but flirting with him had certainly been fun. “Well, hello again Mountain Man,” you responded, teasing him with the nickname Anastasia had unintentionally bestowed on him the previous evening and making no pretense of hiding the fact that you were running your gaze up his body. Although he was wearing the same clothes as the evening before, and was significantly dirtier than you remembered him being before you left, he looked even more handsome in the light of day. “That’s certainly true, but maybe we can negotiate the price over a drink sometime?”

His soft smile that had been reserved for your son turned into an impressed smirk as his gaze drifted to you. “‘d be happy to,” he responded. 

You glanced down at your son, who was still pre-occupied with the peppermints, and decided to forgo any further suggestive talk while he was with you. Which, unfortunately, meant that you weren’t entirely sure what to say next. “Well,” you managed, clearing your throat and turning to pick up the full picnic basket from the counter. “I certainly didn’t think I’d see you in the general store. Don’t you mountain men hunt all of your own food?”

Arthur barked out a laugh, throwing his head back with it. You were surprised about how attractive it was. “Shoa, if I weren’t such a bad shot, maybe,” he retorted, looking back at you. “‘m headin’ out for a bounty. Just need t’ stock up on some supplies before I leave.”

“Bounty?” That certainly surprised you. Though, now that you’ve had a better look at him, you supposed that he could be a bounty hunter. He did have multiple pistols in holsters at his hips and a couple of repeaters strapped to his back. Not to mention the fact that he could probably wrestle anyone to the ground with his bare hands alone.

“Yeah, some snake-oil salesman been pawning off poison to women with sick husbands,” he explained nonchalantly, pulling his hands from his belt and walking in your direction.

“Ah…” you drew in a sharp breath as he came closer to you, backing you up until you were nearly touching the shelves against the wall. Your heart was pounding in your ears, what was he playing at? He kept his eyes on yours the whole time, the same predatory look in them that you noticed last night, and you would have panicked if it weren’t for the mirth in them as well. Somehow, you could tell he wouldn’t hurt you. This was just a part of the game. 

Without a word, and keeping his eyes locked with yours, he reached behind you and pulled a box of shotgun shells off the shelf.

When he had what he wanted, that stupid attractive smirk returned to his face and he stepped back, giving you room to breathe. “S’posed to be camped out by Cumberland Falls. Shouldn’t take long, if ya’d want to join me for that drink afterwards,” he explained, finally breaking his gaze from you and heading to the other side of the room to the display housing basic tonics.

Now that he wasn’t so close, now that he wasn’t looking at you like he wanted to eat you alive, you could finally let out the breath that you had apparently been holding. “I… I’m a bit busy today, I’m afraid,” you managed, holding up the basket full of picnic foods for him to see. Your heart was pounding, and it was certainly not from fear. You only hoped he wasn’t able to tell.

Completely oblivious to the situation before him, Ben strolled over to you from the cash register, where he had been chattering on to Jacob. “Yeah, we are going to see Papa!” he told Arthur excitedly. “We even got him candies!”

Your eyes snapped to your son at the sound of his voice, only to see him standing beside you with an opened bag of peppermints, one already in his mouth. Faking offense, you bent down to your son’s height and took the peppermint bag from him. “You said those were for papa, you little thief,” you teased, slipping the bag into your basket before reaching out to Ben’s sides.

The boy knew what was coming, and was preemptively laughing and trying to escape you. “He doesn’t mind sharing!” he giggled, backing away from you with a grin.

You narrowed your eyes playfully at the child. “Oh, sure he doesn’t,” you taunted before going in for the kill, “you sneak!” With that, you drew Ben toward you and began attacking him with tickles. Ben’s shrieks of laughter filled the room as the two men watched on with smiles on their faces.

“Mama, no!” shrieked Ben through his laughter. “No tickling! No tickling! Let’s go see Papa!” His laughter died down as you stopped tickling him and released him from your hold. He was breathless and grinning from ear to ear, eyes shining with glee. You simply adored him.

“Alright alright, let’s go, my little thief,” you said, giving him a purposefully loud, wet kiss on his cheek, which he proceeded to wipe off dramatically. He then dashed to the door, careful to keep out of arms’ reach, lest you try to catch him again. You followed him with a smile, stopping briefly at the door to say goodbye.

“Anyway, it was nice seeing you again, Mountain Man,” you said, turning to Arthur with a small wave of your left hand, the light glinting off your worn wedding ring.

He cleared his throat and tipped his hat as you turned back around to follow Ben. “Ma’am,” was his simple farewell, and if you had glanced back, you would have seen his eyes, focused on the ring on your finger in disappointment.

The cemetery, much like everything else in the small town, was just down the street from the general store. Ben ran slightly ahead of you, still within eyesight, the bag of peppermints once again held tightly in his tiny hand. You waved and said hello to the few people that you passed as you walked the short street, but all-in-all it took no time to get to where you needed to go.

Andrew was buried next to his parents, and you knew the space like the back of your hand. The grave was starting to age, but was generally well kept by both the town minister and yourself. It was situated toward the back of the cemetery, under a tree and away from the road - an ironically beautiful spot for a picnic. Andrew would have loved it. 

Just an hour after leaving the general store, you sat atop your picnic blanket, a worn blue and white quilt sewn by yourself and your late mother-in-law during the early days of your marriage, under the shade of the large tree with a book in hand. The half-eaten loaf of bread, leftover cheese, and beef were packed neatly back into the picnic basket, leaving you and Ben plenty of space to lounge.

Peppermints had been scattered over the blanket and beside the grave itself, as Ben played with a wooden horse on top of the weathered stone. He spoke quietly, voice still full of excitement, to his father’s and grandparents’ graves as he played. The book you were holding, a cheap romance novel that you had borrowed from Margaret a few weeks prior, didn’t manage to hold your interest, and you were lost in thought.

About Andrew. About the past. About what could have been. 

Andrew had been beyond excited for your pregnancy, even going as far as building a small nursery onto the small house once he had inherited it from his parents. It had been a hard time for him, torn between the sadness of losing his parents to cholera not a year prior and the excitement of bringing a child into the world with the woman he loved. Thankfully, the entire town had been there to support him: his friends stopped by whenever they could, the Downes next door helped out on the ranch when they got a chance, Ms. Chadwick had even taken to stopping by on a weekly basis to help you during the pregnancy.

It had all gone surprisingly smoothly, and a little over a year after his grandparents’ passing, little Ben was safely brought into the world. The first few months were an exhausted dream, taking care of a child, your child, together. Waking up at dawn to feed Ben and make coffee for Andrew before he went out to take care of the animals. Days spent feeding and playing with your son, working as much as you could, and waiting for Andrew to take a break so you could coo over the little one together. Nights spent cuddled together, looking adoringly at the face of the perfect child that the two of you had brought into this world.

It was so wonderful, and so tragically short-lived, that you sometimes weren’t sure if it hadn’t all been a dream.

But then you remember Ben, so much like his father in so many ways, and the bittersweet memory of that time solidifies in your mind. It was no dream. It was short-lived, exhausting, and too perfect to last. Andrew was gone, but he still lived on in your son, and you wouldn’t trade him for the world.

An excited squeal from the boy brought you back to the present, and you turned to watch him race his wooden horse across the headstones decorated with your family’s names. Not far away, Arthur was also alerted by the sudden shrill noise. Watching the two of you, as he stood by his horse and covered with grime, sweat, and dirt, he smiled.